Escape to Manhattan: Five

My plane touched down in Minneapolis late Sunday night. That afternoon I’d had one last lunch with Christian in Central Park and we’d spent the day lazily reading The New York Times and walking through the city, eating hot dogs from street vendors and snapping pictures on my disposable camera.

Seeing Minneapolis unfold below me from the airplane window felt comforting. Sure, the gnawing reality of college and my ordinary responsibilities started to creep back, but somehow they didn’t feel debilitating like they had before. Now it seemed manageable, like something to be endured and finished up.

I made my way through the Minneapolis airport, collected my bags from the luggage carousel, and walked out onto the street. My best friend, Dylan, waited curbside in his black Saturn with his hazard lights flashing. When he saw me he started honking and waving. He got out of the front seat and rushed around the side of the car to hug me.

“So, how was it?” Dylan asked. He popped the trunk and helped me toss my things into the back of his car.

I sighed and smiled. “Dylan, it was amazing.”

“I want you to tell me everything about it. Don’t leave a goddamn thing out,” he said.

We got into the car, buckled up, and sped onto the highway. As we merged onto I-494 heading home I told him everything I could think of as we zoomed back into the city.

At last I was home. But I knew it wouldn't be for long.

* * *

I returned to the daily grind of college life. The semester finished much quicker than I had imagined, culminating in a flurry of exams and lengthy term papers. I spent hours holed up in the basement of Wilson Library, my fingers virtually attached to my laptop and eyes glued to heavy, dusty textbooks. But when the semester finished a few days before Christmas I felt a momentous sense of relief.

I made the trek back to the suburbs for a few days to celebrate Christmas with my family. It was hard to leave the city and my fabulous little one-bedroom apartment, but it was also really good to see my mom and dad and little sister.

Since I’d been back from New York I had spent many afternoons in class daydreaming about Fifth Avenue and Washington Square Park or the Metropolitan Museum and Times Square. I wanted to have one more drink at Therapy with Christian and take one more walk through Central Park on a Sunday morning or stop for a huge oversized slice of New York pizza after seeing a Broadway show. The photos from my trip not only played randomly on the desktop of my computer but also in the back of my mind.

On Christmas Eve I opened presents with my family and watched yet another screening of “It’s a Beautiful Life.” Long after my little sister had tucked into bed, with my parents following suit soon after, my cell phone rang.

It was Christian.

“Hey kiddo,” he said. “How’s Minneapolis?”

“Well, you know, it’s as good as Minneapolis gets. And how’s my darling New York City doing?”

“It’s quiet. Snow is falling. It’s crunchy, light snow, sort of like feathers falling from the sky.”

I sighed. “God, I’d give anything to be back there.”

Christian laughed. “Well, honey, I may just have your ticket.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“I had a little conference with my roommates tonight and found out that they’re both going to be moving out at the end of May,” he said. “Shane is moving in with Pam and then Kathryn is moving back home. So that leaves me with a three bedroom apartment and no roommates.”

My heart started racing. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Christian said. “I’m asking if you want to come and live with me in New York.”

I screamed with laughter and then immediately clapped my hands over my mouth, remembering my sleeping sister and parents.

“Christian, of course I’ll move to New York! Of course, of course!”

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

That night Santa Claus didn’t have to bring me anything. I already had New York.

* * *

Dylan had been my best friend since my freshman year of college. We met on campus when we both ended up on a task force to organize a Lawrence v. Texas debate on campus. The debate was a huge hit, but more importantly Dylan and I hit it off right away and became fast friends. We bonded over screenings of old Hollywood flicks, a secret love of pop culture, and fascination with politics and activism. I’d never had a brother but meeting Dylan sort of felt like meeting my long lost sibling.

It was with that in mind that I found myself driving my parents’ Jeep Cherokee to Dylan’s apartment after midnight on Christmas. I called him as I drove over.

“Dylan, it’s Jordan,” I said. “I’m coming over.”

“What? Why? Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said, “something is right.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain when I get there,” I said, hanging up.

I jammed the Jeep into a tiny parallel parking space on Nineteenth Street and bound up the stairs to Dylan’s apartment. I knocked on the door and heard Dylan unchain the door. He stood there in a shirt and tie, probably freshly back from Christmas Dinner at his mom’s house, looking a bit confused.

“Dylan, what are you doing after graduation?” I asked, still standing in the hallway.

“Jordan, did you really come over here at 1 a.m. on Christmas to ask me that?”

I walked past him and into his warm apartment. I took off my shoes and made a beeline for his couch. Dylan narrowed his eyes and sat down on the couch across from me.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Dylan asked.

“Christian called me last night and told me that his roommates are moving out of his apartment in June.” I let that information sink in and then continued. “He’s got two open bedrooms in an apartment on the Upper East Side, just begging to be filled.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “So what are you saying?”

I leaned forward. “Dylan, do you want to move to New York after we graduate?”

Dylan closed his eyes and laughed. “Oh my God. Uhm, let me think for a minute.”

“No, don’t think!” I said, leaning forward even further. “Let’s just do it! I mean, what the fuck are we doing after graduation, anyway? I’ve got a goddamn degree in English and you’ve got a degree in art history. What the fuck are we supposed to do with those? And if we can’t do anything with it here, then let’s do nothing with it in New York City!” I stood up and started pacing around the living room. “Dylan, we could so do it.”

“Jordan, what would we do for money? For jobs? I mean, you can’t just—”

“But you can!” I said. “We could be cater waiters or get temp jobs or serve tables until we figure something out. We’ve both got talents and we could just take some shit jobs until we figure out what we want to do there.”

“Could we make enough money to survive?” Dylan asked, still looking pensive.

I shrugged. “Christian and his roommates are doing it. Why can’t we?”

Finally a slow, lazy smile spread across Dylan’s face. “Do you really think we could do it? I mean, is this a real thing?”

“Dylan,” I said, “I don’t think there’s ever been something more real in my entire life.”

Dylan nodded. He looked up at me. I’d been pacing around the living room but now I stopped in my tracks, imploring him to say something.

“Well,” Dylan said, “let’s fucking do it. Let’s move to New York.”

* * *

Going back to school for your last semester is so much easier when you know that you’re working toward something. Dylan and I had a purpose and a goal, something to work toward. Not a day went by when we didn’t talk about New York on the phone, endlessly imagining what it’d be like, what we’d do for jobs, what we might one day make of ourselves in one of the greatest cities in the world.

I’d made the dumb mistake of taking all my last hard classes in the fall, but that meant for the spring that I had nothing but fluff classes left. In fact, I only had classes three times a week, and even then one was in film study, one was in photography, another was a contemporary fiction class (i.e. read a novel and write a book report), and a class on the history of jazz. Not too shabby for a last semester.

Dylan and I started working double shifts at the restaurant downtown where we both worked and saved piles and piles of cash. We stopped buying almost anything and instead saved everything, knowing that we’d need every penny we could to make it in Manhattan.

It was worth it. Especially when May finally came.

* * *

My mom hugged me as we stood next to the U-Haul. Dylan and I had packed it to the roof with all of our things. We’d already said goodbye to Dylan’s mom and dad and now it was my turn to say my goodbyes.

“Oh God, I love you,” my mom said, hugging me with a ferocity I couldn’t remember feeling in years. It felt like I was heading off to the first day of school or something, except that Manhattan would be a much, much bigger school, and one without defined subjects and grading.

“Mom, you’re coming out for the Fourth of July,” I said. “It won’t be that long.”

