Mostly I got lost. I lost my way and I lost track of time. It was as if New York sucked certain advanced functions from my brain; I wandered west and blundered north and missed half my grad school orientation because the trucks rumbling up Amsterdam drowned out my puny alarm. I left an hour early for everything, because I am never late and I was always lost. I turned a corner and was shocked to see Central Park. I was too proud to stare at the maps like a tourist. I truly believed I was passing. I emerged from the subway to the street and prayed for a compass to drop from the sky. I envied birds their magnets. I turned left when I meant right. I locked myself out once, twice, three times. I climbed hills and ran to catch the light. I tried to memorize key routes. I leaned on columns in the subway station and nearly collapsed under the desire for J. to be there, confident and reassuring, calmly guiding me back to safety in Forest Hills, where her mother would be waiting with a babka and an entire roast chicken. I was alone and hungry and I had to get back to 122nd Street.
At least I had my Discman and these cheap headphones I’d picked up at the Radio Shack in Waterville before I left. I’ve never minded repetition, and when you are unmoored the best albums act like anchors, so I put Full Force Galesburg in the CD player and left it there for days. Weeks, maybe. One day on my way back to Manhattan I realized, with a jolt, that the lyric says “Brooklyn” and that’s where I was standing.
The Mountain Goats - Down Here
* * * * *
On to track 2.