[This is an actual letter (with a couple of minor excisions) written when I was nineteen. All the events actually happened. Click back for an earlier entry which gives you a little background.]

Dear Mom and Dad

Greetings from your darling daughter. Do you happen to have your most recent phone bill? Good. Get it out. Find July 27. Do you see a call from Brooklyn to Manhattan? You weren�t even in New York on July 27, you say? Before you panic and call the phone company and tear up your credit card, let me explain this call.

I had my day off on Monday last week because of a scheduling conflict with my usual Saturday. Because of the change, I was able to join in on an expedition to New York that a bunch of the teachers had planned a couple of weeks ago. Bright and early after breakfast, seven of us squished into a rather small car driven by Joe L., a very nice trumpet player who pumps weights for two hours a day, always wears the right clothes, and looks rather like a Ken doll � right down to the plastic hair. It was a bit painful sitting four in a backseat for the three hour trip to New York, but we survived.

I spent the day with Joanne, a flute teacher at the camp. We had lunch at a little restaurant in Chinatown where they made a mean cashew chicken, covered the peeling paint with a collage of newspaper, and didn�t speak any English at all. Then we took the subway to Rockefeller Center. This was about the only portion of the day that was uneventful and we were very amazed at how neat and relatively clean the subway was. People were also incredibly nice and helpful in showing us how to get to where we wanted to go.

Upon arriving in the shopping district, we headed for Saks. Although it was far too beautiful a day to shop, both of us had had our bathing suits dissolve on us in a pool, thanks to one of the less successful attempts at chlorine-free algae management. Yes, I am now the proud owner of a transparent bathing suit..

After our brief shopping excursion, we headed back outside. Joanne had never been to New York so I took her over to Rockefeller Center proper and we bought frozen lemonade, put on our shades so we could look appropriately cool, and watched all the tourists point and all the New Yorkers laugh at them. The whole ice rink was full of caf� tables and umbrellas and beautiful flowers. After we had sat in the sun long enough, we walked down 5th Avenue to Central Park. We meandered around, finding the dead ice rink (a mere cement basin), carousel, chess and checkers house, and the nature sanctuary. Then we sacked out on the grass in front of the Henry Moore sculpture across from the Plaza Hotel, finished our Chinese lunch for dinner, and watched people again. An Asian couple was getting married on the cement entrance to the Park by the Plaza. We had a perfect view.

After a while, we walked in search of a cinema in which to cool off � in vain, unfortunately. So instead I took Joanne to the Trump Tower, after which she wanted to stop in Bloomingdales.

Now here is where the real adventure begins. We were supposed to meet Joe, Queta (a counselor from Spain) and Nancy (a violin teacher from Britain) at a bar called Rick�s Lounge on 8th Avenue between 19th and 20th streets in Brooklyn, or so we assumed since Joe had spent so much time talking about Brooklyn, where he lives. We were meeting up to head to Joe�s house where we were going to spend the night. If we didn�t show by 11, they were to assume we had found another place to stay (I had been trying to reach a friend of mine, but unsuccessfully).

We found a subway to Brooklyn. There was a fire on the track we wanted, so we had to go backwards, transfer, and then head to our destination. An hour and a half later, we got off in Brooklyn and came up. It was then 10:15 p.m. and we realized we were nnot in the greatest of neighborhoods. This deduction was reached by observing the number of strange people lying on the sidewalks. We decided to walk very fast � past gangs of surly teens, junkies, an old graveyard, a row of warehouses, mangy dogs, families � elders sitting on their front stoops, fanning themselves against the summer heat and listening to the Mets game on a transistor radio while kids played and shouted in the streets, past broken street lights.

We finally arrived at 8th Avenue between 19th and 20th streets � a bunch of dilapidated houses that looked as if they would have toppled over if you breathed too hard. And we were breathing hard after our brisk walk. The address was definitely not right. We headed for a gas station we�d passed earlier � closed. We tried to call information on the pay phone, but the line kept going dead when I�d start to talk. Our last change was gone. Down the street I spotted some neon lights, so we headed for them � The Three Star Saloon.

