When Edie enters the party, all eyes turn to her and there is a collective intake of breath which robs the room of air and makes everyone a little giddy.
Mine are among the eyes that turn to see her as she glides in, thin as a wisp, on the arm of Andy Warhol. The rest of the Factory people are close behind them.
The party, in a large upscale New York loft, is packed with people, both known and hangers-on, for two reasons; one, the rumour that Andy has some sort of happening planned and, two, that John and Yoko are in the city and might show up.
I wait patiently for Edie to notice me and, meanwhile, I have the opportunity to observe the effect that Edie has on all those around her. She is magnetic and beautiful. In her black tights and long sweater, she seems an imp, but there is no mistaking the light that shines around her. People are drawn to her to share in that light and be pulled in by her personal magnetism. She seems to dance from group to group, quietly entering and stealing all the attention and then, drawn by the sight of someone else, dancing away. She notices me, and skips in my direction.
"Hello, stranger!" she says to me. I bend down to give her a kiss and, drawing close to her cheek, I can smell the familiar perfumes of vodka and drugs on her.
"Hello, Edie," I say, "you look as wonderful as ever." She does not. She is drawn and pale, a fact that is only superficially covered by her make-up. It is her eyes that shock me most; they are unfocussed and seem not to be looking at anything in particular although she looks in my general direction.
She smiles back at me while pulling a cigarette from a crumpled pack. I light it for her because her hands are shaking.
"You know, I haven't seen you in forever," she says to me, and mimes that she is hurt; her long false eyelashes flutter and fall heavily on her cheek.
"I know," I answer, "we always seem to miss each other these days. We could meet at Antonio's for lunch one day."
She seems to brighten a little. "That would be wonderful! Where are you staying?"
"I'm at the Chelsea again, although I still owe them money from the last time." We both laugh at the joke which is well known in New York. "If you don't mind, I could shoot some more candids of you over lunch. If I can sell them to the New Yorker that would really help me out. How can I find you?"
"We're shooting up at the Factory, so talk to Andy or anyone there. And of course you can take some candids. You know I don't mind."
I thank her very much for the opportunity. Life is hard for an upstart photographer in NYC. We chat for another few minutes about old friends and then we kiss, promising to meet in the next week. She flits off and is immediately absorbed into a fawning group of adorers.
Of course, it is not only Edie who is high; everyone at the party is on something or other. The choices are varied; I stick to amphetamine tablets because I drink large quantities of Jack Daniels. Almost everyone is taking LSD which makes most converstions very abstract. Heroin is also here and its devastating effects are becoming well known.
I slip away from the crowd and walk past some rooms to the washroom. As I stand at the toilet urinating, two girls are at the vanity. The each put a blotter of acid in their tongue and then kiss, swapping the blotters. Then they adjust each other's makeup, fondle one another, and leave. I finish and turn toward a young man lying awkwardly in the bathtub. His hand rests on his chest holding a syringe. There is a slight trickle of blood on the side of his neck. He has taken the desperate measure of main-lining directly to his brain. I check his pulse and find it very slow but steady. He wil not die tonight.
On the way back to the party, I encounter a lady friend. We chat for a few minutes and then enter a bedroom closing the door behind us.
When I return, The Velvet Underground are concluding a short set. Lou Reed, pale and razor thin, assaults the microphone and the rasp of his voice pierces the driving drum beat and the cacaphony of discordant guitars. I never quite understand if he is speaking or singing. His voice is clear over the P.A.:

"Baby dont'cha holler, darlin' dont'cha ball and shout,
I'm feelin' good, you know I'm gonna work it on out.
I'm feeling good, I'm feeling so fine,
Wait 'til tomorrow but that's just another time;
I'm waiting for my Man."