My mom released me from her tight hug. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. She was fighting them valiantly, but it was a losing battle. She looked at Dylan and then at me. “I want you boys to drive safely. And if you get tired you have to promise me that you’ll pull over and take a nap.”

Dylan and I promised. Then my mom hugged me again. Her knuckles whitened with the force of the hug.

“Mom, I’m not leaving forever,” I whispered.

When I spoke the last of her resolve faded. She started crying. “But I feel like you are,” she said. “I mean, Jordan, really, are you ever going to come back here?” she asked, gesturing to our quiet suburban neighborhood. A tear meandered down her cheek and she brushed it off. Then she smiled. “Oh, baby, I know you’re not coming back.” She gripped my shoulder and brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m so proud of you, Jordan.”

Tears started welling up in my eyes. “I’ll call you when I get there,” I said, feeling a tight knot forming at the back of my throat. My mom nodded and said nothing, probably afraid she wouldn’t be able to finish her sentence.

Dylan crawled into the driver’s seat of the U-Haul and turned the key in the ignition. The big diesel engine fired up and I buckled my seat belt. My mom stood on the curb in front of our house and waved as Dylan and I drove off, heading east to New York.

* * *

Just before sunset the next day we reached New York. Dylan had been napping but when I saw the bridge into New York and the city skyline unfold in front of me I tapped Dylan.

“Dylan, wake up! We’re here!”

Dylan’s eyes popped open. “Oh my God,” he said. “I can’t believe it!”

We laughed like two crazy guys who’d just won the lottery.

As the sun made its descent behind the skyline of Manhattan we pulled into the city and into our brand new lives.

* * *
THE END
* * *

Josh H., 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer.

"I've really enjoyed writing the 'Escape to Manhattan' series. I want to thank all of you who've been reading since the beginning. Your comments and e-mails have been so wonderful. You all rock! I hope each of you has the chance to go to New York sometime soon and fall in love with the city. It's truly one of my favorite places."

Josh H. can be reached at joshcentral@hotmail.com

(c)2005 Josh and Josh Holdings
All rights reserved.

Escape to Manhattan: Four

After Braden left the apartment Christian told me that he was going to Todd’s for the evening. It took all of us quite a while to calm down after Braden had shown up out of nowhere and started a fight with Nick, but once we’d calmed down a bit Christian and Todd left the apartment looking happy and holding hands.

I felt bad for Nick because it was my fault the whole fight had happened in the first place. What was I doing wandering around the city with a strange guy and stealing kisses under the neon lights of Times Square?

“I feel really bad about what happened,” Nick said, his hands in his pockets. He shuffled his feet. “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. It’s just that, you know, I saw him push you and I saw your head slam into the wall and I just—I guess I got protective. I don’t know. I swear that it’s not normal for me or anything like that. I don’t go around starting fights.”

I held the ice pack to my head. My head was throbbing, even after the four Excedrin. The bottle had said to take two and I figured it was going to take twice that much to take care of the headache.

“I don’t want you to think that Braden is really that kind of guy, either,” I told Nick. “I think he was just probably really stressed out after taking a red eye to get here to see me and he’s been paranoid about Christian anyway because Christian and I were boyfriends ages ago.” I shook my head. “And I was really shitty to Braden the other day on the phone. He was really paranoid about Christian and for whatever reason it just rubbed me the wrong way and I just kind of chewed him out on the phone. Then I topped that all off by walking through the door of the apartment holding your hand after he came all the way to see me when I didn’t call him after what happened to me—I mean, I can start to understand why he did what he did tonight.”

Nick leaned up against the countertop. “Do you love him?”

I looked out the window. “You know, I don’t know.” I sighed. “I really don’t know right now. It’s just such a crazy time in my life right now.”

“What do you mean?” Nick asked gently.

“I mean that I’m in my last year of college, I don’t want to do get a job that has anything to do with my major, I’ve got this relationship where I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going, and I’ve got all these classes that are driving me nuts.” I folded my arms. “I’m just really maxed out, I guess. I’m having a little quarter life crisis, I think.”

“And I’m part of that,” Nick said with a grin.

“Nick, I feel really bad about this. You’ve been nothing but sweet and adorable and polite.”

“Aw, anybody can be polite for a night,” he said. “Especially with you.” He walked across the kitchen and stood near me. He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Who knows, though. I could actually be a brutal serial killer considering what you saw tonight.”

If I hadn’t been feeling so shitty I probably would have laughed.

“Nick, I think I have to find Braden. I think I owe him that.”

Nick nodded. “Okay. Would you like me to help you call around and see if he checked into a hospital somewhere?”

I shook my head. “You’ve been so good to me, Nick. Tonight was unforgettable, really. But at the same time I’ve got all this craziness going on and—”

“Shhh,” Nick said. He put his hands on both of my shoulders. He gave me a peck on my lips and then looked at me. “You’re a good guy, Jordan. You’ve got my number. Why don’t you take care of all this business you need to take care of and then give me a call sometime. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

I guided Nick out the door and watched him trod down the stairs before I went back into the apartment and called information on my cell phone to start calling hospitals to see if my boyfriend had checked in anywhere.

* * *

I wrote down all the numbers of the hospitals on the back of a Chinese takeout menu. I started methodically calling each hospital and gave them all the information about my boyfriend that I could. Unless Braden had checked in somewhere under a fake name it appeared that he hadn’t been to a hospital.

On a whim I decided to try calling Braden’s cell phone. I was shocked when he answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

He sounded like he had a bad head cold and I felt bad right away. “Braden, it’s me,” I said.

Braden let out a long breath. “Hi.”

A long pause stretched between us. “Braden, I was wondering if I could see you. I was wondering if, uhm, if we could talk. Or something.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said slowly.

“Braden, where are you?” I asked calmly.

There was another long pause. “I’m sitting on the stoop across the street.”

I ran to the window. Sure enough, there he was.

“I’m coming down,” I said. I hung up the phone, grabbed the keys and ran out the door.

The evening air was much cooler. I shivered as I ran across 103rd Street to where Braden sat at the top of the ornate stoop leading up to a gentrified old brick apartment building. I stood in front of him with my arms folded tightly around me.

“Can I sit down?” I asked.

Braden gestured to the empty stoop near him. “Sit, by all means,” he said. He dabbed at his nose with the wad of tissues I’d given him.

“Are you okay?” I asked, genuinely concerned about him.

“Yeah. I snapped my nose back in place.”

My stomach churned. “Jesus, Braden.”

He shrugged. “My dad taught me to do it when I was a kid. I used to play baseball and I broke my nose a couple times.”

“I’d forgotten that you played baseball,” I said quietly, looking at the cars parked along the street and the street lamps bathing the sidewalks in light. Another breeze washed over me and I shivered.

“Well, I wasn’t very good at it,” Braden said. “That’s why I kept breaking my fucking nose.”

Again we sat in silence.

“Braden, I’m really sorry,” I started.

“No, Jordan, we don’t need to do this. I know you’re sorry, I’m saying I’m sorry now, and I think we should just leave it at that. Don’t you?”

I looked at him, hunched over with the tissues, looking miserable and in pain, defeated.

“Braden, you do know that I love you, right?” When I said it I knew that it was true. He nodded slowly. “But Braden,” I said, “I just…I just wonder if we’re what the other person is looking for.” I folded my hands in my lap. “I feel like we’ve been drifting apart for a while now. I mean, you’ve graduated and you’ve moved on and you’ve got a job now and you’re making money and you’ve got nice benefits and a great apartment.” I shook my head. “I’m graduating and I have no idea what I want to do and I have this whole huge future ahead of me and all these things that I don’t feel like I’ve been considering for myself.” I looked at the street in front of me. “Look at this place. New York City. I could be a part of this. I could move here. I don’t have a job, I don’t have benefits, and my lease is up right after graduation.” I sighed. “I just feel like there’s such a big world out there and I don’t feel like I’m ready to settle down yet.”