It was a hometown type bar � very different from the surrounding neighborhood � small and dark, not rich-looking, but very clean and obviously well cared for. There was one table in the corner, but no chairs. All the regulars were on the barstools. Video games flashed and beeped in one corner. Johnny Carson was telling bad jokes on a small color TV mounted above one end of the bar. All the bottles stood in neatly arranged rows behind the counter.

Sitting at the bar were four or five men. One very Italian looking man in a suit and tie, hat on the counter, was drinking what looked like bourbon. The others, also quite Italian-looking, were in various stages of casual attire with drinks to match. The bartender, a woman of about fifty, stood stalwartly behind the barin a blue �Three Star Saloon� T-shirt and a red and white apron checked like the tablecloths in Italian restaurants.

Joanne and I walked in a bit nervously and flopped down on two empty stools, exhausted, frustrated, and worried that we had no place to go until 6 a.m., the arranged meeting time for the return trip to camp. We were talking about being lost. The men at the bar started joking around, but the proprietor glared at them and told them to stop. They did immediately, looking cowed. She came over to us and tried to help us figure out where we were. She loaned me a quarter to phone information.

First, before I called, we sat and rested. Joanne was sipping rather sedately on a gin and tonic while I downed about eight glasses of water and tried to figure out what to do next. The guy next to me � in a faded blue T-shirt � was talking to the man next to him � the one in the suit. The man in the T-shirt started swearing about something: ��I asked him, �What the fuck do you think you�re doing?��

The proprietor in her checked apron was livid. �Vinny, you watch your language. There are young ladies here!�

�I�m sorry, Cathy, I�� He really looked incredibly humble, but Cathy wouldn�t let him go.

�Watch your mouth around here. I run a clean establishment.�

�Aw, come on, Cathy! I didn�t mean��

Cathy cut him off. �I don�t care what you meant. Don�t say things like that in here, or you won�t be coming back!�

�Sorry, Cathy. I didn�t mean it! I�m sorry!� He turned to sulk in his drink while Cathy grabbed a twoel and began vigorously scrubbing the counter.

I got up and called Brooklyn information � no luck. I called Manhattan information � Aha! A number for Rick�s Lounge! Unfortunately, the pay phone ate the quarter Cathy had given me. So I charged the next call to you

�Rick�s Lounge,� � bar noise in the background. I could hear people talking and laughing and a jazz combo playing.

�Hi, uh, is there a customer named Joe L. there, by any chance?� I could hear my voice squeaking from my by now frazzled nerves. It was nearly 11:30 � well passed the agreed meeting time.

�Just a minute.� The voice on the line grunted. Actually, it sounded more like, �Shminute.� In the background I heard him shout, �Joe! Is there a Joe here?�

He came back on the line. �Nope.�

It sounded dismally final, like he was having a busy night and wouldn�t be bothered. But I wasn�t about to give up.

�Are you sure?�

�I just called his name, didn�t I?� -- mild irritation.

�Are you really positive? It�s kind of an emergency.� Then I decided to try a new tack.

�Do you see anyone with perfect dark brown hair who looks like a body builder or a suntan lotion model?�

Joe was on the line within three seconds. I was so relieved, I could hardly explain that it was 11:30 p.m. and we were in Brooklyn. Joe reassured me that they would wait and gave me directions to the bar. I hung up the phone and came back through the beaded curtain that separated the phone from the bar.

Cathy checked the directions forwards and backwards to make sure they were correct. Then she started to untie her apron.

�Vince, will you watch the bar for me for a while? I�m going to drive these two girls down to the subway station.�

�Sure thing,� said Vince.

We both protested, saying that it was too much trouble. It was, too, for someone who wouldn�t even let us pay for our drinks. We had to hide a ten dollar bill under the ashtray.