He finishes the verse and the guitars continue jangling. They rise a semi-tone; the sound becomes uncomfortable. Lights are flashing on and off. The drums seem to be beating inside my head. Edie is dancing with the others; her thin body undulates slowly, moving to a rhythm of it's own. The song reaches it's crescendo and the black lights turn on covering everything in their unearthy bluish glow. A dancer falls and convulses on the floor.
The song ends abruptly with Lou saying, 'Thanks everyone' and the band leaves the impromptu stage. Some people continue to dance as though they still hear the music.
I wander back in the direction of my friends, drinking steadily, and find them lounging on some couches. They barely notice my arrival but continue their discussion which is mostly about Warhol, but sometimes Jack Pollack or Ginsberg or the latest happening. They are all tripping and not much of what they say makes sense for more that a few words at a time.
I hear a commotion of furniture being moved and look around to see what it is about. Warhol is there and giving instructions to two sturdy fellows positioning a large wooden dining table. Warhol has a camera around his neck and an 8mm film recorder in his hand. People begin to gather around; some sit close, crossing their legs on the floor while I move back and lean against a wall. I pop an amphetamine tablet and take another gulp from my bottle of Jack Daniels to send it down.
Is this the happening that everyone was hoping for? We will soon find out.
Warhol produces a young man and introduces him as Giorgio; he is a beautiful creature, and there is a murmur of approval and sparse applause. Giorgio is naked from the waiste up, his torso broad, muscled and hairless; he is bathed in sweat. He can't be more than 18. His face is like that of a roman bust; his nose aquiline and his chin shows a small cleft. His eyes are dark and large, but lustful and roaming. Warhol directs him onto the table, and as he passes, one of the girls on the floor runs her hand up his leg and over the prominent erection showing in his jeans. He looks like he is about to take her there, but Warhol insists on him mounting the table instead. He poses the boy several times and takes some photos. Then he calls for Edie.
I hadn't realised that Edie had disappeared. She was in another room being prepared. She emerges through the now densely gathered people because everyone wants to see what is going on. She has been transformed into a shrouded figure from the tomb. The tights and long sweater are gone and instead she is tightly bound in a sheet, fixed up the back with safety pins. Her arms are naked as are her lower legs; at the knees, the sheet begins to wind until it is tight around her hips and continues so up her body and over her shoulders where it suddenly loosens to drape over her head leaving her face exposed. Aside from the fact that she is wearing a sheet, she could be ready for another Vogue photo-shoot. I notice a hint of the darkness between her legs and the slight shadow of her nipples beneath the thin fabric. I also notice how insubstantial she is; her breasts are almost non existant wound tightly under the sheet and I can see the bones protruding from her hips; she can't weigh more than 100 lbs.
Every eye is on her as she is helped onto the table beside the young man who immediately begins to coo at her and stroke her naked arm. She smiles radiantly but it seems almost a reflex because that smile never quite touches her eyes which stay unfocussed as though contemplating something as intangible as she appears to be in this moment. Warhol takes some more pictures and then positions the two again; Edie is lying down on the table as though dead, and the young man lies beside her, propped up on one muscular arm to hover predatorially above her.
We are ready to begin and two friends gather near the table. One kneels down below the table close to Edie's head, and the other takes a similar position on the other side close to Giorgio. The murmurring is silenced as Warhol raises his hand, and then with a click, the small film camera begins to whir softly.
The young man is first to speak, prompted by the friend hidden below the level of the table; "Ah, dear Juliet," he pronounces in a slight Italian accent. The room erupts in spontaneous applause as the words from Shakespeare's tragedy are recognised. I hear someone nearby murmur 'Oh wow, heavy' in clear approval. A tall thin woman whom I had never seen before approaches me as this happens; she smiles at me and then puts her arms around my waiste and rests her head on my shoulder. Maybe she mistook me for someone else but is too tripped out to know the difference. The room slowly quiets and, in response to the whispered prompts, the young man begins to speak again:

"Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
That unsubstantial Death is amorous;
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in the dark to be his paramour?"

Here he pauses and extends wanton fingers to touch the pale cheek of Edie who lies motionless on the table; she is the vision of death. He does not stop, but those fingers trace the line of her jaw and then slide lustily over her throat, continuing and coming to pause heavily on her breast. He shifts his position so that his body rests against hers. Warhol coughs slightly and the prompting begins again.

"For fear of that, I will stay with thee;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here I will remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. - Eyes, look your
last!

