Well, actually, it was just the worst of times.
After the ball is over, after the break of day…
Did they know, the morning after Truman’s party, that nothing would ever be the same again? No, they did not. Some claimed, later, that they did know it; that even as they were dancing, they felt a bit like Nero fiddling while Rome was burning. And some newspapers and magazines, in the days and weeks following the bash, did question the whole endeavor, likening it to Marie Antoinette during the Revolution.
But in truth, when the glittering and gay left the ball, removed their dancing shoes, sent out their finery to be cleaned and repaired (or returned, if they’d been gauche enough to have to borrow it), they simply reflected on what a grand time they’d had. And looked forward to more.
But Manhattan, in the sixties and seventies, said, “No. No dice. I’m turnin’ on you, kid.”
Strikes—transit strikes (which Truman and his swans did not notice), garbage strikes (which they did; goodness, even on Fifth Avenue, the garbage piled and piled, up to the sky; the air was fetid with filth and when the winds swirled, garbage took to the skies like soiled, stinking confetti from a macabre ticker tape parade; no one could even go out on the streets without a perfumed handkerchief pressed to her face). Riots—after Martin Luther King Jr. was killed (what a nice man, really; a few had met him in Washington. Kay Graham was really upset by his death), Harlem erupted, not that Babe or Gloria or Slim or Marella or Pam ever went to Harlem, mind you. But still, they could hear the sirens all night long, nobody left her penthouse for fear of—something. Then Bobby Kennedy, and Truman cried and cried; Bobby had been a neighbor of his in the UN Plaza, and they’d had a couple drinks together, although he’d always felt Bobby thought he was performing some kind of civic duty in befriending a homosexual. Still, he’d cried at his death, written poor Rose Kennedy a magnificent letter of solace, which he knew she would treasure forever, if he did say so himself—and to anybody who would listen.
Then Stonewall, and the Village was suddenly crawling with drag queens and homosexuals, and surprisingly Truman had little opinion about all this, even though Babe and Gloria and Slim and Marella and Pam all looked at him with great sympathy in those few days. But Truman went on as normal, didn’t feel compelled to go down and march with any of the other homosexuals, or engage in kick lines in front of the police. And when they all asked him if he’d ever been to the Stonewall Inn, he wrinkled his nose and exclaimed, “God, no—that place?”
And crime. Crime and dirt and filth, the hallmarks of Manhattan in the sixties and seventies. Of course, the swans and their consorts could flee, and they did, whenever possible. But still, they had to be in New York sometimes, carry on the banner of good taste and social responsibility; there were still opening nights, benefits, galas to attend. But crime was right outside their door; Central Park was no longer safe at night, not with all the muggings and beatings and knifings. Times Square—oh, Times Square! For Slim, in particular, who had been part of Broadway’s golden age, it was heartbreaking now to see the empty storefronts, hookers perched on stools on every corner, drug dealers lounging in doorways, cops on the beat, dirty, cheap stores that sold sex toys, inflatable dolls, plastic-looking lingerie.
The people changed, too. No one had manners any longer. No one dressed. Those hippie young men did not hold the door open for ladies. Highballs were no longer the drug of choice; pot and coke and LSD were the new amusements.