“Brennan, is he the most beautiful pizza maker you’ve ever seen?”
“Yes.”
The Acid was kicking in.
We stood watching him at work. He never looked up once to acknowledge us. He just kept throwing pizza dough in the air and spinning it out flat. I waited to make eye contact, but he wouldn’t let us.
“Are we invisible, Brennan?”
“To him, yes.”
Good point. The PATH train was clean and quiet. We got off on Christopher Street.
“Let’s go to Marie’s Crisis.” Brennan had his favorites.
There was a lively piano crowd inside. Brennan filled me in on the history.
“This was a whore house before the Civil War. It closed in 1890 but reopened as a gentleman’s bar. That was code for gay bar.”
The crowd sang along. It was a Dusty Springfield/Burt Bacharach tune - The Look of Love. It was off key, which threatened to take my trip south into the badlands. We left.
Near Washington Square Park we ran into Beth Death, Claude’s roommate who spiked his birthday cake with acid. She wore lace and black gloves, lots of black stone rings, a bazillion earrings, and a spiky side mohawk above her right ear.
“Oh my god! Brennan! Ethan! What are you doing?”
Brennan always gave plain answers. “We’re tripping on acid.”
Beth laughed. “I just moved to Manhattan. I’m going to Parsons. Come to my dorm.”
We followed her to a twelve story Federalist building facing Union Square Park. We took the Elevator to the 11th floor.
Beth was the perfect shaman for an acid trip. She knew exactly what we needed. She made rosemary tea with honey. It calmed us and put us in a giggly mood.
A fresh-faced design student appeared in the room. He was not Beth’s boyfriend. The longer I stared at him, the better he looked. Then he spoke.
“Name’s Reuben.” he extended a hand and when I shook it, I felt a current of electricity pass between us.
Reuben stepped back and smiled. “Did you feel that?”
I nodded.
“What was that all about?”
I shrugged. “My name’s Ethan.”
“Ethan. What’s going on.” He sat next to me on Beth’s bed.
“Me and Brennan are tripping.”
“Mushrooms?”
“No, acid.” Brennan corrected.
Beth tilted her head as though hearing something magical. “Do you hear that?”
“What?”
“I hear Dusty Springfield singing the Look of Love,” she said.
I stared at Brennan and the room filled with confetti.
“Whose confetti is that?” I asked.
Beth Death cracked up. Reuben wanted to join our trip, even though he wasn’t tripping. His face was so handsome, and he glowed like the Virgin of Guadalupe. Beth had been in the dorm for a month, and she still had empty boxes everywhere.
“What are you holding on to those boxes for?”
“I don’t know. They seem useful.”
“They don’t go with the decor,” Brennan said. This caused Reuben to burst out laughing.
“Well let’s get rid of them,” she said.
“How?” Reuben asked.
“We could toss them down a thing.” Brennan said.
That was how we found ourselves dropping cardboard boxes from the 11th floor down a circular stairwell. They made a ton of noise when they fell. People came out of their dorms. We heard whispers.
“What’s that noise?”
“It sounded like something fell.”
I got the mad giggles right then and had to be suppressed. Beth convinced Reuben to sit on my face to quiet my laughter. When he got up, I asked, “Was that first base?”
Reuben laughed it off and didn’t answer.
Soon we had run out of boxes.
“I got a bunch of New Romantic records that I can’t stand now. Let’s throw them too.” So, we did. A few didn’t make it all the way down, so we decided to take the stairs to get to the trash heap at the bottom. The dumpster was right there. We just threw box after box, album after album into the trash. I kept trying to read Reuben from behind his tortoiseshell glasses, but I got nothing.
“I really want to kiss you.” I said.
Beth huffed. “You don’t say it, you just do it!”
I reasoned, “Not when it’s a gay kiss.”
Reuben burst my bubble. “I recognize that you’re a beautiful boy, but I’m not into boys.”
That was a lot better than the response I would get in California: “Faggot!”
“But I’m willing to kiss you if it will make you happy.” Art students are so weird.
A pity kiss is better than none. I kissed his closed mouth. No frenching. No grinding. Just a simple grandma kiss. It was enough for now.
Acid is a bit of an appetite suppressant, but it was wearing off now. I wanted, no, I needed waffles. We had to go to 103 Second Avenue.
It was only 7 or 8 blocks away. We got seated right away because it was only 2am and the clubs hadn’t let out yet. Our waiter was an adorable freckle-faced redhead named Tom. I studied his face like I was preparing for an exam. If it made him feel awkward, he didn’t show it.
The waffles at 103 were the best waffles anywhere in the world. The Belgians may have invented them, but 103 Second Avenue perfected them. They were tall, with a sugary snap crispiness that gave way to a cake-like softness inside. There was no gooey uncooked batter, and nothing was burnt - it was all perfectly browned.
After filling every hole with butter, which melted from the heat of the fresh waffle, I added dollops of maple syrup to each hole as well. Then I cut and ate the waffle square by square.
When I came out of my waffle wormhole, I saw Brennan, doing the same. Then Tom the waiter brought strawberry jam.
“You know, this stuff is good on the waffles. You should try it.”
