Me: [In all the years I’ve lived on the UWS] I’ve also never been to Emerald Inn if you wanna try an Irish pub. They have burgers and wings.
ABFF and I haven’t been able to meet up with the kiddos because of scheduling issues but we managed to toss together an impromptu dinner with everyone the other day.
For something new, I suggested this Irish pub that I musta walked by a million times.
Just never went in so I brought it up. She was game.
While I was getting the kid ready to head out, though, it occurred to me that there was a reason I never went in.
Like I said, my memory’s been awful lately but as we headed down there, I remembered why I never went.
In 1977, the Emerald Inn was called W.M. Tweeds over at 250 West 72nd Street.
That year, a 28-year-old schoolteacher named Roseann Quinn – who lived across the street at 253 West 72nd Street – was out trying to pick up a fella for the night.
It was the 70s and she was into things like one-night stands, despite her being beaten and assaulted previously.
On the night of January 1st, 1977 that she met a fella named John Wayne Wilson (not kidding) whose wife was away so he went home with Quinn and, evidently, couldn’t perform.
When Roseann asked him to leave because of this, he evidently became incensed and grabbed a kitchen knife – her kitchen knife – and stabbed her a total of 18 times.
He then fled to Florida to his wife. Roseann’s body wasn’t found until two days later.
I always joke that I don’t know why all women aren’t lesbians because we men are, admittedly, a pretty awful lot.
Girl with Yellow Eyes: It just goes to show, attraction isn’t a choice.
Me: That’s my line!
Her: (rolling eyes) You don’t own that, Logan. But yeah, dating’s much worse for women. We’re all fighting over that one non-asshole in NY.
Me: (nodding) I’ll let you know if I meet him.
Suppose I’m only half joking.
Dunno why, but stories like these are morbidly fascinating to me because New York – compared to places like Berlin (826 years old) or Beijing (978 years old) – is barely an adolescent at 399 years old.
Yet New York City’s fulla these types of sordid and interesting stories.
You’d walk by the Emerald Inn or 253 W 72nd Street a million times and never think of the dark things that happened there.
And Quinn’s building is as boring and grey – literally and figuratively – as can be, yet it was once the scene of such horror.
Plus, this all happened just 45 years ago; imagine living in a place like Beijing that’s well over twice as old as NYC?
Conversely, I often wonder the same about the people I meet.
Maybe they were once something altogether different than they are now – perhaps the mild-mannered businessman next door was once a mob logistician.
Then again, I’m altogether different than I once was.
I mentioned to the ABFF that Quinn’s story was made into a bestselling novel called Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and later a film starring Diane Keaton and Richard Gere.
While the actual story about Roseann Quinn is tragic, the movie is tragic in slightly different ways, because in it, Keaton’s character had finally decided to change the trajectory of her life when it was cut short.
Things like that bother me for a multitude of reasons – the what ifs – but I suppose that’s an entry for another time.
In any case, the darkness of the place’s history notwithstanding, the kids had a really fun time there. Plus, they have some the best fish and chips I’ve had in the city.
Him: Can we have quarters for the jukebox?!
I suppose if you dig deep enough anywhere, you’re bound to uncover something horrifically evil.
Probably more often than you can find some good fish and chips, anywho.
Her: This place must be great during St. Patrick’s Day.
Me: You gotta figure…
Location: earlier tonight, being told that Bloomberg news wants to interview me for a legal issue.
Music: Tragedy, private, comfort of strangers (Spotify)
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2 Replies to “Not Looking for Mrs. Goodbar”
I started reading similar stories on Medium. I have no idea why I keep clicking on these links. But man. I can’t seem to stopppppp.
I def find myself going down rabbit holes at the worst possible times.