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Life in New York Continues - Without Carol (Cont)
Screen 3 of 4With this in mind, I placed a brief ad in the classified section of the New York T'imes, stating my qualifications and availability for such service, but I received few replies -- only one of them worth mentioning.
A man living in the neighborhood of Columbia University in northern Manhattan said in a brief hand-written note he would like to talk to me -- "in person," he wrote -- about taking me with him on a return trip to Algeria he expected to make soon, in connection with his archeological explorations in northern Africa. And he added in a post script that he certainly could make good use of my command of French.
His proposal sounded interesting, and so I went to see him at his apartment overlooking the Hudson River. But I soon wished I had not. He turned out to be a homosexual in his late fifties who obviously had lured me there with the intention of involving me in the satisfaction of his sexual desires. He showed his hand shortly after I arrived. Under the pretext of studying a map of Africa together with me on the couch, he sat much too close to me, while gently placing his diamond-ringed hand gently on the inside of my thigh. When I immediately moved away from him, hoping I had misinterpreted his purpose, he asked in a cooing tone of voice and with effeminate mannerisms if I had been offended by what he had done. In order to avoid further embarrassment, I simply said no, but then when he suggested we "take a nap" in his bedroom before continuing the discussion, I rose, excused myself, and went to the door I had entered not long before. Now convinced I was not interested in his proposition, he smiled in a fatherly way and handed me a big red apple as I left. Rather than throwing it back in his face, I took it and thanked him, thinking why not keep the apple and eat it, since Bob and I had so few provisions in our refrigerator that week.
I put no more ads in newspapers, but I did continue my search for other jobs, in spite of the poor prospects. Time was beginning to weigh heavily on me, and I was becoming discouraged. In the meantime, feeling the need for an academic challenge, I registered for a graduate course in French literature at the Washington Square campus of New York University. Conducted exclusively in French, the class met twice each week in the early evening on the ninth floor of one of the University buildings. When I mentioned to the professor that never before had I attended a class at such a lofty elevation, he quipped in French, "Eh bien, donc cette classe sera pour vous une experience insolete de la haute pedagogie." (Then this class will be for you a new experience in higher education.") After class, I would walk to the R. K. 0. Jefferson, arriving there in time to begin my eleven o'clock shift. I worked hard at the class assignments which consisted of extensive reading of French novels and poetry in the original language. I didn't mind the outside reading, since it took my mind off the problems facing me, but I did not enjoy the time spent in the classroom. The lectures given by the research-minded professor were just plain dull, and except for his first night answer to me about "higher Education," I never saw any evidence that he had a sense of humor.
Gradually, all my efforts were beginning to have less and less meaning. Discouragement and pessimism about my situation were growing. Carol was not there, and I was not making any progress toward goals I had set for myself before I came to New York. I was almost in depression -- a condition I had never experienced, and I did not know what to do about it. During the latter part of November and early December I began seriously to think about leaving the city - to go where, I was not sure. What had been for me earlier the magic city of opportunity, New York was now a valley of despair.
To make things worse, the ushering job was fast becoming unbearable -- not because of the work itself or even the midnight shift, but mostly because of the stupid bureaucracy I had to put up with almost daily. For example, early one rainy morning -- about half-way through my shift -- a well-dressed and articulate woman came to the first balcony of the theatre where I was stationed and asked me if I had seen a ladies' red umbrella with a black onyx handle, adding she felt sure she had left it under the seat an hour or two earlier. I was happy to tell her I had found such an umbrella and had taken it to the lost-and-found room. I then said if she would wait there in the balcony I would get it and bring it back to her immediately.
With that, I went to the lost-and-found room and searched carefully for that umbrella which I personally had taken there a short time before. But it was nowhere to be found. It was just not there. When I came back and reported this bad news to her, she was understandably upset, reminding me emphatically that I had specifically told her before I left that I had found it and put it in the lost-and-found room. I readily admitted I had said just that but repeated that now I could not find it. "M'am, I'm very sorry," I said to her in my customary southern style of addressing ladies. "Don't you 'm'am' me, I'm not much older than you are," she replied angrily. "I demand to see your 'superior'."
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