Braden looked at me, still obviously in pain from his injury. “And what if I wanted to move with you maybe? What if we made this thing between us more serious and took it to the next level?”

I looked at my hands. “Braden, you like your job. You’re good at it. You’re establishing yourself, you know? And I think that maybe I need to establish myself by myself.” I tentatively reached out and rested my hand on Braden’s leg and he let me keep it there. “Do you really think that moving in together is the right thing for both of us right now?”

Braden took in a long breath and let it out. “Well, do you think that guy you were with tonight is the right answer?”

“Who, Nick? God, Braden, I don’t know. I certainly don’t have any plans to shack up with him and start a life. Nothing like that. I think I just need to be alone right now. I have this huge future ahead of me and I need to figure out how I want that to look and feel and what I want in it.”

Braden nodded. “I guess that kind of finishes it then, doesn’t it?”

“Oh Braden, don’t say it like that. You know it’s not like that.”

He shrugged. “It is and it isn’t.”

I pulled the apartment keys out of my pocket.

“Braden, come in and spend the night.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t sleep in Christian’s apartment.”

I gave him The Look. “Braden, you’ve really got to get over that.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I would feel too guilty after causing all that drama tonight. I ruined everybody’s night.”

“Braden. Please. They’re over it. Nick went home and the other two are probably humping their brains out and imaging what kind of china they’ll register for when they get their domestic partnership.”

Braden tried to smile but then immediately groaned. “Oh God, it hurts to smile.”

I put my hand on his back. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go to bed.”

I brought Braden upstairs to Christian’s apartment and dug through the medicine cabinet to try and find something to play nurse to his wounds. Apparently New Yorkers feel the same way about their medicine cabinets as their refrigerators because Christian’s medicine cabinet had almost nothing in it. Still, I dressed Braden’s wounds as best as I could and then brought him into Shane’s bedroom (who was still in Connecticut) and helped Braden take off his pants and his shirt. I stripped down to my shirt and underwear and crawled into bed next to Braden.

It broke my heart to spoon Braden. I could feel his heartbeat as I wrapped my arms around him. I knew it would probably be the last time I ever slept with him.

As we started to drift off to sleep I thought about all the nights that I’d slept with him before. I hadn’t really thought I’d marry him and spend the rest of my life with him (though I had occasionally wondered about it), but I also didn’t think that our nights together would be over so soon, either.

I could feel Braden’s heart beating and it was the steady rhythmic beating of his heart that eventually lulled me off to sleep.

* * *

Braden left the next morning in a signature yellow New York taxi. He was headed to La Guardia to try and get a standby flight home. He hadn’t packed anything in his hurry to get here so he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a Visa in his pocket. He’d just gotten on a plane to see me after he heard about what had happened and I found that unbearably sweet. It was that last grand gesture that turned out to be the final breath of our ailing relationship.

Christian hadn’t come home and I envisioned him waking up next to a warm, smiling man. I remembered what that had felt like when Braden and I had first fallen in love and I had an incredible pang of nostalgia just thinking about it.

I walked back up the stairs to Christian’s empty Manhattan apartment. I stood in the kitchen and found an instant coffee singlet in one of the cupboards. I boiled some water in a saucepan and made a cup of steaming coffee. I opened the curtains on the kitchen window and pulled the window wide open. A blast of fall air came rushing forward and I leaned into it, sipping my coffee.

Autumn was coming to a close and the first wisps of winter crept into the tendrils of the morning breeze. I drank it all in.

When I finished my coffee I changed into a heavy sweater and a pair of old jeans and walked out onto the street.

Another day had just begun.

* * *

It is that day in New York that I remember the most. I wandered through Central Park again. I visited the Museum of Modern Art and I bought discount tickets to see a new comedy starring Gwyneth Paltrow’s mom, Blythe Danner. I sat by myself on the main floor of the theater and, as the lights went down, felt myself waiting in anticipation for the play to begin as if I’d never seen a play in my life.

I took a cab from Broadway to Barney’s where I splurged and ate a small but very expensive lunch, including a glass of pinot noir that almost knocked me off my chair. I drank the wine slowly, feeling the warm wash over me and letting the wine swill around my mouth and down my throat.

In short, the day was perfection. When I did finally return home to Christian’s apartment I found Christian and Todd sitting on the couch in the living room.

“Hey stranger,” Christian said, patting a spot next to them on the couch. I sat down and told them everything that happened with Braden.

“So is it really over, then?” Todd asked.

“I think so,” I said. Just saying the words out loud made it seem so much more final. Part of me didn’t want it to end. Being with Braden was safe, comfortable, and familiar. Striking out on my own was a scary step. Soon I’d be leaving the confines of my college and I, too, would have to find a job and hunt for benefits.

But there were possibilities. Oh how there were possibilities.

* * *

I met Nick on a bridge in Central Park with an amazing view of the apartments on the west side of the park. He was standing there waiting for me as I approached the bridge. He wore a heavy brown sweater with faded jeans and a smart wool jacket.

“Hi,” I said as I walked up to him, suddenly feeling just how much he was a stranger. I knew almost nothing about him.

“Why, hello there,” Nick said. From inside his jacket Nick presented me with a yellow rose. I laughed and took it.

“A yellow rose, huh?”

“It’s for courage. And for friendship. And hope.”

“Hope?” I asked.

“Well, you know. Hope for that distant someday.” He winked at me.

I smiled and then turned and looked across the park at the Central Park West apartments. “You know, Nick, there’s a chance I might be out here someday soon.”

“Really?” he asked.

I nodded. “Maybe after graduation. Sometime in May, maybe.”

Nick nodded. “Alright then. I think I like that.”

I laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, mister. God knows what might happen before then. I mean, look at what happened in one extended weekend.”

Nick nodded. “Well, if your plans include New York someday, I would like to think that you’d consider having a cup of coffee with me and pencil me into those grand plans of yours.”

I planted a kiss on Nick’s cheek. “It’s a deal,” I said.

I stood there on the bridge and closed my eyes. The wind could have carried me away with the gentlest breeze.

* * *

Josh H., 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer.

The final section of "Escape to Manhattan" will appear Tuesday, April 5, 2005 on this site.

If you have questions or comments you can reach Josh at joshcentral@hotmail.com

Escape to Manhattan: Three

I was really embarrassed on the ambulance ride to Mount Sinai Medical Center. I’d tried to explain that I was actually okay to the two Port Authority officers and the police officer that had been standing over me but they would hear nothing of it.

“You might have a concussion,” the police officer had said, pointing to the lump forming at the back of my head. And come to think of it, it was kind of painful. But I still wasn’t sure that the whole ambulance treatment, complete with flashing lights and roaring siren, was completely necessary.

Mount Sinai on Friday night is every bit the mess you would imagine it to be. I felt like I was stepping into a taping of “ER.” A red-haired woman with a sharp Brooklyn accent took my insurance information and immediately I started worrying what my mom would think when they contacted her and told her that I’d been brought in for treatment after a good old fashioned New York mugging.

Oh God. How cliché. A mugging? In New York? In a subway tunnel? I was bored to tears just thinking about it. More than anything I just wanted to get out of the hospital and enjoy the rest of my vacation. I also wanted my iPod, watch, and sixty bucks in cash back, but the officer who had insisted I go to the hospital had informed me that there was almost no chance of getting my stuff back.

