Two years ago I left Thailand for the USA. My good friend AP promised a soft landing. I had $100 in my pocket and Mam was pregnant with our son. No job. No place to live. Pressure and stress. I survived that summer as a dog minder in Palm Beach. Pom Pom was a crackhouse refuge from the dog shelter.
80 pounds of angry Airedale.
The local police had Pom Pom on a ‘put-down’ list, if she attacked another dog or human being. We lived in a mansion. My pay was $350/week. Most of it was remunerated to Mam. Some of it to Angie’s mom. I lived on $50/week.
The owner of the mansion, Derek Sabre, said I could drink his liquor. The cellar was stripped of non-vintage wine two weeks before the family’s return from Italy. being sober wasn’t either, but I never lost my temper with Pom Pom. She was cured of her attack mode. Derek was happy. His wife called me a miracle worker.
I returned to New York and my friends asked where I had lived on Palm Beach. i couldn’t remember the address. They thought that It was another story, even after I showed them photos of Pom Pom and the house.
My next domicile was with Vladmar in Williamsburg. A basement room next to the boiler. Vladmar was a collector. The path to my room was a crooked canyon of boxes containing discard clothing and comic books. The rent was $600/month. I couldn’t afford anything better. Fenway was a baby and Angie was going to school.
Richie Boy gave me a job at his new store in the Plaza Hotel. He asked my address. I told him the street.
“What’s the number?”
“I don’t know.”
And I never did for almost a year.
Over a year ago I moved out of Vladmar’s basement after discovering my cold weather clothing covered with fungus. AP offered his top floor for the same price as Vladmar’s dungeon. A floor-through with a western view. I have gone from the worst place that I had ever lived to the best and the rent was the same.
“What’s the address?” Richie Boy asked one afternoon. We had closed the Plaza store. It had been a disaster. I was once more on 47th Street.
“I don’t know.” My mailing address was the store. I knew the way home from the nearest bar. Frank’s Lounge on Fulton. The number was unimportant, until Ms. Carolina asked for my address this Xmas.
“How can you not know your address?”
“I am where I am.”
“You are such a precious pill.” She sighed with resigned exasperation. “No address. No apple pie.”
I’ll get the address.” Ms. Carolina’s apple pie was the best in the world. It took me a week to email her the details.
She laughed at my GPS-less sense of position.
“You most certainly are where you are.”
And I like it just fine in Fort Greene.