The Regent asked, “Did you understand?”
“I was swatting thoughts the whole time.”
“That’s excellent!”
“It is?”
He smiled, “You already know the difference between thinking and silence.”
“But I didn’t hear any silence.”
“And yet, you know how it will sound when you do hear it.”
Everything was fine until he said I needed to do it once in the morning and once at night. I don’t do anything with that regularity. I brush my teeth and eat but that’s about it. Between work and school, I wouldn’t have 40 minutes of free time to spare each day. I kept these thoughts to myself, after labeling them “thinking.”
My mother was terribly excited for me. “Did you receive the transmission?”
“Eew, you make it sound like I’m pregnant or something.”
Mom laughed. Her mood came and went like the wind.
On the way back to New York the next morning I had trouble turning off the thought labeler. I was thinking about important things, but my brain just wanted me to stop. I closed my eyes and followed my breath. The labeling diminished somewhat after that.
I got in to Port Authority at dusk. Times Square was a graham cracker covered in maggots. I could have walked one block to the 1, 2 or 3, but I preferred to catch the A going north to Columbus Circle and transfer. Nobody in their right minds goes to Times Square at night, let alone during the day. I made it back to Columbia in time to catch the second half of German Film History. “Der Letzte Mann” was in its third act. This poor doorman was working as a bathroom attendant, just like Eve. But in Germany in 1924, it was a terrible humiliation. I thought the movie ended when the title card, in German, said something about ending, but there was a Hollywood turnaround instead. Because a rich Mexican guy passed away in the arms of the washroom attendant, he somehow inherited his fortune.
When the lights came up, Miriam showed me a menacing handout. “For our final, we have to write a paper on one of these six subjects.”
I quickly grazed the handout. I had missed just enough class to be unfamiliar with every topic. And my brain was going “that’s a thought, that’s a thought” in an endless obsessive labeling loop. I couldn’t concentrate. The teacher wouldn’t let me have a handout because I arrived late, so Miriam agreed to go with me to the library to make photocopies. Japanese, English and Art were fine - they had tests. I am good at tests, usually. But a final paper was just a shitty thing to do.
As my thoughts continued to race and be labeled over and over, I tried to clear off my desk so I could start my paper. I wanted to get it done. There were terms on the handout I didn’t know, mostly German words and I didn’t have a German dictionary. The handout said we could not turn in computer printouts because they were too hard to read. So, I would have to hand-write the whole thing, and then find a typewriter that wasn’t being used by some student for their own final papers.
My gaze wandered down to the pile of stuff on the floor. Peeking out from behind a Danceteria flyer was the book “San Francisco Rock.” I was instantly homesick. I fingered through the pages, checking out the clothes, reading about the lives of the people who lived on “A Street Called Love” and even the gay scene back in the 1970’s before AIDS began wiping out everything gay and everyone gay off the planet.
A series of gears aligned like a cuckoo clock. Each lever I pulled sent me further and further out of my present into a different future. I was miserable at Columbia. I had Miriam, Suzanne, Olivia and even Brennan, but I didn’t have a sense of belonging with the competitive people around me. I was tired of fighting New York.
The first lever was a visit to the counseling office. I spoke rapidly, my thoughts racing, as I told them my book (I held up San Francisco Rock to illustrate) was calling me home. They wanted to put me on medication, but I refused to take anything. There was talk about a 72-hour hold somewhere. I told them I was fine, I just needed to get the hell out of New York.
One timid counselor said, “Perhaps what you need is a leave of absence.”
That was it: LOA. LOA, labeled thought. LOA letting out anger. I punched my fist on the desk, which upset everyone including me, because it hurt. The counselor agreed to handle the paperwork for a semester leave of absence.
The next lever was a call to Dad.
“Oh, hi there. How are you?” His standard greeting in all weather.
“I’m going to take some time off from Columbia.”
“So soon?”
“Yeah, I’m not handling it right. I need perspective. I’ll tackle it again next Fall.”
