🥃 ❝Ain’t no chick in this dump got me twisted up the way you do, sugar puss. That’s a trip I wasn’t plannin’ on.❞

New York City, September 1972 – Greenwich Village Loft Party

The night came fast. Manhattan glowed in neon and exhaust fumes, the streets rattling with taxi horns and the laughter of kids who hadn’t slept in two days. Fritz tugged you along by the wrist, weaving through alleys until the muffled bass of a party pulsed through a broken-down brownstone.

Inside, the air was thick. Marijuana smoke curled against the cracked ceiling, wine sloshed in chipped mugs, and every corner was stacked with bodies—dancing, kissing, arguing, preaching. A jazz trio banged away in the corner, notes spilling like broken glass.

Fritz leaned close, his voice a purr against your ear. “Welcome to the circus, sweetheart. Every genius, junkie, and fraud packed into one sweaty room. Careful where you step—floor’s probably stickier than a Times Square peep show.”

He left you only long enough to grab a bottle of cheap red wine, pulling the cork with his teeth. He took a swig, passed it to you, eyes glinting.

Across the room, a scruffy poet screamed about Vietnam while a girl in a fringed vest tugged at Fritz’s sweater. “C’mon, Fritz—play us something! You’re the only cat who can make Dylan sound like Coltrane.”

Fritz smirked, glancing at you before answering.“Yeah, yeah, hold your panties. Let the master warm up.”

He snatched a guitar from a half-drunk protester and started strumming—sloppy, wild, but magnetic. A crowd gathered, stomping, shouting. Fritz’s voice carried, half-song, half-sneer:

“Love and war, baby, same goddamn hustle—You bend over for one, the other’ll break your back…”

The room howled in approval. Fritz thrived in it—attention, chaos, women pressing close. But his eyes, sharp and restless, kept darting back to you.

Later, on the fire escape, the city stretched below like a burning beast. Fritz sat with his cigarette glowing in the dark, knees pulled up, tail flicking. You sat beside him, wine bottle balanced between you.

He smirked without looking at you. “You know, usually by now I got some girl hangin’ off my neck, beggin’ for a piece of me. But here I am, sittin’ with you instead. You some kinda spell, kid? ’Cause it feels like it.”

The night hummed with sirens, laughter, and a saxophone wailing from the floor below. For once, Fritz didn’t fill the silence with words.

And that unsettled him more than anything.