I sighed. As I laid on a examination table with a heavy metal bib on my chest while they took x-rays of my skull I thought, ‘Well, welcome to New York.’

* * *

My mom was completely freaked out.

“Honey, are you okay? Are you alright?” God, she sounded so afraid. I held the cell phone slightly away from my head because she was so loud. “What the hell is happening out there? And why didn’t that boy take care of you?”

That boy, of course, was my friend Christian. He showed up at the hospital shortly after I got there, with a bouquet of carnations to boot, and explained that he’d gotten an on-the-spot call back at the audition and that’s why he’d been late. I tried to explain this to my mother but she wasn’t interested.

“I just can’t help thinking that if you weren’t out there visiting that boy that I wouldn’t be sitting here giving out insurance numbers to nurses who are taking care of my son after he got mugged in the subway.”

“Mom,” I said, “that boy has a name, and it’s Christian. You say ‘that boy’ as if me getting mugged has something to do with visiting Christian, and it doesn’t. Things like this happen, Mom, and they can happen in Minneapolis, too.”

I’d been out to my mom for years but she was just coming around to being cool with it in the last year or so. Apparently the mugging incident was making her have a backslide.

“Well, your friend, Braden, was very worried about you,” she said.

You see? When she says “friend” instead of “boyfriend” that means there’s a backslide going on.

“Wait, Mom? You told Braden?”

“Well, of course!”

Oh God. Now I’d have one more person to calm down.

When I hung up Christian was watching me, smiling.

“How’s Mom?” Christian asked.

“Christian, take me out for a drink,” I said. “I know the doctor said that I shouldn’t have alcohol for forty-eight hours, but I think a day like this calls for a good, stiff drink.”

* * *

The hospital released me just before eleven o’clock with a clean bill of health. The x-rays had come back normal and, other than the lumpy bump on the left side of my head where I’d crashed to the ground when I passed out, I was as good as new. Luckily the little mini-egg bump was hidden in my hair. It was sore, though, and I felt my bump throbbing as Christian and I navigated the subway tunnels. Still, I didn’t care. It felt like I’d been at the hospital for ages and getting released in time to enjoy Saturday night made me really, really happy.

I forgot the slight throbbing at the back of my head altogether when we walked out of the subway station into Times Square. When we took those last few steps out of the station and up into the Saturday night air I had to steady myself by holding onto Christian’s shoulder. A huge billboard for “Mamma Mia!” unfolded in front of me. To the right I saw rows and rows of high-definition LCD billboards flashing names like Sanyo and Sony. The sounds of people talking, walking and laughing and the sounds of cabs, of distant emergency vehicles—all of it came together in the heavy evening air and rushed into my ears, causing me to steady myself on Christian’s shoulder.

“Whoa, baby,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It’s just so much.”

Christian laughed. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going to Therapy.”

We rushed into the crush of people walking the sidewalks and Christian started taking rights and lefts and crossing streets faster than my senses could keep up with all the new sights, sounds, and smells of each different street.

“So what’s Therapy?” I asked.

“It’s a gay bar,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s not like all those bullshit gay bars you have in Minneapolis.”

I was about to argue with Christian’s assessment of Minneapolis gay bars but I was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. I didn’t recognize the phone number.

“Christian, do you know this phone number by any chance?” I asked showing him the phone number.

“No,” he said, “but the 917 area code means that it’s coming from a New York cell phone.”

I frowned and then answered the phone, wondering who it could be.

“Is this Jordan?” a male voice asked.

“It is,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Jordan, it’s Nick. From the museum this afternoon?”

Oh, right! Museum Guy. “Hi Nick. How are you?”

“Good. New York treating you okay?”

I laughed. “Nick, if only you knew.”

“Hey, are you busy tonight?” Nick asked.

“Uh, well, I’m heading to Therapy with my friend Christian. I think we’re going to have a few drinks there and then, uh, I don’t know.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Nick said. “I’m a few blocks away with some friends and we’ll come over.”

“Okay,” I said. “That sounds good.”

“And is Christian cute and single? Tell me honestly, because I might have a guy for him.”

I laughed as Christian guided me around a tight corner and Therapy came into view. “Yeah, he’s cute and single. I dated him once upon a time, so that says something, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll have to trust your judgment,” Nick said. “We’ll be right over.”

When I hung up Christian looked at me suspiciously. “Who was that?” he asked. “And why were you talking about me?”

“It’s just a guy I met this afternoon. He’s coming over with some friends. Is that okay?”

We were standing at the doors of Therapy and Christian held the door open for me. “You’re out on the town for one day and already you’ve got boys calling you and bringing their posse behind them,” Christian said.

When I stepped into Therapy I could see why Christian said it was like nothing we had in Minneapolis. It was a two-floor place with unbelievably gay and perfect lighting. The floors were hardwood, the walls were brick and all the surfaces were sleek and clean. It was properly dark enough so that everybody looked fabulous in their varying shades of gray and black clothing with the occasional pair of tight jeans thrown in.

Right away I felt out of place. Everybody was gorgeous. It wasn’t fair. There was something really clean about everybody—perfect skin, perfectly cut short hair, perfect jaw lines and tailored clothes, big white teeth, and seemingly tan skin. The bump-and-groove of a live DJ filled out the background while we scoped the place out.

On the second floor an old Bette Davis movie played on a bare wall with the sound turned down. Bette Davis was running around in a bad wig screaming about something and it was entertaining to see her mouth moving but hear nothing but the sounds of the DJ’s thump-and-bump music. The upstairs was just as packed with beautiful people as the first floor.

“Jesus,” I said to Christian over the music, “I don’t think I can compete with these people.”

“Oh please,” Christian said. “They’re going to love you because you’re new blood in their shark pool. They’ll be bumping you with their big noses and their sharp teeth in no time.”

The second floor featured something that the first floor did not, and that was shirtless drink boys who looked like they’d come straight from their Abercrombie photo shoot to the bar. I rolled my eyes at the same time that I had the urge to stick out my tongue and lick one of them. They wore low-ride jeans and shoes but their well-tanned, zero-fat, muscled chests were bared as they delivered drinks to tables and tucked tips into their pockets. There were five or six of them, each with different haircuts to make them distinguishable from the others, and in no time one of them came up to us, took our drink order, and brought them back.

Christian pointed to my drink. “What is that?”

“It’s a Cape Cod,” I said, fighting to make my voice heard over all the other voices and the pumping music.

“What’s in it?”

“Uh, just cranberry juice and vodka, I think. It’s kind of mellow but it gets the job done.”

Nick came pushing through the crowd with three friends. He smiled when he saw me and I smiled back.

“This is Todd, Alex, and Alejandro,” Nick said, introducing his friends. We shook hands and exchanged smiles and then I introduced Christian to everybody else.

“What are you drinking?” Nick asked me, resting his hand on my lower back and pulling me slightly closer to him.

“It’s a Cape Cod,” I said.

“I think I’ll get one of those, too,” Nick said.

While Nick got his drink I noticed that Alex and Alejandro had started talking with each other and staring into each other’s eyes, looking as if they were seconds away from making out. Todd, however, hadn’t taken his eyes off Christian since the moment they’d been introduced. I eavesdropped as best I could and picked up the fact that Todd was an actor who lived on the Upper West Side and I think Christian was hooked right away.

