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 pag...
A rewind of my coming out and coming home to New York City in 1989.