We each dared a spoonful and then understood the song “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Our trip was back. We left twenty dollars because we couldn’t figure out the right amount.
Out on the street, we strolled past The Saint, a mostly gay nightclub next door to 103. There I saw Roy, the blond bodybuilder doorman, letting people in. His muscles rippled under his black turtleneck. Roy - it meant king. I’ll bet he’s a Leo. He glanced at me and Brennan.
“Are you guys coming in or what?” His accent was pure Connecticut. He came from good stock, as they say. I wonder if they accept their son and his rumored predilection for black and Puerto Rican dudes. I did something that always leads to depression. I compared myself to him. Physically, he was the type who could do anyone, have anyone and do anything with them. His chiseled jaw and burning blue eyes left me defeated. I tried to think of anything interesting about myself. I was a bundle of insecurity, and he was a mountain of confidence. Brennan didn’t see it. He was tugging on my sleeve.
“Ethan, don’t you want to see the inside of the Saint?”
I uttered the magic words, “Club Courtesy” and we were admitted for free. Roy didn’t even ask where I worked. I was the wrong color, so he didn’t care.
Inside, the Saint was near empty by New York standards. A dozen brave queens danced on the massive dance floor. The nooks and crannies of the club served as makeout alcoves. Couples or groups of friends sat in the booths and ordered expensive blender drinks.
Long strands of metal beads formed curtains to separate different areas. The walls were painted black. It was more like a dungeon than a club. Nobody came to talk to us. Attitude levels were high here. We left.
On the way out, I let my uninhibited acid mouth flap at Roy.
“You are everything I want in a man. What do you recommend for me to play in your league?”
Roy blushed. He wasn’t all mountain. “Guy, I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”
“I mean say it was me, you know with this hair and these clothes and this body, but my skin was dark.”
“You need to
join a gym.” He lifted my shirt, exposing my soft flabby belly. “Yeah, definitely join a gym. And ditch the cool clothes. Go simple. Jeans, turtleneck...not tights and polyester.”
I gazed into Roy’s dark blue eyes. He looked away. “And get some dental floss.”
That wrecked me. I stunk. It was my single worst fear.
“What was that all about?” Brennan asked.
“I was trying to figure out what it would take to get a guy like Roy.”
“The doorman?”
“Yup.” I studied the back of my hand, which I no longer recognized. “Brennan, I don’t think this is my hand.”
He agreed. “Something’s definitely changed.”
We debated risking Save The Robots under the influence of acid. The streets were mean, the whole ambiance was off kilter. Beautiful and strange, but it was still off kilter. We decided in the end to finish out our trip in Brennan’s apartment back in Hoboken.
The PATH train ran on time, like always. Soon we were walking past the darkened storefronts on First Street. When we got to his door, he stopped.
“I must let you know. When we left the house, I believe my keys fell down a thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We were tripping,” Brennan said, “I didn’t want to talk to my landlord.”
It was nearly dawn. We agreed he could call his landlord at 8:00 am. I thought 6:00 would be fine, but Brennan disagreed. 8:00 was pushing it.
Luckily, there was a coffee shop open all night. It catered to truckers, dock workers, and the unwashed bums along the waterfront.
Our booth had a greasy film that could not be removed with a mere damp rag. The prices were not bad. Two Eggs with all the trimmings was $3.50.
At the next booth a trucker sat by himself, glaring left, then right, drinking a cup of coffee. He was a long, greasy-haired version of Roy the doorman. Under the dirt and terrible hair, he had a handsome face. I felt like a cat in heat.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at, queer?” There it was: the homophobic hostility that kept me from trying anything with anyone for fear of being beaten to death.
I tried a technique I learned from a friend in California. “I’m a photographer for GQ. You have the look they need this year.”
“GQ is for faggots, you little pussy.”
“Sorry to have troubled you, sir. Go back to your coffee and don’t mind me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” The waitress came over and spoke in hushed tones to the trucker. He picked up and moved across the diner.
Brennan spoke up. “It’s surprising what the male gaze can do.”
I kept my eyes on my breakfast. The coffee must have been made in a car engine.
At 8:00, Brennan phoned his landlord. I eavesdropped.
“Yes, hello, this is Brennan at 237 Clinton...yes, that’s me. Listen, I dropped my keys down a thing and I’m locked out...8:15? Yes, I can be there.”
We booked along First until we got to the row houses that made up Brennan’s block. The landlord pulled up.
“Who’s this?” was his greeting.
“My best friend Ethan.”
“He’s not living here is he? I have to charge you extra.”
I answered, “No, sir, I live in a dorm at Columbia.”
“Hmph.” He gave Brennan a spare key. “Don’t lose this one.”
“Thank you. No, I won’t.”
“What did you say happened to it?”
Brennan repeated, “It fell down a thing.”
“What like a sewer drain?”
Brennan nodded.
“Well, it’s safe, at least. Nobody’s going down into those sewers.
The landlord left, and Brennan put the key in his coat pocket, where it jangled against something metal.
He pulled out his keyring with all his keys.
“Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know. I guess they didn’t fall down a thing after all.”