Nick reappeared with a Cape Cod of his own and then gestured to a high two-top table that had just opened up against one of the walls.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Nick said, pulling me still closer and speaking in my ear. For some reason it sent a tingle down my spine and I shivered. Nick headed for the table and I told Christian where I was going. Christian gave me a little smirk, told me that he’d find me later, and then turned his attention back to Todd.

As I walked over to the table I suddenly wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. I mean, I had a boyfriend. A boyfriend that I hadn’t called after being mugged and then going to the hospital. Oh God, he was going to be pissed that I didn’t call. But as I took another sip of my Cape Cod and watched Bette Davis on the far wall of the bar on my way to talk to Nick I felt Minneapolis and Braden and my college semester fall away behind me.

“So,” Nick said as I sat down, “tell me everything about you.”

I don’t know if it was my near concussion or the alcohol or the last remnants of stress or what, but I just started talking. A lot. And Nick listened. And when I finished I asked him to tell me everything about him, and he did. And then I listened. The Bette Davis movie finished and they put on silent episodes of “The O.C.” as one of the pretty drink boys brought us new drinks and then yet another set of new drinks. Nick never looked at the drink boys and instead kept his eyes on me.

A guy could get used to this, I thought to myself.

I looked up to see where Christian was, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Alex and Alejandro were still standing with drinks, standing even closer to each other. Just watching them made me want to kiss somebody. When I looked back at Nick I started imaging what it’d be like to kiss him and I got flushed.

“You know,” Nick said, “it’s past one o’clock. Do you want to go someplace else? We could get another drink or we could go to some trashy diner and get cheeseburgers or we could just walk around and I could give you an evening tour of New York.” Nick shrugged. “Or whatever.”

I smiled. “I think I’d like that,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We left a wad of cash on the table and then I looked for Christian again. Todd was also missing and when Nick and I realized that both of our friends were missing we started laughing.

“I bet they already left,” Nick said. “I’m sure they’re just fine,” he said with a wink.

Nick took me to a tiny pizzeria called Mickey’s where we ordered huge slices of pepperoni pizza. We ate them as Nick gave me a walking tour of Times Square. I chewed off big hunks of the hot, gooey pizza as Nick pointed at landmarks and told me about them.

We finished our pizza and most of our walking tour before Nick got brave and took my hand. I smiled and kept my hand in his.

“Come on,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

In the middle of the street there is a median where pedestrians crossing the street can stop. The lights and billboards of Times Square lit up around us and the street traffic, cars, and taxis continued to swarm past us. Nick walked me out to the middle of the street and stepped up onto the median.

“Stand right here,” he said. I did.

And then, right in the middle of the street in the center of Times Square, Nick kissed me. It was a slow kiss, a soft kiss. It was the kind of kiss that lingers, the kind that you can get lost in and the kind that you wish would never, ever end.

I was speechless.

“What would your boyfriend have to say about that?” Nick asked, smiling.

I had never said anything about having a boyfriend. “What do you mean ‘boyfriend?’” I asked, stalling for time.

“Oh, please. Boys like you have boyfriends,” Nick said.

I looked at my feet. “Let’s not talk about him,” I said. Nick leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“Why don’t we go home?” Nick asked.

We took a cab and zoomed up Fifth Avenue toward Christian’s apartment. I rested my head on his shoulder as the cab careened down the tree-lined street. We didn’t say a thing as we intertwined fingers and enjoyed the ride home.

* * *

We held hands as we climbed the flights of stairs up to Christian’s apartment. On the way up I heard loud voices coming from Christian’s apartment. I opened the door and walked in with Nick, still holding his hand.

There stood my boyfriend, Braden, red-faced and yelling at Christian. Todd was pulling on his coat, looking like he was preparing to leave. Right away I dropped Nick’s hand and swallowed. My mouth had suddenly gone completely dry. Three pairs of eyes rested solely on Nick and me.

“Well, welcome home,” Braden said, spitting sarcasm. “I see not only have you been hanging out in the city with your ex-boyfriend, but then when you get mugged you don’t call me, and then right after you get out of the hospital you have a few drinks and bring a guy home with you.” Braden’s face was contorted with white-hot anger. He did his best to keep it under control, but I could see it simmering and threatening to explode.

“You got mugged?” Nick asked. I nodded. I had left that part out.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” I whispered back.

“Wow, I’ve never known anybody who got mugged,” Nick said.

“And you,” Braden said, pointing at Nick. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Hey, buddy, just relax,” Nick said calmly.

“I will not relax, you piece of shit. You were just holding hands with my boyfriend.” Braden started to walk toward Nick. I tried not to look afraid, but I was.

“Look, what Jordan and I were doing tonight is none of your business,” Nick said, his expression giving away nothing. If he was afraid I would never have known.

Braden charged forward, pushing me out of the way and pouncing on Nick. My head slammed into the wall and I immediately saw a bright flash of light. Pain screamed through my head. From behind me I heard the sound of flesh smashing flesh and then heard a quick, sickening pop.

“Fuck!” Braden screamed. His nose was bleeding. “Fuck!”

“Oh shit,” Nick said, looking at me, breathing heavily and standing up. He had a gash across his cheek that was bleeding. “I think I broke his nose.”

Out of instinct I went to help Braden. I grabbed wads of tissue from the bathroom and walked up to Braden who was kneeling on the floor, blood gushing into his hands.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Christian said. Todd looked horrified.

“No, don’t call a fucking ambulance,” Braden said. He swiped the tissues I’d brought and held them against his nose. He slowly stood up and looked at me. “If it’s him you want, have him,” he said, nodding his head toward Nick.

Without another word Braden went to the door, opened it, and shut it quietly behind him.

I turned around to face Nick, Christian and Todd. Nobody knew what to say.

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach and looked at Nick.

What had I just done?

* * *

Josh H., 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer. He can be reached at joshcentral@hotmail.com with questions or comments.

The next part of this story will be released Sunday, March 27, 2005.

(c)2005 Josh and Josh Stories

Escape to Manhattan: Two

When I woke up Friday morning in Christian’s Manhattan apartment I smiled and then closed my eyes again. I rolled around on the futon where I’d slept and fought the urge to start giggling. I was thousands of miles away from college and all of my homework and responsibilities and I had an entire unscheduled day ahead of me.

I heard the shower going and Christian singing an old Broadway show tune over the sound of rushing water. I got out of bed and folded up the futon. A few minutes later Christian emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Morning baby,” Christian said. “Why don’t you hit the shower and then we’ll go grab some breakfast?”

“Okay,” I said. “But you know, I’d be fine if we ate breakfast here. We don’t have to go out just because I’m here or anything.”

Christian laughed. “Follow me for a minute,” he said, walking toward the kitchen and motioning for me to follow. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, his chest still beaded with moisture from the shower, and grabbed the handle. “Take a peek in here,” he said, opening the door.

I looked inside and squinted. The bulb was burned out, but I could see that the fridge contained two bottles of Pellegrino water, half of a red cabbage, and a jar of Miracle Whip.

“New Yorkers don’t use their fridges,” Christian said with a grin. “We eat out.”

I grinned and eyed the contents of the fridge. “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

It was the beginning of a day that would end in a way I would never have imagined.

* * *

The October morning was crisp and cloudless. We both wore light sweaters and messenger bags as we stepped out the front door of Christian’s apartment building and onto the street. I felt like I was in a movie as we crossed the street and traced the perimeter of Central Park on our way to breakfast.

