“Change the subject.”

“See, you’re so apathetic, you’re an old man. You should have more of a youthful identity.”

“Youthful identity?”

“Sure, did you ever see the film Woodstock? You should go to some Woodstock. Where do the young folks gather? You should go there.”

“Where do young folks gather?” It sounded like a Peter, Paul and Mary tune. With all the free time on my hands, I decided to hunt down some young. I got off the R train at Broadway and Eighth and slowly walked down the east side of Broadway. The street was a bustling youth industry. Chic teen stores, stocked with the latest fashions-for-juniors crowded the block. I flowed in and out of each one, pulled like a cork on the consuming post-adolescent sea. Tower Records, appropriately located at the end of this succession, on Fourth Street, was the apex of teen exploitation, the drain at this ditch.

With MTV-tuned televisions posted every ten feet or so, hung up high but aimed downward precisely at eye level, allied with Dolby-blasted music, this was too much for a youngster to resist. By and large, I found the whole rock ‘n’ roll racket sordid. Motivated by a shameless ocean of dollars, basic adolescent compulsions—principally sex and violence—were serviced. Catchy tunes and sappy lyrics were wound together, moronic DJ’s repetitiously played them out, and by the time they were on Casey Kasem’s “American Top Forty,” most kids felt like pariahs if they didn’t own the selected album.

Flipping through twenty years of rock albums—the hippie albums of the sixties, the disco motif of the seventies, and on to the punk appeal of the eighties—you could see the development of fashions. The contemporary hype was colorful androgyny, which allowed a kind of guilt-free flirtation with homosexuality. One could feel strange attractions to these semi-boy, semi-girl entertainers that looked like sexy Dr. Seuss creatures.

It was after five, and the rush hour was in effect. While wedged between angles of sweaty anatomy in the Brooklyn-bound R train, I was subjected to bland disconnected lines of conversation.

“The man’s not for you Dana, he’s a sex pig.” Another lady as tall as she was wide, squeezed next to me jerkily and pulled off her yak-like coat revealing a sleeveless, tasteless print dress. Like a fish in a filthy aquarium, I kept gasping upward for air. When the train screeched into Rector Street, she fell on me just as I was inhaling open-mouthed. Her bearded armpit sunk into my mouth; it tasted like a Big Mac.

She unloaded with a herd of people at Whitehall Street, the next stop. Carefully I maneuvered myself into a more guarded position by the door. A girl with an accent and a bunch of luggage was talking to a spindly, oily fellow who looked like a future presidential assassin. “Listen to me, all you have to do is go to Twelfth Street and ask for Miguel. Tell him Tanya sent you. He’s promised me it’s yours.”

“But I have no idea how to manage a movie theater.”

“There’s nothing to it. It pays well and it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“But I don’t even have a work visa.”

“Listen, I told you this before—just make up a social security number. They never check; if you’re really worried pay someone a couple of dollars and use theirs. Everybody does it.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Five bucks an hour.”

“Well, let me think about it a couple of days.”

“Say,” the girl said, peering at the digits of her watch. “My plane leaves in fifteen minutes. Where is this train to the plane?”

“It’s supposed to be at Jay Street,” the greasy youth replied as our train pulled into Court.

“Get off here and walk to Jay,” I warned her. The doors opened and both of them looked at me strangely.

“This train doesn’t stop at Jay Street,” I yelled as I hopped out between the doors sliding shut. As the subway slowly tugged out of the station, I watched the girl’s face turn to panic, and she quickly questioned people around her. There was no way in hell that she was going to escape from the city today.

As I walked out of the station and down Court Street homeward, I felt sorry for her because she had unknowingly just given me a job. If that oily kid could do it, so could I. He was not sure he could handle it and was going to think it over for a couple of days. Think away, oily boy I’m going to grab that job tomorrow. As I walked, I wondered what kind of theater it could be; it had to be either a second-run or a repertory theater. Those were the only ones that would pay five an hour and hire someone with no prior experience. If that schmuck could do the job, I certainly would be able to handle it.

The next day, I spent as much time as I ever had in preparing a good appearance. I wasn’t sure as to where on Twelfth Street this miraculous theater would be, so I took the IRT to Fourteenth and Seventh, got off at the Twelfth Street exit, and started walking.

The first theater I saw was the Greenwich. While working at the Saint Mark’s, I heard that these conglomerate theater companies were very “by the book.” They certainly didn’t hire people off the street and make them instant managers; you had to work your way up tiresome and tedious ranks. I passed by that theater, heading east. The subway export said, “Just off Twelfth Street,” which might’ve meant Thirteenth. Since the Quad, “four theaters under one roof,” was on Thirteenth, I checked it out. Going up to a glass screen with a hole in the middle, I asked if there were any jobs available. Someone yelled no, and on to the next theater. Back on Twelfth, between Fifth Avenue and University Place, was a small repertory dive called the Cinema Village. I figured that this had to be the one. I went up to the outdoor box office. A cool brunette was sitting on a stool. I gave her a foreknowing grin. I knew that one day we’d be great friends, we’d maybe even sleep together. It would be funny, one day, to look back on this first time when we saw each other. When she finally looked up from the curriculum she was reading, she snapped her gum.

“Hey there,” I finally shoved my face up to the dome-shaped hole where cash passed hands.

“If you want a ticket, it’s four bucks.”

“You know, dear, I’ll give you a pointer. You should be nicer to strangers. One day they might be your employers.”

“If you’re waiting for someone do it over there.” She pointed away from the door.

“I’m here to see your boss.”

“One second.” She picked up a phone and mumbled something into it. In a moment a short stocky guy in his thirties with curly hair and wire-framed glasses appeared.

He opened a big glass door allowing me into the lobby. “I’m Nick Miedland, the manager. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, do you know Tanya?” I said in a low voice.

“Yes,” he looked nervously at the box office girl, “what about her?”

“She sent me.”

“Tanya?” He said looking behind me.

“Right,” I murmured as I moved farther down the lobby away from the bitchy ticket girl.

“Tanya said you had a managerial opening for me.”

“She said that? Well, I’m sorry but there are no openings.” I gave him an insider’s smile.

“Come on, Nick.” I took the liberty of using his first name. “Tanya said just yesterday that there was an opening.”

“One second please,” he said and then looked behind me. He addressed the girl in the ticket booth, “What’s all this about a manager’s opening?”

“What?” she replied.

“This gentleman claims that you’ve been telling him about some kind of manager’s opening?”

“No, not her,” I corrected, “Tanya told me about it.”

“This is the only Tanya I know.”

“I must have the wrong place,” I muttered.

Without a further word, he turned and went back to his office. Two Tanyas in two days, what a fluke. I smiled apologetically at the present Tanya as I left, but she only gave me a nasty expression. At least she had a job. As I walked away, I felt increasingly foolish. Half way up the block, I turned and yelled back, “Fuck you, Tanya!!”