“When’s your last day? I’ll get your tickets.”
“Really? Thanks, Dad. My last final exam is on December 21st.”
And just like that, I had a ticket out of the stress and madness.
“Ethan, you should phone Jessie. She got a new flat and she needs a roommate.”
Bam, another lever appeared. Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
“Jessie, it’s Ethan.”
“I thought so.”
“Dad tells me you got a new apartment. Do you need a roommate?”
“My friend Sheila Peatfield is coming to California. She’s got the other bedroom. But you can have the living room if you keep it clean.”
And with just a few broad brush strokes, I painted a whole different future for myself. I called Malinda at the Milk Bar and told her I quit. She was sad, but I think she was on cocaine because then she sniffed and said, “Okay, great. I can handle it. No problem.”
Miriam was angry. “I don’t know why you need to leave! Some stupid book isn’t a good excuse for dropping everything.”
“It’s not the book, Miriam, it’s the message inside. I can be happy in San Francisco. I’m miserable and lonely in New York.”
“But you have so many friends here!”
“I have family there.”
Brennan took the news like everything else. He pretended that emotions were for weaklings. Maybe I can come visit you there.”
Fleur was unhappy. “The 20th is the opening of the Tunnel. Will you come with me? Everybody is going to be there. It’s going to be so sad here without you.”
“I’m sad here, Eve, so I think it might actually get a little bit happier once I’m gone.”
She laughed at my logic.
Donnie was surprised to hear from me. “I thought once you went to Columbia, I would never hear from you again.”
“I’m going to San Francisco.”
“Can I go?”
Now that was the sort of reaction I wanted.
“Yes. I’m dead serious. Yes.”
“Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to go there. Is it as amazing as it looks in books?”
“More amazing.”
Donnie leaned in conspiratorially. “If I can get a ticket, can I come stay with you?”
“Naturally.”
✽✽✽
When I was in Elementary school, my mom sent me to school sick because I wasn’t allowed to miss a day of learning. As I think about it now, I think maybe she needed the space or couldn’t afford a babysitter. It imbued me with a strong sense of duty. I must attend class at all costs. I never skipped school or cut class once, ever. Until college. Now I am sitting in my Art and Architecture course marveling at the giant holes in my knowledge brought on by an embarrassing number of sick days. The exam was in two parts, with a break in between. Out in the hall, I smoked with Olivia, who had a class nearby.
She asked, “Is anything wrong?”
“I’m flunking this test.”
“They grade on a curve here; I wouldn’t worry about it. You could bullshit your way through a test, and it would be in the top 20th percentile. How much of the stuff do you know?”
“Half.”
“Well, you’ll get a B.” She blew a smoke ring and sauntered back into her classroom.
Her pep talk helped. I finished the test with a string of bullshit and dreams.
That
final German paper was horrible. I couldn’t bullshit a twenty-page paper. It just wasn’t possible. Miriam wanted to help me, but she didn’t really have time or focus. So, I read the textbook from cover to cover, defined every German word I could with a borrowed dictionary from the library, and wrote about Nosferatu and the plague of rats as a metaphor for Communism. I wrote it longhand, but I couldn’t find a typewriter anywhere. I stashed it in my desk drawer and forgot about it.
I ran to Japanese class, but the final was already in progress. The teacher, who had grown to dislike me increasingly throughout the semester, was not cool about it in the slightest.
“Sintzu you missu the finaru examu, no coredito.”
“But I didn’t miss it, Miss Kobayashi, I’m here now.”
“Rate. You arrivu rate. No coredito.”
Without the final, which was half my grade, the best I could hope for was a low C. I wandered away, talking to myself. Fuck Miss Kobayashi. Facku Haru!
It was December 20th. English final exam was in the morning. That was an easier test. For whatever reason, the class was at a perfect time and day that I always seemed to make it. I had maybe missed four days total. The professor, Ann Douglas, was a writer, and she loved my stories. I decided to answer some of the test questions with stories, in case it helped. I finished early, feeling pretty good about it all. Professor Douglas took me aside.
