Eli's Coming

MANDRAPILIAS

A surname commonly found in Sparta, Greece.

Meaning ’made of stone.’

I could try to weave this tale so you’d like me better. Say I was young and naïve, and the big bad wolf seduced me. But that’s not what happened. Not really. Even when I was too young to know it, I was always looking for the next scam. When the wolf came knocking on my door, I could hardly wait to let him in.

I had just arrived in the legendary Big Apple for a two-week getaway, a postponed twenty-first birthday gift to myself, before the start of my senior year of college in 1978. Even on my meager student budget, I would have enough money for a fun visit — meals, museums, and party supplies. Taking in the hustle and bustle, invigorated by the heartbeat of the city, passing buses advertised the latest in entertainment. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was playing on Broadway, a sweet callback to home.

Closing the folding phone booth doors gave me a buffer from the free form Midtown symphony. It was one of the last of its kind, as Ma Bell was replacing them with the open, stand-alone design. I caught my reflection in the glass, never comfortable with my Greek features, especially my large nose and thick lips.

Just like Dad.

I would have preferred to have a little button nose like the other kids, along with a simple one- or two-syllable last name. Smith. Allen. Not five: Man-dra-pi-li-as.

I dialed the number. The phone started to ring. It continued ringing.

I can try again later…

“Hello?” a commanding voice answered.

“Trey? Hey, my name’s Louie. I’m on vacation from Houston. Ian gave me your number.” Ian, the man I was currently having an affair with, was a successful art dealer, cultured and almost forty. I had no idea who was on the other end of the line—a stuffy colleague from the world of antiques? Maybe he could tell me which chichi bars to check out, suggest an offbeat gallery exhibit.

There was a long pause. Digging my finger in the coin return looking for change, I heard his deep voice again. “Ian?”

“Meckler. Listen, it’s my first time in New York City,” looking out, itching to explore this new world. “You think we could meet for a drink?”

“How long will you be here?”

“Couple of weeks.” He didn’t seem interested. “Ian said you might be able to show me a good time.”

Jesus. That’s pretty forward.

There was another awkward pause. “Why don’t we meet at the entrance of the West Side Y on West Sixty-fourth?”

“The YMCA?” I wanted to be sure I understood him.

“Off the corner of Central Park West. Say two o’clock?”

Excellent.

“Cool. I’ll see you then.”

I checked the time on my Casio watch, then searched through T-shirts and clean drawers in my small red backpack. There it was—my folded map. Studying the grid system of Manhattan, I charted my course.

August. I hated the heat, muggy as only New York in August can be. And the noise, millions of people headed in every direction, the sounds and smells of everything sizzling in the summer heat. It was a concrete frying pan. The collar of my white Izod tennis shirt was already sticking to my neck. But I was overwhelmed with excitement, a world away from my sleepy Louisiana hometown of Shreveport, determined to enjoy every moment of the next fourteen days.

Zigzagging a bit, I was soon walking up 5th Avenue. That 5th Avenue, the one I’d seen in so many movies and television shows. Home to the crème de la crème. Lord & Taylor. Saks. In between the haute establishments was a cheap, overstocked electronics shop, its speakers blaring out the title song from Saturday Night Fever. It had been a year since the seismic hit movie cemented disco’s popularity on dance floors around the world.

“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk…”

Caught up in the lyrics, their high-pitched falsettos, the pulsing rhythm, I began imitating Travolta’s strut.

New York City, I’m here!

Lost in music, I didn’t see the flashing DON’T WALK sign, walking right into the intersection. An oncoming big yellow Marathon taxi slammed its brakes, screeching to a halt. My open palms pressed against the searing heat of the hood as if I could have stopped two tons of steel from crushing me. The sweaty driver hit his horn, blaring at me. The dented chrome bumper had missed my knees by inches. “Fuckin’ idiot,” he shouted out of his open window, “you’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Other cars joined in, honking their horns in a deafening chorus. I felt like a clueless bumpkin, embarrassing myself on my first outing, running out of the intersection and into the shadow of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Had the angels just helped me cheat death? It wouldn’t be the last time.

Stepping off the curb, I came face to face with another landmark. There it was. Cartier.

Maybe they’ve got one in the window.

A Tank watch. Oh man, how I wanted one. The simple rectangular, yellow gold casing and black leather strap. The blue-steel sword-shaped hands against the Roman numerals. So elegant. It was a status symbol worn by every celebrity and even a few friends of friends back in the Oil City.

One day, I’m gonna have one of those.

I stayed on course, taking in the free street entertainment and saw Bergdorf’s fabulous windows. My eyes darted about, the detailed layers mixed with avant-garde fashions, blown away by the explosion of creativity.

I wonder who you need to know to get a job like that?

Only in town a few hours, I was already projecting into the future.

Continuing north across East 58th was the Plaza Hotel. So imposing, so stately. Well-groomed bellmen assisted travelers with their luggage from all corners of the globe. The building wrapped around the block and faced out to the park—Central Park.

I stayed on the outskirts of the low stone-walled preserve. It seemed too grand to enter. Perhaps I would get lost, even though I had no idea how immense it really was. I had to stop at the confusing intersection of tangled arteries at Columbus Circle near the Gulf and Western Building.

God, too many cars. This is a deathtrap. Which way should I go?

Not wanting to repeat my earlier mistake, I double-checked every thruway before crossing. A long black limousine stopped and someone, a mogul maybe, getting out with a couple of beautiful women in chic wrap dresses. Looking down to check out their shoes, I caught a glimpse of a large rat peeking out of a gutter. What other horrors were hiding beneath the surface?

Walking up Central Park West, I knew I was getting close by the trail of male gym goers wearing dancers’ socks and tight wife-beaters drenched in sweat. Back home at the Houston YMCA, everyone looked so nice and neat and vanilla in their gym-supplied white uniforms. Not here. Everything was real, every flavor, every combination, all the toppings.

Looking up at the West 64th Street sign, I turned the corner.

Man. Is that him?