We bought croissants and fresh squeezed orange juice at a small bakery with the tongue-in-cheek name Bake My Cake. The New York morning news played on a television in the bakery and a line of well-dressed professionals formed to grab pastries and coffee before another day of work. Stately complimentary copies of The New York Times sat on the counter next to the garish colors of the New York Post front page.

“Can we eat breakfast in the park?” I asked as we left the bakery, croissant and orange juice in hand.

“Sure,” Christian said. “I have to eat quickly and then take the subway to my audition, but we have a few minutes.”

We settled into a green park bench near one of the sparkling bodies of water in the park. The leaves, now seen during daylight, were brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow. A gentle breeze kicked up and took a few leaves off the trees and sent them drifting to the ground.

“So are you feeling a little more relaxed yet?” Christian asked. “You don’t seem like you’re a person who’s coming undone.”

I took a big bite of my warm, buttery croissant. “Christian, if you had seen me a few days ago back on campus you would have tried to get me institutionalized. It was bad.”

“Why is school making you so unhappy?” he asked. “Is it really that bad?”

I washed down my bite of croissant with some of the fresh-squeezed orange juice and thought about my answer. “You know, it’s my last year and I’m finishing up my major and I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh my God, I have no idea what I’m doing.’ And I think that scares me, you know? I made the mistake of leaving my hard classes until last, so this semester is just loading me down with work.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess I’m fine, but I just needed a big break.”

Christian finished his croissant and swigged the last of his orange juice. “Well, I hope this trip is everything you need,” he said. He opened up his messenger bag and started digging around. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yep.” Christian pulled out a pair of keys on a silver ring and handed them to me. “The bigger one gets you into the apartment building and the little one gets you into the apartment. And this,” he said, grabbing a colorful plastic-coated map, “will get you around the city. It was rather handy when I first moved here.”

“Oh, Christian, I love you for this!” I took the keys and the map and held them like precious jewels. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.” I sat back and looked at him in his dark brown eyes. “Thank you for being so good to me.”

“It’s hard not to be,” Christian said. He glanced at his watch and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Good. I’ll call you when I’m done and we’ll meet up in the city, wherever you are.”

I watched him walk away toward the subway and then looked across the water at the trees and the leaves. I folded my arms and sighed. At last I felt relaxed.

Then my cell phone rang. It was my boyfriend. The boyfriend I’d forgotten to call last night on my first night in Manhattan where I was staying with my ex-boyfriend.

* * *

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Braden asked.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I meant to, but I got here and I was all wrapped up in the city and we ordered in some food and then I just crashed right away. I was kind of tired after all the traveling and everything.” There was a pause on the line and I could tell he wanted to say something. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“No, yeah, everything is fine,” he said.

I knew from his tone that it wasn’t. “What are you thinking that you’re not saying?”

“Nothing, nothing. I don’t want to be that guy.”

“What guy?” I asked.

“The guy who asks where you slept last night and everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “Braden, I slept on the fucking futon. What did you think? I slept in his bed and we had mad, wild, sweaty sex?”

“Don’t joke about that,” Braden said. “I know you guys used to be hot and heavy—”

“Braden, that was three years go! Come on.”

“I know, I just…”

“Braden, you know what? I’m in Central Park right now. The leaves are changing and they’re gorgeous. The weather is in the high 50s and I’m wearing a light sweater and I just had a breakfast of croissants and orange juice. I want to fucking enjoy this day.”

Braden sighed. “I know. I’m sorry—I told you I didn’t want to be that guy.”

I folded my arms. “Well, then don’t be.” There was a long pause. “I want you to support me in being here.”

“I do! We talked about that. I just—it’s just that Christian makes me nervous.”

I grunted and stood up. “Braden, I’m done having this conversation. The trip went well, I had a good night of sleep and now I’m going to go and see the city.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? I’m going now. I’ll call you later. And stop being so paranoid.”

I hung up and then buried the phone in my pocket. I started following one of the footpaths through the park and then pulled my phone out of my pocket again and turned it off. There was nobody I wanted to hear from in the next few hours and I wanted to focus all of my attention on the city awaiting me.

* * *

I did my best to shake off the conversation with Braden. I started wandering through the park and slowly, as I walked randomly down paths and followed curves up down and around hills, the memory of the phone call faded. I walked past a sprawling athletic field, still carpeted with green grass, where a few soccer teams and a lacrosse team scrimmaged. Across the field I could see some of the apartment buildings that I’d seen in dozens of posters of New York and Central Park. It seemed like a dream. I was getting dizzy and drunk off all the imagery and the park itself.

For a while I traced Fifth Avenue, the street that lines the eastern side of the park, and explored its street side offerings. I passed ornate stone apartment buildings, gentrified beyond belief and more expensive than many yachts, and strolled down the street past busy pedestrians and steady traffic. Despite all the busyness, though, there was a sense of quiet and calm about everything around me. The city seemed to work neatly, everything fitting together like teeth on a zipper or cogs in a clock, turning and whirring with fascinating ease.

I stopped for an authentic New York hot dog on the corner of East 77th Street and 5th Avenue. I walked back into the park, chewing on my huge dog, and walked toward the famous reservoir with the great view of the Upper West Side. Joggers, walkers, moms and dads, dog walkers and locals all walked past, enjoying the late October morning in the park.

Further into the park I found a café nestled among the trees around a small pond where people rented miniature white sailboats and floated them out on the still water. Small tables sat out in front of the café and near the sailboat pond. I watched couples talking, people reading the morning newspaper and mothers with their children.

Finally I made my way to East 86th Street and Fifth Avenue and stood outside the looming, columned Metropolitan Museum of Art. The fountains outside bubbled and dozens of students and families sat on the front steps of the museum, having snacks, looking through books, talking or smoking or thinking.

I made my way inside the museum and was immediately struck speechless by my surroundings. I browsed Egyptian artifacts, medieval art, collections of musical instruments, and finally ended up in European paintings from the eighteenth century.

I stopped in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Cypresses” and stared. There in front of me were the heavy brushstrokes and swirling motifs that Van Gogh’s hands had actually made on that very canvas. My eyes traced the cerulean blues and the dark navies and greens of the cypress trees.

I felt somebody standing on my right side and before I could turn and look the person spoke.

“I’ve always wanted to go and see the groves of cypresses that he painted,” the voice said.
I turned my head slowly and took in the stranger standing next to me. He was slightly taller than me and wore a red hoodie sweatshirt under a gray blazer. His hair was carefully tousled and I immediately noticed his green eyes. I felt my stomach lift as if I’d just raced over a set of railroad tracks at high speed. I returned my eyes to the painting.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to refocus my attention on the painting.

His attention, however, was on me. “My name is Nick,” he said, looking intently at me and extending a hand.

“I’m Jordan,” I said, shaking his hand firmly.

“So you’re visiting New York? For how long?”

I let go of his hand, slightly miffed. “What, do I scream ‘tourist’ to you?”

Nick let out an easy laugh. “No, no. I just don’t see the locals react to paintings like this. They’ve seen it all and they’re not impressed anymore. It’s the way you looked at the painting and really took it all in that made me think you weren’t from here.”

Suddenly I was less miffed. “I’m staying with a friend in the neighborhood.”

“I see,” Nick said. “Well, at the risk of being forward, do you think you might like to go out and have a drink with me? Tonight, perhaps? Or tomorrow?”

I tried to regroup. I considered my schedule for a moment and then realized I didn’t really have one. “Sure,” I said with a grin. “Why not?”

I gave him my cell phone number and he saved it in his phone.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” Nick said, “but I’m going to call you and we’ll go out for a drink. I’ll take you some place you’ve never been.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said sardonically.

