My second Antioch coop job was at Popular Science Magazine in New York City. As a homegrown Upper Peninsula kid, I’d never been on my own in any big city, much less the biggest, and the prospect of living in Manhattan filled me with a mix of excitement and terror. I had taken the sixteen-hour overnight train from Springfield, Ohio, arriving at Grand Central Station on a mid-April morning. The crowd in the great hall of Grand Central was the biggest I’d seen in my life. I had brought most of my worldly possessions in my uncle Kent’s World War Two army trunk, and it was a chore to lug around — 70 or 80 pounds worth. Before leaving from college I’d arranged to stay temporarily with two acquaintances, Jim S. and Jim H., who were also starting coop jobs. They’d given me their new address — 243 W. 166th Street in Washington Heights. Uncertain how to use the subway, I took a taxi to meet up with them.
The taxi ride was an experience in its own right. I was amazed by the street scenes, crowds, and tall buildings, and the driver drove like a maniac. Most of all I became more and more nervous about the rapidly escalating charge on the taxi meter. I’d brought about 25 dollars in cash to tide me over till my first paycheck, and the meter was steadily eating into my reserves. It was a horrendous bill by the time we got to 166th Street, and I knew I was supposed to tip the driver as well. The building was about 20 stories high, and tenants’ names were listed next to buzzers at the front door. I scoured the list, but I couldn’t find either Jim S. nor Jim H. That wasn’t altogether surprising since they were arriving about the same time as me, and there probably hadn’t been time yet to add their names. I did find the apartment of the building super — M. Gonzalez — and I pushed his buzzer.
I lugged my trunk downstairs to the basement and knocked on the super’s door. Mr. Gonzalez opened it in a second. He was a swarthy, middle-aged Puerto Rican man with a three-day growth of beard, wearing dirty blue jeans and a sleeveless white undershirt. His three little girls stood behind him, watching. I explained that my friends, Jim S. and Jim H., had rented an apartment in the building, but their names weren’t on the front door listing yet, so I needed to get their apartment number. Mr. Gonzalez shook his head, indicating that he didn’t recognize the names, but he did go and get his current tenant record. He went through the 50 or 60 names, but neither of the Jims were there. I asked if I could see the list, and he handed it to me. Much to my dismay, no Jim S., no Jim H. Mr. Gonzalez explained that many permanent tenants rent out rooms, and those private room rentals wouldn’t appear on his records. I asked him who might have rented rooms to my friends, and he said he had no idea. Confused and uncertain what to do next, I asked Mr. Gonzalez if I could leave my trunk in his apartment. He said no, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t imagine lugging my 80-pound trunk around the city. I explained that to Mr. Gonzalez, but he still said no. I was near tears. I begged him one more time, and he finally relented. I pulled the trunk into his hallway, then headed back out to the street.
I did have one possibility. Jim S.’s girlfriend, Joyce, lived in Fairlawn, New Jersey, about 20 miles south of Manhattan, and she had given more her home phone number. I found a pay phone on Broadway and made a collect call to Joyce. She hadn’t heard from Jim yet but said I could stay at her house until she did. She said she was going out of her mind from boredom at home and suggested that she join me in the city. We arranged to meet at at the New Jersey bus line’s drop-off point near the foot of the George Washington Bridge.
I walked up to bridge, and Joyce arrived about 90 minutes later. I had no idea what to do in the city, but Joyce said we should go to Greenwich Village, and we took the subway down — the first time I’d ever seen a subway. We hung out for a while in Washington Square, then had tea in a McDougall Street coffee shop, reportedly frequented by luminaries of the Beat generation. For supper we each had a fifteen-cent cent slice of pizza from a sidewalk vendor. Walking along Seventh Avenue we came across a small open-air club with a live band, and we went in and started dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but, even so, it was fun, and we lost track of time. Finally Joyce said we had better catch the bus to Fairlawn, and we took the A-train uptown to 178th Street.
Much to our dismay, the last bus of the evening for Fairlawn had just departed. The schedule was posted at the nearby White Castle, and the next bus wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m. The White Castle appeared to be the gathering spot for the underlife of northern Manhattan. Scary-looking guys, suspicious women with heavy rouge and lipstick, destitute persons in raggedy clothes, a few cool dudes in zoot suits. We were the only so-called normal looking people in the vicinity, and I worried about protecting Joyce during the wee hours of the morning. We found a large tree near the White Castle and staked out spots, leaning back against the tree trunk while we tried to sleep. We did make it through the night without any assaults or murders, slept fitfully, and woke with the rising sun. The bus was waiting, and we eagerly bought our tickets and got on. I felt a great sense of relief, certain I was ready to handle whatever else the city might throw at me.
Love,
Dave
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