Philadelphia
Philadelphia
“I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.” — Blanch DuBois
I got to Philadelphia that afternoon, asked where the YMCA was, and was asked, “Which YMCA?” Threw me for a loop, that. So I asked to be directed to the nearest Y, one within walking distance. But there was no record, no sign of Behrent there, at that Y. I took a cab to another Y, checked in, and the place turned out to be really creepy; I left the next morning, thankful to have escaped,
I found the bus station again, and checked my bag in a locker — you could do that then — then went back onto the streets, looking for the future. I had no idea if I would ever see Behrent again — as it turned out, he reappeared one day a year later, with no excuse or sufficient explanation for his absence, and disappeared after that — but it was a bright, sunshine day,and the streets of Philadelphia seemed welcoming. I wandered through streets filled with historic buildings though I didn’t know them, and a lively business district, then an upscale shopping area and, toward evening, a park. I had just been following my intuition which, it seems, had led me to Rittenhouse Square, which was (I discovered) a gay cruising area.
I found a bench in the sunlight, sat down, and waited for whatever would occur.
What occurred was a young man, who introduced himself with some name, let’s call him Jason. He was a pleasant guy, dressed in business clothes, obviously had just come from work, and was looking for some relaxation: I was it.
Jason asked me about myself, told me about himself (he worked nearby, in a bank), and invited me to dinner. Since I hadn’t had anything to eat all day, that seemed like a good idea.
A nice dinner; somewhat upscale, as I recall. Or at least, upscale from pizza slices and 15-cent hamburgers. I told him my whole story: trying to hitch-hike from chicago, losing track of my lover, being absolutely broke. He asked me if I had a place to stay.
Jason’s house was what you would think Benjamin Franklin might have lived in: a row house with the door giving directly onto the narrow sidewalk, it might well have been built in the 18th century; it was certainly in a gentrifying neighborhood we could walk to.
When I woke up in the morning, Jason had left, the house was empty. I went downstairs from the bedroom, and on the mantle was a note.
“Had to leave for work. Toast in the kitchen. Lock the door as you leave.”
There was also some currency on the mantle. I was very thankful.
I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.