This is the August, 1969 issue. I was 14 and had a keen interest in short fiction and jazz reviews. And I was an occasional liar.
My family was visiting my grandmother in Whitehall, New York.
I spent most of my time there fishing, watching TV and messing around with NFL football cards.
But one day, while I was in the store where I bought football cards, I got an idea.
“This is for my dad,” I said as I placed the Playboy on the counter.
The scene of the crime.
The store in question, which undoubtedly closed long ago, was in the first floor of one of these buildings.