The Day Allen Ginsberg Picked Me Up from School

Spring 1989 was already in bloom on the Lower East Side. I remember the pungent smell of ginkgo wafting through the air. One morning before heading across the street to my school, P.S. 19, I was informed that I wouldn't be picked up by the usual parents but by Allen.

I remember thinking, "Allen, who?" and whether I would still get my 25 cents to buy a pack of Garbage Pail Kids, possibly the first proto-meme trading cards.

My face must have conveyed genuine confusion because I recall hearing, in thunderous unison, "You know! You know who Allen is!" Yet, I genuinely didn't know who Allen was. Years later, I learned that he had been made my godfather eight days after I was born.

Allen wasn't a stranger to our family. He often appeared at our slanted-floor tenement on East 11th Street for bowls of Mulligatawny or Pasta Fagioli, discussions about upcoming poetry readings, Peter Orlovsky, or sometimes both. He would occasionally take photographs with a small black camera that would later become a Leica. I remember being lined up with my family to commemorate countless moments. There was clearly some connection between our brood and Allen, but nobody ever explained exactly what it was.

At 3 p.m. on the dot, my elementary school classes ended. Kids tumbled onto the street through the ubiquitous metal doors and searched for their parents. There was a moment of panic when I didn't see the regular pickup crew. As the crowd thinned, I noticed an older man standing by a parking meter, peering into a cloth shoulder bag—Allen's classic accoutrement wherever he went in the city.

Suddenly, the words "You know! You know who Allen is!" replayed in my head, and I walked over to where he stood.

Allen looked up and greeted me with, "Oh, hi!" Then he explained that we had a few errands to run and that it wouldn't take too long. Notably, he had forgotten my 25-cent reward for surviving another day at school.

There we were, cruising down Second Avenue, his bag of poetic magic swaying over the remaining patches of cobblestone. Walking with Allen was interminably slow because he seemed to know everyone—or at least that was my nine-year-old impression. "Hi, Allen." "Oh, Allen, can I ask you something?" We stopped on nearly every block while he listened attentively and often replied with a respectful, "Oh, yes." Every conversation seemed important enough for him to stop. These were Allen's classic street-corner conferences, business as usual.

We eventually made it to Gem Spa, where he picked up a magazine and, with a sly half-grin, said, "I was told you could have a snack. I think they have egg creams."

Continuing down St. Marks Place toward First Avenue felt especially long that afternoon. The sun still carried its strength, and we ran into yet another person on a corner. This one seemed more important than the others because they talked for ages.

I remember the aroma of pizza drifting through the air and hearing someone ask, "Allen, is that your nephew?" Or maybe they said "son." I was probably more focused on calculating why I should be getting 50 cents instead of the usual quarter. At some point, someone handed Allen a book. Without breaking stride, he slipped it into his bag and continued the conversation. What book? I'll never know.

Before rounding the corner at 12th Street and First Avenue, we stopped at a deli. "We're almost there," Allen said as he grabbed some leafy greens—perhaps bok choy—from crates outside.

Considering that my school was only about a block from where Allen lived, the entire journey took an eternity.

We finally arrived at 437 East 12th Street, and I followed him up the low-lit stairwell. The building's distinct musty air, the creak of his brownish front door, and the tight squeeze of the entrance hallway remain vivid in my memory.

Inside, my father worked as Allen's chargé d'affaires alongside a rotating cast of part-time live-ins, including Harry Smith, Peter Orlovsky, Juanita Lieberman, and various Chinese artists.

I dropped my bag of workbooks and colored pencils onto Allen's kitchen table. By then, he was already in his office, fielding calls. Amid the blur of clicking rotary phones and overlapping conversations, I suddenly remembered Allen's last name.

“AH…Ginsberg!”

That was the day Allen Ginsberg picked me up from school.

Worth every penny of 25-cents.