She said, �No, I�ve got two girls of my own. I would want someone to do the same for them if they was lost.� The first subway station she took us to was closed, so she drove us even further to the next one. Before she left us, she went over the directions with us one more time. We thanked her profusely and said our goodbyes.

We descended once more into underground New York. We stopped at the ticket window, bought our tokens and double-checked which train to take (Cathy had made us promise to do that). We put our tokens in the slot and walked thorough the turnstile. It was an old station, so the turnstile was wooden, painted yellow (the paint flecks were impossible to remove from your clothes) and led straight onto the platform.

The train finally came and we got on. The walls were covered with multi-colored graffiti. It clicked along, grinding at every curve of the track. Every now and then the lights would blink off and then on again. We got off and transferred to the number 2 train. This took a great deal of effort. First, we found ourselves on the track going the wrong way. Then, when we found the right track, there were no trains. It was unbearably hot. When the train finally came, we got on it and left the station, only to hear them announce that they had decided to switch tracks midway. This was naturally announced after we had already left the station. We got off at the next station and finally got on the right train.

We were sitting across from an African-American guy, about my age, I�d guess, with a peroxided punk haircut. He was holding a Walkman and a girl, who was leaning on his shoulder. She had headphones on, her head bobbing to the music she was evidently listening to.

She took off the headphones. �That was really hot. Was that you singing?�

The guy looked at the floor and kicked a piece of dried up chewing gum with his toe, smiling out of the corner of his mouth.

�Yeah.� He looked up. �You like it? You really like it?�

�Yeah. Know what I think? I think you guys gonna be famous.�

�Nahh!� He looked at the floor again. You could tell he was really pleased. �We�re making a record now.�

�No kidding?

At this point the doors opened at a stop and a very tall, think black man with tall, greay hair wearing shredded, dirty, denim pants and jacket got on. He climbed on the seat next to me and lay down with his head on the edge of my lap. I moved over and practiacally knocked Joanne into the aisle. The couple on the seat across the aisle moved over and motioned us to move there, which we gratefully did. The guy with the punk hair shouted at the guy lying down.

�Hey, watcha think y�all doin�, huh? You know you scared that lady, brother? Watcha doin� lying down on the subway? That ain�t cool, bro!�

The guy snorted and blew his nose on his sleeve. The punk guy kept talking, asking the tall guy about his existence, philosophies, etc. �You like it, I�ll bet.� He said.

�Yeah.�

�You choose to be down here.�

�Yeah.�

�You been in prison?�

So the guy rattled off how he�d just finished an eight year sentence for assault and battery. It hadn�t been his first offense. We got to hear his whole prison record � drugs, mainly. The guy with the punk hair started to tell him how, �drugs ain�t cool, man,� when at the next stop a gang of guys in bandanas and tight T-shirts got on and started poking fun at the guy lying down and swearing at him. They strutted down to the other end of the car and began hurling each other amicably into the metal poles in the middle of the aisle.

Finally, our stop arrived and we got off and walked several blocks past scores of tofu bars, yoga ads before arriving at Rick�s, where I was promptly served a margarita, which arrived with three plastic mermaids and a yellow paper parasol in it. I downed it like water.

Joe, Nancy, Queta and Joe�s friend Mark were waiting for us. After relating our adventures, stretching our tired feet and finishing another round of drinks and a basket of corn chips, we drove back to Brooklyn to stay at Mark�s apartment. I ended up sleeping on half a king-sized water bed with peach satin sheets and mirrors on the ceiling, but I was too exhausted and drunk to care. We only slept for a couple of hours anyway. At 5:30 a.m. we piled back into the car to start the long drive back to camp where I arrived just in time to teach my creative writing class. This was one day where I was at no loss for material.

[By the way, my parents attempted to contact Cathy at the Three-star saloon to thank her shortly after I sent this letter. There was no establishment by that name listed anywhere in Brooklyn, which would have made me wonder if I�d imagined the whole evening if I didn't still have the three plastic mermaids.]

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