“Best of luck in San Francisco.”
“Thanks. It’s just for a semester.”
She nodded. There was a faraway look in her eyes. Years later I realized she knew I wasn’t coming back, because she had dealt with mentally ill students in the past. But I’m way ahead of myself.
I went back to my room to finish packing. I paced around the room, certain that there was one more thing I needed to do. I couldn’t remember. I got my entire life bundled into a green army duffel and leaned it against the wall. I climbed into bed to rest my eyes and try to remember what I was leaving out. I couldn’t think of anything except the opening of the Tunnel. I wore furry zebra pants, a black turtleneck, a polyester photographic shirt of newspapers against a lemon-yellow background, and a pair of creepers. I didn’t even realize I was napping.
At 11pm, I caught the Number 1 line down to 28th Street. I forgot how long it was from 7th Avenue to 12th. It was freezing out, and I was wearing only two layers of flimsy shirt. As I shivered and shuffled towards the Tunnel, I heard footsteps behind me. I picked up my pace, and they followed. Then I heard a soft, sibilant voice, “Ethan, wait.”
I turned around. It was that guy Deke. I didn’t like Deke, but he was wearing a massive brown bear fur coat.
“Oh hey, D-d-deke.”
“You must be freezing. Come here.” He wrapped me protectively and together we walked and hobbled the three or four remaining blocks to the Tunnel. I was supposed to wait outside for Fleur, but Deke was sort of a minor celebutante, so they ushered us in. As it turned out, Fleur was already inside.
“Ethan, I didn’t know you were friends with Deke.”
“Not yet, but he will be.” Deke had his eyes on me.
I kept repeating in my head the Groucho Marx line, “I don’t want to belong to any club that would have people like me as a member.”
The Tunnel was just another giant nightclub. The subterranean brick train tunnels were cool, but the drinks were still twenty dollars, the tarted up Jersey girls still danced on cocktail tables and still fell off, landing in their musclebound counterparts’ laps. It was suddenly very meaningless. Cocaine was on every flat surface. Wall Street snorted it all up.
Fleur talked to the latest batch of club kids, whoever they were, and little pockets of laughter erupted from her gaggle.
Deke was staring at me intently.
“What?”
“Ethan, you have such beautiful eyes.”
I stared into Deke’s black widow spider eyes and struggled to return the compliment. “Your skin is so healthy.”
Deke gasped. “I work so hard on it, and no one ever says anything.”
My mind was elsewhere. “Yeah, beauty is only skin deep.”
Deke recoiled. “What are you saying?”
Idiot, I had picked an insulting proverb, so I would have to backpedal. “I mean, it’s what’s inside that counts, right? So, you must get even more compliments on your persona, you know, your vibe and all that.”
It worked. “You sound like a California boy. Vibes. What are vibes anyway?” He gave a lecherous grin. “It’s what’s in my pants that counts.”
I stifled a gag reflex. I didn’t care what Deke had in his pants.
“See?” Right there in the middle of everyone, he took out an enormous penis and slapped my knee with it.
I was dumbstruck. Freud would probably say I was stuck in the phallic childhood phase, but Deke’s huge soft penis left me giddy.
He whispered in my ear, “Why don’t we go back to my apartment, and I can show you what I do with it.”
My flight was the next day. It seemed risky. I found Eve.
“Deke wants me to go back to his place to do the nasty.”
“Aren’t you a virgin still?”
I flushed red. “Could you say it louder so the DJ can hear? He might want to make an announcement.”
Fleur laughed.
“He’s perfectly harmless. He’s best friends with Cher. You’ll be safe. Have fun. When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
Fleur’s eyes filled with tears. We had spent two years in boarding school together and hundreds of club hours in New York. We were close friends, about to be separated by three thousand miles of dirt.
