That's Classified

Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons/MWichary

I napped in my stuffy room at the Y after escaping the prostitute in Times Square. I woke with a start, confused, dry eyes darting around to process my location. The afternoon sun was lower outside. Right. I was at the YMCA. I had been a New Yorker for almost 24 hours.

I went out and bought the Sunday New York Times, thick as a brick, for the classified section and a $1 slice of pizza for dinner. I then spent the evening immersed in each section, reading for clues that could help turn me into a real New Yorker. I tore out the ads for the museums and movies I wanted to see.

I gasped at a big headline on the front page:

"New York Telephone Talks Break Down; Strike Continues"

So what did that mean for pay phones? Like the one down the hall, my main link to my job search? Did it stop working? I did not have time for this. I needed to make as many calls as I could the next few days.

And there would be plenty to make. The front page of the classifieds was divided up by dozens of tiny ads from employment agencies:

PUBLISHING - Editorial assistant for global pub house. Phones, calendar. 16K

MUSIC - Admin assistant. Entry level at int'l label. Work for execs and talent. Typing. 17K

PR AGENCY - Entry level at busy consumer PR firm. Admin support. Writing skills a must. 17K

Those last two seemed right up my alley so I marked them with big stars. It was all like a menu of dream jobs to choose from. I would hunt down each opportunity until I scored my perfect job.

The quest would begin the next day at PR agency Grant, Townsend, Frost and Osborne (GTFO). I had reached out earlier that summer about their internships which paid a stipend. They had called me back, telling me they liked my resume and to contact them when I moved to the city. Last week I did just that and scored my first in-person interview in New York.

My plan was to be a Trojan Horse: Get in. Dazzle them with my brilliance until they declared they couldn't live without me. Accept their full-time job offer.

Then I could find a roommate and finally start living my life in the city!

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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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