White Horse

I t ' s  n o t h i n g  s p e c i a l ,  just a dark bar full of wooden tables, wood floors, wooden booths and drinkers. They are not at the low end: the sad, red-faced career drunks. Nor are they on the high end: the shiny, trendy Cosmo-sipping career careerists.

They're mostly young, some are yuppies no doubt, wearing their weekend uniform of jeans and Gap t-shirts. Gap sweaters in the winter. Usually the tables are filled with warm gatherings of friends.

But I don't come with friends, except on my birthday.

The double-sided 4x11 menu never changes and I order the same thing every time — a cheeseberger with grilled onions.  It's thick and juicy, just like my dad used to make on the grill back home.

But I don't come for the food.

The B-side of the menu lists the brunch specials, draught beers and bottle beers. I needn't check it, either, as I always order my favorite drink — hard apple cider. Actually, it's my second favorite, but pear cider is not nearly as plentiful in New York as it was in San Francisco, where I picked up the habit.

But I don't come for the booze.

The first time I set foot in the White Horse was my first afternoon in New York. I tried to book a non-stop, red eye on the now defunct Tower Air. The travel agent talked me into booking a red eye on TWA instead. "It's a better airline — the service, the cabin, the food — everything will be better," he insisted. I did not pay enough attention to the itinerary.

The big night came and I wheeled my little, black suitcase up Nob Hill from my studio in the Tenderloin to the Union Square hotel I worked at. The small, boutique chain was owned by a famlly of lawyer/ranchers. Rumor had it they came by the hotels through a client who couldn't afford to pay his bill in cash.

Mitch, the gorgeous and consummate Maitre d', often fed me sumptuous dinners I could not otherwise afford. That night though, he brought me a sandwich.  It was something I could take with me. The shuttle came, Mitch hugged me and wished me luck. He straightened his bow tie and cumberbund and resumed his post in the restaurant.  It, too, was the White Horse.

At the airport, I sat alone, writing in my journal. Now that post-September 11th security is in place, I regret that not only has most of my travel been solo, but I have also usually been alone at the airport. No one saw me off, no one awaited my arrival.  That's how I travel through life.  Solo.

I saw a woman with a crowd of half a dozen family members.  Sitting there, watching their tearful goodbyes, I wondered if I wasn't the coldest person on earth. I had it in my mind to go to New York for years. I couldn't get anyone to go with me, so I used my Christmas bonus that year to go alone.

I finished my sandwhich in silence.

The first leg of the trip was bumpy. I threw up the sandwich about half way through, when we hit an especially bad patch of turbulence. I had to change planes somewhere in the middle — St. Louis, probably. What I hadn't noticed was that the plane also had a stopover in Chicago.

Three take offs. Three turbulent flights. Three bumpy landings.

Before the final touch down at JFK, they served muffins for breakfast. Biting into mine, I hit a gooey patch. I thought it was uncooked batter. I threw up again. It turned out to be cream filling, but my stomach couldn't take it.

And so I arrived in New York — tired, empty, nauseous. I took the A train, fighting sleep. A woman propped me up against a metal pole when I started to droop. At Columbus Circle, I switched to the 1 train. I got off at 103rd Street, to the mother of all youth hostels on Amsterdam.

I needed to take a nap, but I couldn't wait to take a bite of the big, rotten apple. I showered, dressed and took the 1 downtown. After some confusion switching to the Express and back, I surfaced at Christopher Street. I wandered around for a bit, buying trinkets in shops along Christopher. I found myself at the corner of West 4th and West 12th, which should, as far as I knew, be parallel. And eight blocks apart.

In my stupor, it occured to me that I had stumbled upon the nexus of the universe.

Just then, a driver stepped down from a bus and walked up to me.

"Where can I get a lottery ticket around here?"

I had no clue, but I sure as hell didn't want to look like a tourist, so I told him I wasn't in this neighborhood much.  It wasn't untrue.

A few steps later, another man approached me.

"Hey, where did A Clean, Well-Lighted Place For Books move to?"

Last time I saw it, it was still on Castro Street, back in San Francisco.

I started to panic. I was hungry, thirsty and needed to pee. A few blocks away, I saw it — an apparition on Hudson Street. A light shone down from Heaven and the angels sang. Or maybe it was me singing. I took the coinicidence as a sign and crossed the street.

It was like a little slice of home. Actually, it looked a lot like the White Horse in San Francisco. I was found.

I climbed up on a bar stool and ordered a Coke. I looked around and realized I was surrounded by white guys. I'd remembered some racially-charged attacks in the New York news, but wasn't sure where I was in relation to those areas. I wondered if I should be there — in this bar, in this neighborhood.

Two black men stepped down from the center room. One was Gregory Hines. So I figured I was OK.

I ordered a burger and a cider. The burger was eerily similar to the White Horse back in San Francisco. The discombobulation and panic  of being lost eased away.

Tonight, 8 1/2 years later, I sit nursing my second cider and a broken heart. The burger is long gone.  I'm sitting here, still wondering what to do with my life post-Columbia. I have no job, 2 months left on my lease and few friends from my life BC, Before Columbia.

Once again, I feel lost, panicked and afraid. Huddled in a window seat over a wooden table in the furthest corner, I hope the pain will ease away once more.