Patrick Stewart

I wrote about New York’s Penn Station the other day, and my buddy D. – that’s Darlene A. McGarrity – commented about her positive experiences at Penn Station. Which jogged my memory about an incident from almost 30 years ago.

I lived in Manhattan twice. The first time during the 1960s at East 35th Street and Park Avenue, within easy walking distance to Penn Station. The second time during the 1990s way up on 66th Street when I was going to film school.

So I was shooting this student film and the establishing shot was going to be the exterior of a magnificent Gothic-style Catholic church not far from St. Pat’s Cathedral. Then we’d move inside the church, take a look around at people sitting in their pews, and eventually follow a drop-dead blonde, built like a brick shithouse, as she got up from her pew and walked over to a confessional booth over on the side.

(You’d be surprised at how many drop-dead blondes, built like brick shithouses, come crawling out of the woodwork in New York when you run an ad for talent in the trade paper.)

Anyway, she enters the booth and a young priest starts hearing her confession. By the way, I built a confessional booth in my apartment, with the sliding door and all, and no top. That way we could take overhead shots of the priest and the blonde as the confession progressed. It looked real as shit.

I want to lock him up so I can start shooting. Time is very much money. So I call to arrange a meeting for the next day, but he’s busy as shit. He’s working a Star Trek convention all day in the hotel across the street from Penn Station. I must confess right here – I have never saw one episode of Star Trek. Never into sci-fi.

But my priest wants the part and he’s willing to squeeze me into a narrow window the next morning. He’ll be in the auditorium on the second floor.

The next morning I take the subway to Penn Station, cross the street and enter the hotel lobby. But it’s busy as shit with all these convention goers, about ten deep waiting for elevators up to the auditorium. I look around and see a stairway in the far corner of the lobby. What the fuck, I’ll give the stairs a shot. Better than waiting for the elevators for who knows how long.

So I go up one flight and wind up in a long corridor. I start looking around and see a door that says DRESSING ROOM. I try the door, unlocked. I open the door, step inside and see some guy standing in front of one of those mirrors with the lights that run all the way around. He’s putting the finishing touches on his makeup. I never saw the guy before, but I ask him which way to the auditorium.

He turns and smiles, then points toward a door and says “That way.”

He’s right. I enter the auditorium and find my priest sitting behind a table with a lot of Star Trek merchandise. He takes a break. We go over to a corner and make a deal.

Hot dog.

I go back down to the lobby and walk right into this huge poster of the guy upstairs, the guy putting on his makeup. Yep. Patrick Stewart. And I had no idea who he was.

I was writing about Penn Station because the main character in my new murder mystery/love story takes the train from 30th Street in Philly to Penn Station to meet with two literary agents. Which reminds me that I forgot to write about my “interesting” meeting with Peter Miller – the Literary Lion. I’ll work on it.

I’m America’s Best Crime Writer – Barry Bowe – & I approve this message.

My first book – Born to Be Wild – Published in 1992 – Still selling on Amazon & Kindle. A true story about certain members of the Warlocks motorcycle gang.

The story took 21 years to play out – many twists & turns – an amalgam of Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad – but these outlaw bikers make the Sons look like Cub Scouts.

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