In 1967, my life turned a sharp corner. I impulsively decided to audit Heller's playwriting seminar at Yale. His mordant new novel, Catch-22, was suddenly as relevant as Bob Dylan, whose music I would learn he loved.
"Why not leave the city?" we asked ourselves. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Get some fresh air. A yard. A real house. It would shorten my commute to Hofstra University out on the Island, and of course, we would be saving all that money.
More often than not being an only in NY means you have your own room, you play with friends, and if your parents have the opportunity you are thrust into a sea of onlys at every minute of your formative years.