The Steely Dan show at the Beacon Theater last Saturday night proceeded pleasantly, like a fever dream. I was drunk and happy. I barked out some lyrics, usually the right ones. There was a sense of bonhomie in our quadrant of the orchestra.

We left and I always love leaving the Beacon; the throng slows your procession so you're forced to admire the halls, the walls and ceilings. And you never really know where you're getting out, which rain-slicked avenue or street. After we emerged, we darted into the street to circumnavigate the crowded sidewalk. We walked around a black SUV and I thought nothing of it till we reached the other side and I saw the crowd was even tighter; there was a bodyguard facing them down. I stood behind him, innocently enough, and suddenly I was face to face with Walter Becker. I reached out my hand and said, "Hey Walter!" He shook it, smiling, and then some unseen handler collapsed him into the backseat.