The townhouse apartment at 737 Southgate Drive seemed like a dream. 

I got there a few days ahead of the other guys in September 1970, as I couldn’t wait to move in. I remember being in my car going for groceries when the radio reported the news that Jimi Hendrix had died.

We all brought some of our own furniture to furnish the place, our own beds, for example. I vaguely recall hiring a U-Haul, and I know that I brought an old floor lamp that my aunt Joan and uncle Mark gave me, but I’m not sure what else I brought. The big surprise was Carl found a second-hand piano somewhere, even though he didn’t play; I was the only piano player in the bunch, mediocre though I was.

We divided up the utilities. I had the telephone put in my name, and Ma Bell (it was still Bell Telephone in those days) had a special on three phones for not much more than the price of one, so that’s what we opted for. One phone downstairs, one in the bedroom that Carl and I shared, and the other in Perry’s room. The downstairs phone went into the kitchen, a wall phone with a very long cord.

I think the electric bill went into Carl’s name, but it may have been Perry’s; I’m not sure anymore. I don’t think we paid a water bill; that was covered by the leasing company. At least I don’t recall paying a water bill. I might be wrong there.

We had barely settled in before there was a knock on our door. Who could that be? We didn’t know anyone.

It turned out to be Dickie, one of the three Philadelphia Jews from next door.

They lived in the last townhouse on the row, and Dickie came over simply to say hi. During the year that we lived there, we never saw nor heard from whomever was living in the townhouse on the other side of us.

Anyway Dickie had two roommates, Gary and Howie, and we got to know them quickly, and it wasn’t long before we were running back and forth between each other’s houses.

Or rather, Howie and Dickie were often over at our place, and Carl and I were often over at their place. While Gary was friendly enough, I don’t think he ever came over to our house. Same with Perry and Terry; they never ventured over to the other side as far as I can recall.

Anyway, of the three of them, Gary had the looks; he could have been in pictures, he was that good-looking. Dickie was something of a comedian, always in a good mood, always had a good word for everyone. And while all three of them were smart guys, I think Howie was the most intelligent of the three, although I got to know Howie the best, so perhaps I’m a bit biased. Howie Fatell was also a DJ on the local rock WQWK FM radio station in addition to being a full time student.

I’ve mentioned Howie previously along with his girlfriend Bonnie Glantz. Dickie also had a girlfriend by the name of Melva—and I hope I got her name right because for the longest time I thought her name was Melba, like the toast—until Howie corrected me and explained that she really hated when folks got her name wrong.

They were often eating strange and exotic foods. One day when I stopped by to visit, Dickie was eating something he called locks and bagels.

“You’re eating locks?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Lox,” Dickie corrected me. “L-O-X. It’s cured salmon. Put it on this bagel and spread a little cream cheese. It’s delicious! Wanna try some?”

At least I knew what cream cheese was—an ingredient in cheese cake. I had never thought of it as a spread. And cold salmon on a bun? Such newfangled ideas. I passed.

Despite Perry’s initial refusal to have Terry join us as a roommate, the two of them seemed to be getting along just fine. I was looking forward to the courses I’d be taking that term, especially the one on Genetics that Carl and I had signed up for together. And we had a trio of good, friendly neighbors. Plus, we were still frequently stopping by the fifth floor of Mifflin Hall to visit the friends we had left behind, at least Carl and I were.

The new season seemed to getting off to a very good start—lots of familiar faces and a sprinkling of new characters to keep things fresh.

Then on my way out of the townhouse one morning, klutz that I always have been and still am, I managed to slam the door on my finger, completely smashing my nail in the process. If I had believed in omens—which I do not—I might have taken it as a sign of what was to come.