Many years ago, I rented space at the former Yale & Towne Lock Factory for the Historic Neighborhood Preservation Program, Inc., a nonprofit I ran for almost forty years. Since I was actually an artist in real life, I soon made friends with the dozens of painters, sculptors, dancers and photographers who rented the generous, high-ceilinged lofts, often (illegally) making them their home. One such friend (still is) was a photographer, Bob Baldridge who rented prime space overlooking Long Island Sound. He fitted up a bathroom and a tiny kitchen that served his needs. Along the way, he even acquired a girlfriend, the wealthy but insecure granddaughter of a famous artist. She had tried out several careers and was at that time exploring whether she wanted to be a celebrity chef. She convinced Bob to allow her to use his space for a dinner party that would allow her to try out her new career. Bob borrowed chairs and tables and a giant cook pot. I agreed to co-sponsor. A date was set. Invitations went out. Money for cheap wine was obtained and a supply of paper cups and plates. What could go wrong? Who couldn’t boil spaghetti and heat up sauce?
It took almost five hours for dinner to be served. The line outside Bob’s door had by now reached into the adjacent building. Raucous, drunken laughter echoed through the old factory walls. Bob opened bottle after bottle of wine while his chef struggled with her makeshift stove.
You’ve all heard the adage “A watched pot never boils”? Well it’s true. At least not til after midnight when everyone’s too drunk to care.
