t was one of those crystal-clear evenings in the late winter of 1969. My mother, my brother, and I had recently moved into a new high-rise apartment building in Forest Hills, Queens, with a spectacular view of Manhattan.
I was sitting in our new bedroom with Arlene, a friend who’d stopped by after our last class at Forest Hills High School. We could see the entire skyline from my bed by the window and watched the sun set over Manhattan. Arlene gazed at the city lights as I passed her the joint.
All of a sudden, on the other side of the bedroom there was a stirring beneath a huge, homegrown pile...