He pauses again to gaze lustily down her body. He has gained momentum now and, when speaking, his voice is clear and full, echoing back slightly from the high ceiling. He continues with the short monologue and as he speaks, I notice a girl sitting on the floor nearby. Her eyes are glazed over and she is staring fixedly at the young man reclining beside Edie. Her lips are slightly parted and her breath comes in short gasps, panting. A wave of concern rushes over me for a moment as I think she might be having a cardiac arrest which is not uncommon with users. Instead, as I study her, I notice her hand underneath her short skirt, working slowly and rhythmically in time with her breathing. I smile and shake my head, taking another drink from my bottle, remembering that 'anything goes' is the motto that many people live by. Giorgio comes to the conclusion of his part and someone gives him a short glass that probably contains blotter acid and vodka. 'Here's to my love!' he intones and swallows from the glass, then:

"O true Apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. -Thus with a kiss I die."

The kiss that follows is not the chaste 'adieu' to the fallen lover that one would expect. His mouth presses hard against hers, forcing it open, and conjuring the uncomfortable sensation of the cold lips and tongue of the corpse freshly deposed in the tomb. He seems to jerk spasmodically in the throws of death or in orgasm and collapses beside her, one arm hanging limp over the edge of the table.
There is an audible sigh from the audience and an air of expectation as we wait. Edie and Giorgio lie side by side in a tableau of death which has yet to consumate its full tragedy. Minutes pass; the silence disturbed only by the whirring of Andy's film camera as he moves about and takes the scene. Finally, Edie wrustles her sheet and takes a deep breath, stirring. She rises to a sitting position and gazes in lost wonderment around the room. I am, as I watch her, unsure if she is Juliet or Edie and have the distinct impression that some line between theatre and reality is being crossed. I cringe at the thought of the coming scene. Someone has approached the table and slides a vicious-looking bone handled knife between the two on the table. The prompter below the table begins to whisper and Edie begins her final scene:

"What's here? a cup closed in my true love's hand?"

She picks the glass from the hand of the boy and raises it to her lips. Her tongue licks out and touches the rim of the glass.

"Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end: -
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after? -I will kiss thy lips;
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative."

Her head dips toward his and their lips brush lightly for a moment; standing several feet away leaning against the wall, I imagine to feel that gentle pressure on my own lips and my hand rises absently to touch my lower lip. 'Thy lips are warm!' she says with a gasp and I respond, murmuring 'yes'.
Edie's head jerks around in response to the imagined sound of the watchman's arrival at Juliet's tomb. For a moment our eyes lock and she seems to return from her drowsy distant state; her expression is her own and her eyes show the terror of the coming final moment. 'Yea, noise? she repeats, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper, 'then I'll be brief. - O happy dagger!'
She recovers the knife from the table and holds it out, the blade pointing toward her breast.

"This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die."

She intones the last words and extends her arms. She pauses, and I see her contemplate the blade which sparkles dully in the light of the room. She seems to envision the pain and pleasure that lie in potential in that simple device. She embraces the final moment of Juliet and bends her arms. The blade plummets toward her breast. 'Edie....' I gasp. I hear a scream. The air goes electric with anticipation.
The blade slides harmlessly between her arm and chest. Juliet flings her head backward, giving voice to the irrevocable truth of her action. She falls backward to the table and lies still. I hear someone sobbing on the other side of the room.
I take a gulp from my bottle and turn away.
I have grown tired of these images of death.
As I look back on that night from a distance of many years, I realise how prophetic the scene was; the young lovers die. Did we love life too much or were we playing a losing and flirtatious game with death from the start?
I don't know how many people from that party never got to see the next year or five years. Edie died on November 16, 1971; she was only 28 years old and, in truth, I miss her.
It makes me wonder if, had we known how close so many of us were to death, we would have done anything differently; or was the game so much more exciting than it's afterglow?

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wow! that's a lot of sex and death in that one! oops. haha.
for those of you who don't know, Edie is Edith Minturn Sedgewick (Post) (1943-1971).
this is set in new york in about 1968 which makes the incidental information work.