Sorry We Drifted Apart, Richie Havens Mark Lutin is a legal-marketing executive and lifelong New Yorker who lives in Bayside, Queens. About two years ago, I was zipping into Borders on 33rd Street near Madison Square Garden on my lunch hour when I almost slammed into someone else entering the store. He was a bit older than me, black, with a gleaming shaved head and a long flowing grey beard. I knew right away who he was, but mostly out of shock I stared at him and silently mouthed "Richie Havens?" to which he silently smiled and nodded, "Yes." I'm a jaded native New Yorker and I don't awe easily, but I did that day. Richie Havens was my favorite performer from the "60s. I loved his music and saw him play countless times. I was practically obsessed with him. His first album, "Mixed Bag," from 1967, still sounds as fresh today as it did a lifetime ago. While he was a gifted songwriter in his own right, what resonated with me - as with so many others - were his versions of others" songs. His interpretations of "Just Like a Woman," "Here Comes the Sun," "Eleanor Rigby" and "San Francisco Bay Blues" are but a few examples of that rarity in music - covers that are far better than the originals. He seemed slowed-down a bit; perhaps frail. I mumbled the usual nonsense that fans spew to their idols - "love your work ... meant so much to me ... still listen to "Mixed Bag."" How does one say these things sincerely without sounding like a gushing imbecile? But he took it all in with grace and a quiet understanding. Clearly, I was not the first fan he had encountered. A picture! I had to get a picture of this. I took out my cellphone and asked the woman he was with if she would kindly take a picture of us. I fumbled with the controls and handed it to her. God, I was becoming more of a caricature every second. They indulged me, snapped a shot and handed me my phone. Did the shot even come out? I was too preoccupied to look and just jammed it into my pocket. I thanked him for his time and as we both continued into Borders I promised that I would not bother him further. On my way back to work, I rehashed the conversation and beat myself up a bit. Artists don't care if you listen to their old stuff. They want to know that you are still listening and buying their new material. The fact of the matter is, I had lost track of Richie Havens long before I bumped into him that day. Other artists and musical genres had captured my attention as I grew, evolved and changed. It's interesting that we don't officially "break-up" with performers as we do with lovers, but rather just "stop calling" or slowly drift apart. I hadn't thought about that incident until last week when a friend texted me that Richie Havens had died and that she had remembered the photo of us. In the days following his death, I went online and discovered that despite my not having been a constant presence in his life, he managed to keep pretty busy. He recorded another 29 albums after "Mixed Bag," had a few film roles and even played at President Clinton's inauguration in 1993. To an entire generation of boomers, though, he will forever be remembered as Woodstock's "opening act" for his anti-war anthem "Handsome Johnny" and the iconic "Freedom." I'd like to think my gushing meant something to him that day, but hundreds of fans must have gushed to him over the course of his long career. I can say, though, that his kindness, patience and grace that day meant something to me. I'm sorry that we drifted apart, Richie. I'm sorry I stopped calling. I will always love your music. Oh, and the picture? It came out pretty good.