Back in 1983 — after I had just been discharged from the United States Marine Corps and had recently moved to New York — I found myself one night looking for love in all the wrong places — namely the Peppermint Lounge on lower 5th.
Instead of love I found Grace Jones. She was there as a patron and not a performer and for some reason she took a shine to me.
We danced with each other all night long and closed the place.
Before we parted company I asked her if she’d be kind enough to sign a ten dollar bill for me. The last cash I had on me in fact.
She did, and before handing the money back to me she said, “I know you told me that you just got out of the Marines but you didn’t say what you did for a living now.”
I told her I hadn’t yet found employment but that I was semi-actively looking.
And with that she tore the bill in two, pocketed the unsigned half, and as she handed the signed half back to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek she said,
“That’s so you don’t spend it when you’re starving to death.”