Nick smiled. “I know.”

And almost as quickly as Nick had appeared he then disappeared and I was again alone with Vincent Van Gogh’s swirling cypress trees.

I let my eyes roam over the painting and then realized for the first time that it might be a naughty thing that I’d just given some strange New York guy my phone number and told him I’d go out with him for a drink. Was that wrong? Was that bad? Would it technically be a date? Would that make be a big, fat cheater? And more importantly, did I care?

* * *

After leaving the museum I hopped on the subway and, with a little luck and a few mistakes, found my way onto the line that took me down to Greenwich Village. I nearly shit my pants time and time again as I explored the area around New York University. I settled into the area around Washington Square Park and sat near the near a huge circular fountain in front of the famous white arch in Washington Square Park, just a block from the NYU campus.

Christian hadn’t called. I had turned my cell phone on after I left the museum and tried calling him a few times with no luck. I got a sandwich in a nearby café and ordered a cappuccino to go. Finally, as the sun was starting to set and Christian still hadn’t called, I decided it was time to start heading back to the Upper East Side.

I walked back through the park and hopped into the subway tunnel on Christopher Street. As I walked down the stairs, though, I took a sharp turn and didn’t know quite where I was. I looked around me and at the signs above and started to feel a slow gnawing feeling. Why was everything around me so empty? And didn’t I want to be on the other side of the tracks?

I sighed and looked around. A youngish skater guy appeared and I felt a sense of relief. I started walking toward him and decided to ask him how the hell to get home. As I started approaching him I noticed his ripped, sagging jeans and threadbare sweatshirt. He started walking toward me, too, and my stomach made a sharp jump. He was walking toward me faster than I was walking toward him.

I looked around and noticed that there was nobody else around.

Fuck.

“Hey buddy, why don’t you give me that iPod and your wallet.”

I looked down at my iPod, horrified. My stomach was in knots and my heart was beating so fast that I felt like I was nearing a heart attack.

“My what?” I asked, stammering stupidly and backing up.

A knife appeared, small and silver with an ornately carved handle. He flipped the blade out.

“I’m serious, dude. The iPod and your wallet and that watch, too.”

I don’t know why, but I kept backing up. I prayed for somebody to walk down the stairs and help me. I wondered if screaming for help would do anything at all.

A trains whizzed through the station so loudly that it drowned out everything. It was just this skater guy and me and the deafening train rumbling past without stopping. The skater guy stepped nearer and placed the blade of the knife against my stomach. I started to unhook my watch. I felt my knees start to buckle.

“Hurry up, motherfucker,” he yelled over the noise of the train. “Don’t think I won’t use this fucking knife. I know where to cut deep.”

The throbbing in my head continued to pound faster. As I started pulling my watch off my wrist I felt another surge of adrenaline rush through my chest. I started seeing black.

It was then, with the skater boy’s knife pressed against my abdomen and my watch held in my hand, that I blacked out and careened to the cement floor beneath me.

* * *

Josh, 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer. He can be reached for questions, comments, or kind words at joshcentral@hotmail.com.

"Escape to Manhattan: Three" will appear on this site on Wednesday, March 16, 2005.

Escape to Manhattan: One

It happened during the middle of a media ethics class. I started to crack.

The professor, who made a habit of handing out reading assignments and paper topics as if it was the only class we had, made us do group presentation on public relations disasters. After hours of mind-numbing discussions about Exxon Mobil oil spills and Tylenol poising scares and dozens of horrendous Power Point presentations, I started sweating. A lot. And I got dizzy. And a little faint.

I went home and my boyfriend asked if somebody had died. I wanted to cry. Menopause-style heat flashes seized my exhausted little body.

I had to get out. Immediately. Out of the city, out of the state—hell, maybe out of the country.

Eventually it became clear that I had two choices: either take a vacation and get out of town, or take a swan dive from the Washington Avenue Bridge on campus and plunge into the icy waters of the Mississippi where my body would float like Ophelia’s beneath the surface of the icy water (except I’d been doing a little overeating lately, so perhaps I’d just sink—who knows).

Okay, so perhaps that’s a bit dramatic, but the point is that I needed a vacation. Badly.

I called my friend, Christian, who is an actor in New York and has a great little apartment on the Upper East Side, one block off Central Park. “Christian,” I said, “I’m slowly going mad here in Minneapolis. I need to come visit and get some R&R.”

“Jordan, you know you’re welcome here anytime,” he said, laughing. “Really.”

I laughed, too, but my laugh was crazier, more like the laugh of a frazzled person coming undone. Without further deliberation I grabbed my Visa, called my travel agent, and booked a flight. A week later I was in New York.

* * *

My boyfriend, Braden, didn’t like the idea of me going to New York. At all.

In fact, he hated it.

“Jordan, why do you have to go all the way to Manhattan to get a break?” he asked, following me around my apartment as I packed for the trip.

“I have to go, Braden, because I need something—something different, something new.” I plucked my toothbrush from the medicine cabinet and zipped it into a sandwich baggie.

Braden rolled his eyes. “I feel like you’re trying to tell me that what we have here isn’t working.”

I guffawed and grabbed dental floss and my contact lenses. “Well, Braden, is this working? This whole thing we have going here?”

“I love you, Jordan,” he said. He looked at me, brows furrowed.

“I love you, too,” I said. “That’s not the issue.”

I walked passed Braden where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom and chucked the supplies I’d gathered into a side pocket of my suitcase. I’d already stuffed my suitcase with jeans and shirts, socks and underwear, and now finally my morning supplies. I zipped my suitcase up with an air of authority and then looked at Braden.

“Look, Braden, I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just going to New York to catch my breath before this semester ends and I start pulling my hair out in clumps.”

Braden grasped at the last straws he could find. “New York City is supposed to be relaxing? And what about the fact that Christian is your ex-boyfriend?”

I crossed my arms. “What about it?”

“What do you mean, ‘What about it?’” Braden said. “It’s a fair question.”

“Don’t you trust me?” I asked.

“I don’t trust him!” Braden said. “You’re going to spend four days with him in his apartment and you’re saying he’s not going to try anything? I mean, where are you sleeping? On the floor?”

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and wheeled it past Braden and into the living room by the front door.

“Braden,” I said, “I’m going to New York. It’s really very flattering that you think my ex-boyfriend still wants to sleep with me, but I’m here to tell you that I’ll be sleeping on his futon and not in his bed.” I sighed. “You’re really going to have to get over the fact that I dated him years ago.”

Braden, looking defeated, slumped onto the couch. I sighed and walked slowly over to the couch. Braden reached for my hand and pulled me down next to him. He scooted me closer to him and guided my head to his shoulder. I felt the tension slowly begin to loosen.

“Okay,” he said. “If this is what you need, you should do it.”

Our fingers interlaced. “Thank you,” I said.

“But you know, you could always just come to my place for a few days instead and I could cook for you and we could get a nice bottle of wine and—”

I lifted my head and looked at Braden, an eyebrow raised.

“Not quite what you’d imagined in a vacation, huh?” Braden asked.

I smirked. “Not quite, buckaroo.”

“Well, I thought I’d try,” Braden said. I returned my head to his shoulder and we sat there quietly, side by side, for almost an hour.

* * *

Relief spread through my body as I curled into seat 22A. It was the window seat and I figured I’d have a great view of the descent into New York. The plane was crowded with thirty-something men and women in curt business suits and artist types in form-fitting jeans and angular eyeglasses. Elevator music played in the cabin of the airplane as people continued stuffing their baggage into overhead bins and filed into seats. A burst of air came from the little nozzle above me and I took a long, deep breath.

