It's Fun To Stay At The YMCA

The check-in desk for The Sloane House YMCA was burrowed off of an otherwise large and dim lobby, interrupted by thick support columns. The attendants were busy, so I leaned my two bags against one of the columns, looking back every 15 seconds to make sure they were still there. I held on to The World's Heaviest Briefcase.

I nodded when one attendant said, "Next."

"I would like to check in," I said, pretending to myself I had an actual reservation -- even though I was told they didn't take them when I had called a few weeks ago. I carried my membership card to the Miami County YMCA of Ohio in my wallet to help make my case if needed.

"Yep, just a minute," she answered, stepping out of sight.

I exhaled my relief. I was not going to be turned away at the inn.

The attendant returned to take my only credit card in exchange for a copy of the house rules.

"You can only stay here 25 consecutive days. Beyond that, the city considers you an illegal transient and you have to go."

I nodded my understanding. 25 days seemed more than enough time to find a job and an apartment in New York. I mean, it would be my full-time job to get a job, so I was sure to beat that deadline.

Once I signed the house rules and my credit card authorization, I was handed the key to my new home on the 8th floor for the next 3 1/2 weeks.

"Welcome to New York," she said flatly, already motioning to the next person behind me.

* * *

Photo credit: Elvert Barnes on Visual Hunt

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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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