Membership Has Its Privileges

Once I decided to move from Bowling Green, Ohio to New York in 1989 with no job or home, I sent away for The Guide To Temporary Housing in New York City.

The YMCAs listed on its photocopied pages seemed to be the safest and cheapest options for Manhattan. I would have had more choices if I were a young lady looking for a chaperoned, Christian environment. But I was going in the opposite direction.

Once I graduated, I went back to my mom’s house in Piqua to execute my escape to New York.

But as the days passed, my commitment sagged like an old Mylar balloon. What seemed like my destiny in Bowling Green, felt like pending doom from the family living room. Angst paralyzed me from calling the Sloane House near Penn Station, final destination on the train I would take from Lima. Making a reservation at the Y meant making a commitment to leave everything and everyone I knew. And risking my life to a virus that had me in its crosshairs as soon as I stepped into the city.

After moping around a couple more days, the bonds of my personal purgatory snapped. My fear of a life without love finally outweighed the immediate dangers of being my true self.

So late one morning, I just did it. I dialed the Sloane House YMCA number, sweaty fingers slipping out of the plastic holes.

“Sloane House,” said the deep, rushed voice.

“HI!” God, I sounded so cheery, so Midwest. Bring it down. “I’m coming to New York at the end of the month, and I’d like to reserve a room there.”

“No reservations here. First come, first serve.”

They had noted that in their listing, but I thought it was a typo.

“Well, I’m coming to find a job in the city. Uh, so, I’d feel better if I had some sort of room lined up. I have my family’s county YMCA membership card if that helps.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got hundreds of rooms here, so I can pretty much guarantee you’ll get in. When are you coming?”

“Probably…the last weekend of August. Saturday the 26^th?” I made it up.

“Yeah, that should be fine. Just come in and we’ll take care of you.” His voice softened a little, like he was talking a kid off the ledge.

OK. I had a sort-of-reservation at the YMCA. Best I could do. If worse came to worst, I could get a cheap hotel for the first night or two.

Or, I could just not show up at all. It wasn’t like I would lose a deposit or anything. It was good to have options.

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l i t t l e b r e t t , BIG CITY

When I left college in 1989, I was a virgin with corn-fed drive and a terrifying secret. It could disappoint or disgust my family and friends. It could even kill me. But I couldn’t hide from it anymore. With "The World's Heaviest Briefcase," I escaped on a midnight train from Lima, Ohio to the YMCA on West 34th Street in Manhattan. Being gay had to be easier in New York, even though I was arriving with no home or job. Right away, a hooker chased me in Times Square, and perverts watched me shower at the Y. I filled payphones with quarters each day, desperately seeking work. Ultimately, I was confronted by my biggest fear when dating my first man – a member of AIDS activist group ACT UP. Could I really survive in one of the hardest cities in the world? Or would I fail and return to Ohio, back in the closet to find a wife and a lawn to mow. l i t t l e b r e t t , BIG CITY celebrates finding your own place in the world. Here I recall and sal

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Little Brett, Big City

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