I decided to write "Blind Pig on Second Avenue" when I read Uncle Lee's memoirs, published in Russian in 1963. In the book titled "Left Pleurisy: Memories of an American Red" — which could have the subtitle "The Romance of American Communism" or something similar — Lee Phillips, formerly Elias Philippopoulos, narrates his life from 1918, when he took the ship to America, until 1961, when he left Memphis, Tennessee, to settle in his beloved Moscow.
I wrote a few pages every night on the way to California, where I went to meet my brother Paddy, and then in Montana, where I traveled just to see how Mary Kay was twenty years later. The manuscript — three hundred and twenty pages typed, with smudges and erasures — I had placed in the glove compartment of the station wagon among various small items: a flashlight, a pair of woolen gloves, the car registration, and two traffic tickets for speeding. And I would have forgotten it there if I hadn't gone back to Memphis, to Harry White's lot, to trade the station wagon for an old Oldsmobile.
No one asked me to narrate the story of the Phillips and our city, Memphis, Tennessee. No one asked me not to narrate it. So, I narrated this true story that is full of lies.