“Fleur don’t cry. I’ll be back in the Fall. I just needed to take a long breath.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “You’re making my liquid eyeliner run.”
We hugged for an eternity. I didn’t know it was the last time.
✽✽✽
Deke wrapped me in his massive bear coat and ferried me to his nearby Chelsea apartment. Nobody lived in Chelsea. It was a ghost town at night. His apartment was a loft. On the ground floor was a sink full of dirty dishes, a couch, a bathroom, and a television. A ladder led to the second level, where Deke’s bed was.
I wish I could say that I enjoyed my first time. All the pieces were there, on paper, but when it came to flesh on flesh, I was ticklish, inexperienced, and uncomfortable. Deke was disproportionately large, and I was in no state to tackle that thing. Deke’s roommate could hear us and shushed us several times. I wanted the first time to be with someone different. I’m not impressed by celebutantes and fashion designers. I like wrestlers and boxers. It’s not logical, but neither is anything about sex. It felt like I was giving a spider a blow job. I wanted the guy to be thick, dumb, but totally in charge of things. He would have been a master of intercourse - a PhD in Fornicology. Instead of cold, thin arms, he would have warm, brawny biceps that would surround me and keep me safe. Deke was none of those things. I pretended to fall asleep so I could stop choking and avoid any sort of invasion of my nether regions. It worked too well. I fell asleep.
When I woke, Deke was up. He handed me a cup of coffee.
“When are you leaving New York?”
“Today.”
“What?”
“My flight is at 7:00 pm.”
“This is a textbook example of a one-night stand.”
“I’m coming back in September.”
“Well, I’m not waiting for you if that’s what you mean.” He examined his nails.
“No, you deserve love, Deke. Don’t hold back.”
“Was I really your first?”
I nodded.
“It showed. You’re so inexperienced!” His words made me wince. “I mean it was adorable, I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” He grabbed my chin and kissed me. He tried to put his tongue in my mouth, and I pulled away. I was drowning in shame and fear.
“I gotta get uptown.” I opened his door and stepped over the threshold, hoping it would prot
ect me from his vampiric embrace. Does a vampire have to be invited out onto the sidewalk to leave their house? No, but the sun was coming up. Like a vampire, Deke shaded his eyes and hid behind the door to keep the harmful rays from burning his skin.
“Ethan, it’s so sad you’re leaving. I really felt like we had something.”
I normally speak my mind, but Deke’s feelings were at stake, so I lied. “I know, I totally get what you mean. It’s like, so sad.”
He didn’t buy it. He slammed the door in my face.
I put my entire life into the green army duffel. Friends from John Jay came to bid a tearful farewell. I was going to be late for my flight to Savannah, Detroit, then Birmingham, then Dallas, then Phoenix and finally Oakland. My Dad’s plane tickets were thicker than a dime store novel. I don’t know why he thought that his agent was good. Mom always got me nonstops from Boston for less than a hundred dollars. I think Dad saved a dollar to have me fly in a zig-zag pattern across the United States. At each airport, I would have ten minutes to run from TWA to Pan Am, or from Braniff to PSA.
I caught the super expensive subway line they just opened to JFK. There were signs everywhere with pictures of luggage and a big red circle/slash. What was the point of a train to the airport if you couldn’t carry your bags? The most absurd people get enough power to make other people’s lives miserable. I had no power, never would.
A Franciscan monk from India started a conversation with me.
“Lovely day for a flight, isn’t it?”
I was so used to being scammed, I debated whether I should talk to the guy.
“It’s really cold, but the flight should be smooth.”
He smiled. “I don’t have a ticket.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m really not certain. I’m on a pilgrimage, and I go where circumstances take me.”
“So, you’re going to JFK to see if somebody gives you a ticket?”
“Yes, something like that. I may end up in a limousine to Connecticut.”
“Do you need some money?” I fished in my pocket for my Madonna wallet.
“No, no. It doesn’t work like that. You’ll see.”
Seventh Avenue South Page 14
