When I first moved to New York I knew a girl who fancied herself a kind of Holly Golightly.  Oh, her nights!  Always, she was full of stories about the latest film that mustn’t be missed, or that cool art opening she crashed the previous weekend.  She represented the possibility of inclusion: one day those of us whose faces were pressed against the window of Manhattan would be welcomed like she had been.  One day I’d obtain the polish, the confidence that would grant entry into the special places trumpeted in the society pages.

One such place was Elaine’s.  One of the first stories she told was about a night spent at that stronghold of the literary/celebrity set on the Upper East Side.  It sounded more interesting to me than a night at Studio 54—I imagined Elaine’s as a place where you actually talked to people about substantial things, like books, movies and music.   “Everyone goes there,” she used to say in a way that was part promise, part threat.  Even if the opportunity arose I doubted I’d have the courage to enter such a place; the confluence of talent would be too intimidating, too overwhelming for a lowly actor living on cheap beer and Kraft’s Macaroni and Cheese.  Still, when I found myself in that neighborhood, I made it a destination.  I’d peer into the windows, hoping for a glimpse of magical people, I don’t know, eating soup?  Maybe Norman Mailer would slug someone; Fran Leibowitz might sneer at a too-full-of-himself waiter.  Something…

I haven’t seen my old friend in almost 20 years; she left NY for Ohio years before.  Her present whereabouts are unknown; her then-exploits are tempered by revelations that she fabricated many aspects of her fabulous life (not uncommon among Middle-American transplants to the city, I’ve found).  Age, and a finite number of waking hours, has made me value quiet nights at home vs. life lived in thrall to the social whirl.  This morning when I read the obit for Elaine Kaufman, I recalled a time when I was too hayseed to partake of the NYC I adopted in the 1980s, but mesmerized by the myth of place.  I still am: Elaine’s remains to this day part of the legend of a city bedecked with golden haunts, dazzling backrooms of culture and wit where the air is electric, where magical evenings still occur.  I plan to go…one day.  RIP, Elaine Kaufman.