I had lost an upmarket jumper and about $50 somewhere in my high school in the Bronx and so decided to raise a similar amount by playing harmonica in the New York subway. At fifteen at the time, I had arrived in the USA as part of an international student exchange programme alongside five Hungarian schoolmates. It was the first programme of its kind to be allowed to take teenagers to the West from then communist Hungary.
Placing the common, 80’s grey backpack on the floor in front of me did not strike me at all as unusual, nor did the fact that I produced my only Marine Band, single key harmonica, and started playing away, leaning against the wall of the dimly lit subway. The idea was that knowing three songs in total may not make me an instant success in Manhattan but I hoped that as I was miserable enough to appeal to the passers-by and to elicit some sympathy amidst the afternoon rush hour. I had thrown in a dime or a nickel to start donations off, but no luck. Noone even made eye-contact. I have no information until this day whether my attempt was indeed illegal, and whether I should have considered myself fortunate that no security or police were alerted.
My streak of luck continued during these repeated underground transfers. An athletic teenager just back from the summer season’s sun, I was often discovered by Manhattan’s stocky, bearded gay men. One of them felt an irresistible need to direct me to Lexington Avenue, and reaching our point of separation, Maurice, as I then learnt, gently stroked my palm with his middle finger as we shook hands.
Another day, a similar looking, short, potbellied gentleman showed much more resolve, and accompanied me with hurried steps, enquiring which swimming pool I visit. I just could not come up with an unexpected reason to change course and was certain that once I reach the YMCA building ten minutes away, I would be able to enter the swimming pool area of my afternoon training while he would not.
I was in huge relief taking out the number-coded padlock from my rucksack already inside, ready to put all my clothes in the locker when Dennis – as I had found out – appeared in the swimming pool’s locker room with a big smile. Relief was rather far from what I felt. I cannot remember how I changed into my swimming trunks, but he was in a hurry to throw his clothes one by one into an empty locker, and then indicated his readyness for a shower, standing in front of me, wearing only a pair of white underpants. I was uncomfortably ambling towards the shower area, Dennis in my footsteps, and I decided not to use the shiny dark cabins, when my stocky guardian suggested: „Could we do something? Could we do something together?” „No, and we are not going to”, I replied, causing him some disappointment. I was familiar with only a limited range of foreign literature at the time, but looking back I recognise quite a few elements of Holden Caulfield’s adventures in those days’ events.