NEW YORK

       They were from New York City and eighteen years old. Gus was Jewish, Dakar was African American, and Tex was Puerto Rican. They had crossed the country in an old beat-up Chevy Impala, and it was, for each of them, their first trip outside of New York. They had just graduated from an experimental high school, known as the LEAP school, which stood for THE LOWER EAST SIDE ACTION PROJECT. The goal of the school was to provide an alternative education to teenagers from this tough neighborhood, who didn’t fit into the city’s school system. These three were staying at the home of a friend of mine, whose parents knew the creators of LEAP. I spent a handful of afternoons hanging out with them, listening to their stories about the big city. The more I heard, the more I wanted to hear. They talked about Nixon, Viet Nam, the Black Panthers, Hendrix, government corruption, juvenile justice, Minority empowerment, new education, music, art, and on and on. They were driven with purpose and energy, and I was inspired by these conversations unlike any I had ever heard among my peers in Lake Oswego. I found myself wanting to be as engaged as they were.  The day before they were due to depart for the Oregon coast, I asked them if they thought LEAP school would allow someone like me to attend. Did they think that was a possibility? They agreed to set up a phone call with the school administration for an interview.

        Earlier in the Summer, Gloria had called and invited me to lunch with her and David. We tried to pick up where we left off. David and I played chess and Gloria played the happy hostess. I remember feeling that the happiness was forced and I felt an awkwardness emanate from deep down inside me. Another time, Gloria asked me if I would give her a ride on my motorcycle and she suggested we go to Multnomah Falls and have a picnic. Just the two of us. I said yes, but I was no longer that 14-year-old boy wanting to believe a paradise existed between us. That illusion was slowly deflating. 

         Ever since that first day back, I’d been feeling an anxious detachment, like an unseen cloud on a dark night. I tried to pretend it was nothing, but the source of this discontent kept resurfacing in my mind. It was the image of Gloria and Timothy sitting closely together on the floor, side by side, and the look of defiance in Gloria’s eyes as she stared back at me, her arm around Timothy’s shoulders. I couldn’t unsee this, and I couldn’t unhear the thought, “Oh my god, she has another boy.”

         Sometimes, I found I could bury these thoughts if I left them unarticulated. On a deeper level, however, I knew that I had returned to Oregon with the expectation of regaining something that I knew didn’t exist anymore. Maybe it never had existed. The sex we had in the hidden place Gloria and I had found at Multnomah Falls, was not a magical moment. It was perfunctory. That’s why I was so quick to jump at LEAP school in New York. Far better to fly away, than to nest in these disturbing thoughts.  

       With four weeks to get my ducks in order, my first task was to obtain my father’s blessing. Even though he was in Texas, he still exerted authority over me. His first reaction to my plan was an absolute no. There was no way he was going to allow his son to go traipsing off to New York City, all by himself, knowing nobody, and move into the Lower East Side of Manhattan, one of the roughest neighborhoods in the country. So, I had my work cut out for me. Beginning with a letter campaign making my case, I argued this adventure was actually a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think of how few people were ever offered the chance to experience the world beyond the safety of their local confines. Our letters flowed back and forth and Dad’s adamant stance began to soften. I reminded him that he’d run off and joined the Marines, four months before Pearl Harbor. In less than a year, he was fighting the Japanese in the jungles of Guadalcanal. I won my case.

       I found a buyer for my motorcycle and with the proceeds, I purchased a one-way ticket to New York, with enough pocket cash left over to get by for a while. Before leaving, I made the rounds to say goodbye to my friends, painting a confident picture of my upcoming adventure, receiving good wishes and support from everyone. Everyone, that is, except Gloria. I had saved the final goodbye for her.

       We stood on their brick terrace. The day was beautiful. A slight breeze flowed up from the lake and filtered through the trees. David and Gloria stood together in front of me, his arm around her shoulders, as we said our last goodbyes. Gloria was crying, as David pulled her close. I wondered what he was thinking as Gloria pleaded with me not to go. 

       “New York is a bad place,” she said, “It will make you into a bad person.”

       I went to New York.