POPism by Andy Warhol, Pat Hackett Page B

in—right in midtown, not far from Grand Central Station, down the street from the United Nations. My loft was in a dirty brick industrial building—you walked into a gunmetal-gray lobby and to your right was a freight elevator that was just a rising floor with a grate. We were on the next-to-the-top floor; there was an antiques place called the Connoisseur’s Corner on the floor above us. We were right across the street from the YMCA, so there were always guys around with those little bus depot–type valises that probably have socks and shaving cream in them. And there was a modeling agency nearby, so there were plenty of girls with portfolios around, and lots of photography labs in the area.
    The Factory was about 50 feet by 100, and it had windows all along 47th Street looking south. It was basically crumbling—the walls especially were in bad shape. I set up my painting area with the workbench near the front by the windows, but I kept most of the light blocked out—that’s the way I liked it.
    At the same time that we were making the move to 47th Street, Billy Name and Freddy Herko were leaving their apartment downtown. Freddy went to stay somewhere else in the Village and Billy came up to live in the Factory.
    The back of the loft space gradually became Billy’s area. Right from the beginning it had an aura about it that was sort of secret; you never really knew what was going on there—strange characters would walk in and say, “Is Billy around?” and I’d point them toward the back.
    A lot of them were people I recognized from the San Remo, and after a while I got to know the regulars—Rotten Rita, the Mayor, Binghamton Birdie, the Duchess, Silver George, Stanley the Turtle, and, of course, Pope Ondine. They were always discreet about what they did back there. No one so much as took a pill in front of me, and I definitely never saw anyone shoot up. I never had to spell anything out, either; there was sort of a silent understanding that I didn’t want to know about anything like that, and Billy was always able to keep everything cool. There were a couple of toilets in Billy’s area and a slop sink and a refrigerator that was always stocked with grapefruit juice and orange juice—people on speed crave vitamin C.
    The Factory A-men were mostly fags (they knew each other originally from Riis Park in Brooklyn), except for the Duchess, who was a notorious dyke. They were all incredibly skinny, except for the Duchess, who was incredibly fat. And they all mainlined, except for the Duchess, who skin-popped. All this I only found out later, because at the time I was very naive—I mean, if youdon’t actually see a person shooting up, you don’t believe they could really be doing it. Oh, I’d hear them call someone on the wall pay phone and say, “Can I come over?” and then they’d leave and I’d just assume they were going to pick up some amphetamine. But where they went I never knew. Years later I asked somebody who’d been around a lot then where exactly all the speed had been coming from, and he said, “At first, they got all their speed from Rotten, but then his speed got so bad he wouldn’t even touch it himself, and from then on, everybody got it from Won-Ton.” That was a name I’d heard a lot, but I’d never laid eyes on him. “Won-Ton was really short and barrel-chested and he never left his apartment—he always answered the door in the same shiny satin latex royal blue Jantzen bathing suit. That was all he ever wore.” Was he a fag? I asked. “Well”—this person laughed—“he was living with a woman, but you got the idea he’d do anything with just about anybody. He worked in construction—he had something to do with the Verrazano Bridge.” But where did Won-Ton get the speed? “That was something you just didn’t ask.”
    Billy was different from