Arrival
On the second of September 1992, I drove to Manhattan in my dark blue Pontiac Parisienne. It was a big-boned, handsome car with a cushioned velour interior. It was like driving a living room, and I felt capable of crushing most other cars. It had one hundred and fifty thousand miles and was dear to me. I had inherited it from my father when he died in 1984.
I arrived at Ninety-third Street around noon and I was able to park in front of the building. I buzzed Mr. Harrison from the vestibule, but there was no response. I felt a cold panic. I had called him the night before. He had said he would be home. I was frightened that he was up there and had changed his mind. I had been lured into New York; a horrible trick had been played.
I took several deep breaths and calmed myself. I hoped that he was out or that the buzzer was broken, and I went to the corner and called him from the pay phone. After several rings, he answered, “H. Harrison.” I could hear loud music—a show tune—in the background.
“It’s Louis. I’m at the corner, Mr. Harrison,” I said.
“Who?”
“Louis—”
“Let me turn off the music … I’m in the middle of my dance.” The music stopped. He hadn’t heard the buzzer. “Who’s calling?”
“Louis, your new roommate—”
“Where are you? Broken down on the New Jersey Turnpike?”
“I’m at the corner.”
“Oh, you’re here. Good. I thought you might not show up … Do you need help with your bags? I can get Gershon downstairs to help you.”
“Gershon?”
“He’s someone who carries heavy things for me.”
“Oh … I don’t need any help,” I said.
I unloaded my car—I had very little with me—and in just a few trips I carried up my belongings. I was struck again by the strong smell of sweat and cologne in the apartment. I had liked it when I interviewed for the room, but now my mind was registering doubts and fears. Would I take on this smell, like living with a smoker? And the apartment seemed even smaller and more cluttered than I remembered. And