A vacation, I thought to myself. This is the beginning of a beautiful, beautiful vacation.

I pulled out my cell phone and decided to make one last phone call before take-off.

“Dylan? It’s Jordan,” I said.

Dylan, my best friend, answered the phone groggily. “Hey Jordan,” he said. “Oh my God, you’re on the plane, aren’t you?”

“I am. And in two hours I’ll be in New York City.”

Dylan sounded much more awake at the mention of New York. “Oh my God, Jordan, I’m so glad you decided to get the hell out of here and take a break. You needed it.”

“Yeah, I did,” I said. The last of the passengers filed into seats and the flight attendants began closing overhead storage at the front of the plane.

“You were starting to drive me a little batshit with all the talk about stress, stress, stress and classes, classes, classes,” Dylan said.

“Hey!”

Dylan laughed. “Call me when you get there, punk. Minneapolis misses you.”

The plane gently started rolling backward. A flight attendant rushed by and pointed at my cell phone.

“You need to turn that thing off now that we’re in motion, okay?” she said, smiling wide enough that I could see every last one of her capped teeth.

I said goodbye to Dylan and snapped the phone shut, burying it deep within my messenger bag. Our plane slowly navigated the maze of runways while the flight attendants did their in-flight show, complete with oxygen masks and seat belts. Just before take-off I pulled out my iPod and tuned into a slow John Mayer song. Our plane came to a complete stop and I heard the engines fire up with a billowing roar. As the plane started tearing down the runway I was so giddy that I almost started laughing.

A minute later the wheels of our plane left the ground and Minneapolis slowly fell away. I watched the familiar city I’d grown to love so much turn into rectangular patches of homes and skyscrapers and then, slowly, into a jumble of colors and lines before we slipped through the clouds and into the afternoon sky.

* * *

An hour into the flight the flight attendants served cheeseburgers and I sipped a Diet Coke. While I munched on my burger I voraciously read a battered copy of “Angels in America.” I also had a trashy novel in my bag on standby, but I figured that reading “Angels in America” was a lot more appropriate for going to New York, especially with all the smartly dressed, intellectual-looking people seated around me on the flight. Never ending fields of clouds, plush and white, stretched out across the horizon outside my window. The sun shone so bright that it looked white.

Later, as Pryor gave the speech at the end of the play about dying quiet deaths no longer, the captain announced that we were a few minutes from New York. I flopped the book down and looked out the window. The sun had set without me noticing and I could see the sparkling, shimmering lights of New York shining below me.

Once we landed there was a mass exodus for the doors. I’m telling you, New Yorkers have no qualms about cutting ahead and pushing all the way out the door. Once I was inside the terminal I looked around me and gulped.

It was huge.

Our airport in Minneapolis is pretty big. It’s an international hub and hundreds of flights come in and out every day through its two terminals.

JFK, on the other hand, has nine terminals.

My cell phone started ringing and I immediately felt a wave of relief. I dug it out of the depths of my bag and looked at the Caller ID. It was Christian.

“Are you here yet?” he asked.

“I am,” I said. “I’m in terminal seven, I think.”

“Okay. Head down to baggage area D4. I’m waiting here for you.”

“You’re here already? How the hell did you find my baggage claim?”

Christian laughed. “I’ve learned a few tricks in New York, baby. Meet me down here.”

I nervously followed the signs above me through hallway after hallway, going up and down escalators and careening around corners before the hallways finally spit me out in a giant baggage area. The crowds were massive, packed six deep around each of the baggage conveyors. But then, like an angel, Christian appeared out of the exhausted pack of travelers.

“Christian!” I yelled. He rushed up to me and he hugged me tightly. “My God, you look great!” I said.

New York had changed him. He seemed taller and slimmer. His jeans fit him perfectly and he had a beautiful messenger bag that made me instantly want to ask where he’d bought it. He looked so fresh, so clean.

“It’s good to see you,” Christian said, leaning back from the hug. “Come on. Let’s get your bag. We have a long ride home.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh yeah,” Christian said, taking me by my hand and tearing into the crowd of passengers. “We’re in Brooklyn, baby. We’re almost an hour away by subway from the Upper East Side.”

The Upper East Side. What beautiful words.

* * *

I had to admit that the confidence Christian had while getting my bags and then navigating the subway system was kind of sexy. I secretly enjoyed Christian leading me around and initiating me in the ways of New York.

The Bronx subway cars were lit in yellowish-gray light and the walls of the subway cars were painted a reddish-orange color. The cars rocked back and forth and screeched occasionally on the ride into Manhattan, but that didn’t stop Christian and I from leaning in and talking at the speed auctioneers. I told him about my hectic semester and about Braden and the frightening prospect of never finding a job after graduation and he told me about auditions he’d been on and celebrities he’d seen on the streets (“Believe me,” he said, “you’ll see celebrities while you’re here—they’re everywhere”).

We changed lines in Midtown and then, twenty minutes later, we were in the Upper East Side. I wheeled my suitcase behind me and lugged it up the steep steps leading out of the subway.

“Are you ready?” Christian asked, looking at me and smiling.

“I’m ready,” I said.

Suddenly we’d emerged from the stuffy, clogged air of the subway system, the corridors littered with garbage and graffiti and huge advertisements, and we emerged in the crisp autumn evening. I sucked air into my lungs and let it out slowly. Straight ahead of me was Central Park. In the evening light I could see the huge trees in the park, the leaves changing color in the fall weather, and the sturdy stone wall surrounding the park.

“Welcome to New York,” Christian said, still looking at me and smiling.

I did everything short of squealing while walking to his apartment, tracing the north side of Central Park on our way home.

* * *

Christian’s roommates, both actors, were gone when we got to the apartment. The building was gorgeous—an ornate, stone and brick structure—and we walked the three flights of stairs to his apartment. The ceilings were high, the floors were hardwood, and the windows had a sliver view of the park if you craned your head at just the right angle.

I set my bags down and looked around the apartment. “Christian, you have an amazing place!”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. He picked up the phone. “We’re ordering in Chinese. What do you want?” He handed me a menu and dialed the number.

Fifteen minutes later a delivery guy who spoke no English delivered a huge carton of steaming chicken and broccoli and a heap of white rice. We sat in the living room, sprawled on the couch, and ate with the New York evening news playing at half-volume in the background.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Christian asked.

“God,” I said, “I don’t even know. I mean, where do you even start in a city like this?”

“Well, I have sort of bad news,” Christian said.

I put down my fork and stopped chewing.

“I can’t be with you until tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got an audition at ten and at one, so we’ll have to meet up around four o’clock.” He looked at me, searching my face. I picked up my fork and took another bite of my chicken and broccoli.

“Well then, I’ll just have to adventure around the city myself tomorrow,” I said. I chewed and thought about what I’d just said.

“Good,” Christian said. “I don’t want you laying around the apartment tomorrow all by yourself when you’ve got this whole city at your fingertips.”

My stomach leapt. I thought about heading out into the city with a map and exploring, taking on the city solo. I was so thrilled at the prospect that I forgot to finish my food.

I was so excited that I forgot to call Braden before I went to bed.

This is the first part of the "Escape to Manhattan" series. The story continues Saturday, March 5, 2005.

Josh, 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer. He has written one novel, "The Unhinged Life of Jacob Archer," and plans to embark on a follow-up novel later this year. Josh can be reached at joshcentral@hotmail.com with comments, queries, or kind words.

(c) 2005 Josh and Josh Stories