Crackhead part two -enter the city

Ok, I’m going to try to tell this next bit as straight as I can, no “perspective”, no parallels to my kid, just, as they say, the facts. If you recall, your unfortunate hero was walking down Delsea Drive with, I think, two bags in my hand. I remember that one of them was a light brown travel bag, I think it was a Pan-Am bag, with the meridians of the globe stenciled on in cracked plastic. My gloves were also brown, chocolate brown suede lined with lamb’s wool, with a tan trapezoid on the back of my hands (I later lost one of those gloves to a German shepherd on Rt 322, but that’s another story).

Walking out of Glassboro, NJ, at five in the evening led me past the Meat Market, the Seven Eleven, where I stopped to buy an atlas, Brother Bruno’s pizzeria, then Angelo’s Diner, the Acme supermarket, skater’s choice rink, and finally five points diner. This was a thirty or forty minute walk that I didn’t even notice. I didn’t know where I was going, just away. At five points, I caught my first ride, a jeep which landed me on an overpass near Belmawr. Underneath was a big highway, which I hoped was the Turnpike, but turned out to be 295. the next ride was a guy in a camaro, who took me up to Fort Dix, just outside the turnpike. Then he agreed to take me onto the Turnpike, and drop me off at the rest stop (Molly Pitcher) if I would pay his ticket (75 cents).

At this point a little perspective is in order, I think (I guess I just can’t help myself). I was fourteen years old, it was the middle of the week in the evening, a school day. Who the hell was picking me up? I think they all told me I shouldn’t be on the road, that it was too dangerous, but everyone wanted to help me. Just be a nice guy for me. I don’t know why.
At the rest stop, I guy in a BMW, pulling out of the station stopped for me. He had a set of skis in the trunk which stuck through and rested between our bucket seats. I don’t remember anything about him, except that he wore brown leather driving gloves (brown again!). I was afraid of him, he seemed a little too controlled to be safe. In the movie in my head, he would be played by Christian Bale. Ski man drove me all the way into Manhattan, dropped me off just outside of the Holland tunnel.
Even though my Grandfather lived on 23rd street, there was no way I was going there. Grandpa’s apartment was not “running away”. It was safe. Or else, he would just send me home again. But I was willing to go to my second cousin’s place in Brooklyn. She was edgy enough (trying to make it as an actor) to count as running away, I guess. I had been to her place once before, that fall. She had worn a fake fur jacket (brown, again) and we had gone to see Sine O’ the Times at the grammercy. I had been bored by it, but enthralled with my cousin. She had peroxided her hair so she could audition for a bimbo in a horroer movie that summer. I had helped her practice for the part. If I was going to run away, how could I not go to her place? I tried to get her phone number, but it was unlisted. When I went to her place that fall, though, I could see the bridge (well, a bridge) from her apartment. How hard could it be? I decided it must be Manhatten bridge, took the subway to Brooklyn, and started wandering the streets trying to find her place.