✽✽✽
Back at Columbia, I was having an increasingly difficult time juggling school and work. I was promoted to Barback, which meant I earned more, but I also stayed later to restock the bar at the end of the night. As beautiful as the Milk Bar was, it was slowly becoming a hell for me. Surrounded by soft ambient lit white walls and with a comfortable egg chair in which to relax, it was a dream for the clubgoers, but a nightmare for me. I was trapped in paradise.
Willy the doorman still insisted that I squeeze his bicep and praise his muscles. “Feel that? Feel how big it is?”
“Yeah.”
“Now my chest.” He put my hand on his enormous pectoral muscles. “Can you feel that?”
I knew this guy had a wife and kids. He was torturing me. He was waiting for me to say the wrong thing so he could call me a faggot and spit on me. That’s what I thought at the time. With the benefit of many years of hindsight, I know more about men who call themselves heterosexual. A lot of them, like Willy, have so many hormones raging inside them they need constant reassurance. They will fuck anything with two legs. Four legs even. But I didn’t know that then, and I was scared each time he did it.
I was flunking Japanese. I was scraping by in Art and Architecture. I was the star student on the first day when I correctly identified Le Corbusier’s utopian urban vision as New York City and Frank Lloyd Wright’s utopia as Los Angeles. It was downhill after that. English class, I was starting to make connections that nobody else made, including the teacher. She was a published author and very grounded. She asked me to see her in her office.
“Ethan, are you okay?”
I nodded.
“I saw you crying in the hallway yesterday.”
“Oh, that.” I had been upset because my Dad ended up marrying Violet after all. He sent me a piece of wedding cake via Federal Express.
“That’s good, you had a reason. Still, have you considered talking to the counseling office about your sadness? Most people celebrate a marriage.”
“I’ll go. Do you want some cake?”
She and I ate carrot cake and she got me coffee from the Professor’s lounge. My grades were slipping in her class as well. I wasn’t studying. I couldn’t concentrate.
The Columbia counseling office was one step removed from a psychiatric ward. There were nurses and doctors and counselors. Students stayed in the infirmary if they were going through crisis. There had been a rash of suicides and they were taking extra precaution.
I don’t remember what happened in the first counseling session. I don’t remember how many sessions I attended. I only know it was painful.
In the middle of all this, Mom called from Karme Choling.
“Ethan, I bought you a bus ticket to St. Johnsbury, Vermont.”
“Why?”
“I want you to come visit and see all the neat things we’re doing. It’s the closest Trailways stop.”
The ticket arrived. It overlapped with all my classes and one shift at the Milk Bar. I didn’t have a choice. She would ensure my suffering night and day if I didn’t go up there.
Unlike my trip west, this trip North only brought my spirits down. The fall color had been brilliant the week before, but this week every leaf was on the ground. We passed through a rainstorm that turned to sleet. It was about five hours of continuous travel, with stops along the way. I had to transfer in Burlington to get to St. Johnsbury, which added another hour and a half. I wouldn’t make it back to New York tonight.
Mom was waiting for me at the St. Johnsbury bus station with a brand-new Honda Civic.
“Nice car. Whose is it?”
“Mine. Your grandmother bought it for me.”
“It’s a nice car.”
She grabbed me and hugged me close. “Ethan, I’ve missed you. Did you miss me?”
“Of course,” I lied.
“Wait until you see this place. It’s so cool.”
The grounds of Karme Choling were laid out like a cult compound. There were high fences surrounding the b
uildings. (“To keep unwanted visitors out”)
A man with a rifle opened the gate to let me in.
“Boy the townspeople must really love you.” It was sarcasm, and she didn’t like it. I felt her smack my cheek, but not too hard.
“There are changes coming that you can’t even imagine, Ethan. You need to know this place is here for you. As my son, you are a part of this sangha. You are always welcome here.”
“Thanks, that’s neat.” I was trying hard to sound enthusiastic and whatever other emotions she demanded I display for her at that moment, but it was always a guessing game.
“It is.” she said, straightening her spine. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Come have lunch.” Lunch was prepared by sangha members as part of the rota, so it wasn’t often that the food tasted great. Besides, New England was the land where American Chop Suey was invented, so my hopes were not high.
The soup was freshwater bass bouillabaisse with lots of bones. The bread was a mismatch - it wasn’t crusty. It was just a whole wheat bread with no flavor. Thankfully, there was butter. The soup itself wasn’t too far off the mark. There was just the one flavor of fish, and the herbs were more Italian than French, but it still came out hearty. I wanted to hate it, but it was actually pretty good.
After lunch, the Regent sequestered me in his office at my mother’s request. He was to give me meditation instruction.
The instructions were simple:
Sit comfortably.
Follow your breath in and out.
As thoughts come into your head, label them “thinking” and discard them.
Continue for 20 minutes.
I got it immediately. The labeling of thoughts as “thinking” was the trick to clearing your mind, except when I realized that, I discovered that my realization was “thinking” too. All the tiny songs that play in my head got louder. I labeled them as “thinking” even though I wasn’t sure if music counted as a thought. Then I labeled the thought that music might not be a thought as “thinking”. It was 20 minutes of corralling kittens.
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