I never thought of myself as a guy who would live in an SRO, but when I finally got my check after spending three days homeless, sleeping on the Staten Island Ferry, I got whatever room I could find, which happened to be in Coney Island.
When I was a kid, I wondered why people didn't go to live in Coney Island so they could be near the rides. Now, trying to sleep in the sweltering room with stale air, was almost impossible before 4 a.m. when the whirling, colored lights and thumping music from the flying rocket scooter, 50 feet from my window would stop. At least if they would change the song sometimes!
Imagine a life where your idea of upward mobility becomes the impossible dream of getting a room on the other side of the building, away from the continual blare of "She's got Betty Davis Eyes."
When I would come home late at night, the whores and petty criminals never bothered me. I guess I looked too down on my luck to be prey.
I actually did work out some of my childhood fascination with the place, wasting a few dollars worth of quarters in arcades, going on a ride now and then, and going to Nathan's when I could afford it. When it rained, or the weather was cold, I would walk on the beach, a chance to get away from the crowd and commune with nature.
I had no friends. I went to a Quaker meeting, and people were polite, and some were even nice, but I am sure I looked unsavory enough for cautious people to keep their distance. I met a woman named RoseAnn on the boardwalk. By this time I had gotten a job, and although it was low-paying, I was frugal, and could afford to take her out. She barely made a pretense of sincerity, and RoseAnn's straightforwardness about being interested in me for what I could buy her did not do much for my self esteem. I tried to help her in any way I could, and think I succeeded when I told her: "Your mother's a whore."
She was genuinely shocked, and upset. Her mother was a fine Catholic (I never met her, but heard about her from RoseAnn). RoseAnn's mother was the respectable one in the family, who never stopped making sure that her daughter would be aware of the sharp contrast between the two of them. I thought it would help RoseAnn's self-image that I turned the tables by telling her that her mother is a whore. That, I thought, would help RoseAnn because if her mother was the whore, then maybe RoseAnn was not.
I wasn't completely noble: I was starved for female affection, and I got as much from RoseAnn as she would allow (which wasn't a whole lot). After awhile, I got RoseAnn a job at the optical lab where I worked. Since they held back pay for two weeks, I lent her money to get her through until her own cash flow would begin. By then, I was not going out with RoseAnn anymore, and I made a point of not making a pass at her in any way, and being completely Platonic. I rationalized that it would help her to see that a man could give her money without asking for favors, but I think I really wanted to convince myself that I am a principled person.
When RoseAnn finally did collect her first paycheck, she took off during lunch hour with me behind her. I really did want to get paid back. But she really went fast, and by the time I caught up with her at the bank, she had deposited her money, and told me that she had nothing to repay me with. Then she accused me of using her. So I gave her another $100 and told her she didn't have to pay back any of it. At the time, I was making $129 a week, so giving RoseAnn the $100 left me with just under $160 for the next two weeks.
By this time, I had moved from the SRO in Coney Island, to an SRO in Brighton Beach, which is really a continuation of the same beach, and the same boardwalk, but is it more of a proletarian -- rather than lumpen-proletarian -- neighborhood. When I got off the subway that night, I bought kishka at one of the several Russian Jewish delis under the El. That was my big, payday treat, the rest of my money had to be carefully nurtured for carfare, and the least expensive, most nutritious food I could buy.
A few weeks later, I got a job driving a cab. When I left the optical lab, RoseAnn was still working there. She seemed to have made a niche for herself, and settled into a comfortable routine. It seemed to me that her life had become more stable. My own life also seemed to be stabilizing...at least until I crashed my cab into the limousine owned by a New York State Supreme Court Judge.
[More of my Coney Island adventures to follow.)