shows and adult male films. He becomes a favorite of the Armani group.
Soon I become friendly with these working boys. Most of our contact is on the phone, but sometimes we’ll meet for a drink just to talk. Jason is a twenty-three-year-old med student at NYU, strong-looking and healthy, with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a great smile. Once as we’re standing outside the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel a middle-aged man dressed in a beautifully tailored suit approaches us and asks if we’d like to join him for drinks in the bar. Jason nods at me. “Sure, we’d love to,” he says, and we follow the man into the smoky bar. We find a table, and he introduces himself as Henry Alton. He shakes Jason’s hand and then mine. “Andy,” I say. When the waiter comes, Henry orders three shots of Jack Daniel’s for the group. He leans back and takes a deep breath. “So, boys, tell me a little about your lives in New York, won’t you?” Jason tells him he’s a medical student, and I tell him I work for a well-known fashion house. He seems equally impressed by both, which I find amusing. The waiter returns with our shots, and at the count of three we down the awful-tasting whiskey. “It’s good medicine,” says Henry. “I’ll get us another.” He signals the waiter. “Now tell us a little about yourself,” Jason says. “I’m just a real estate investor from St. Louis and I get to New York as often as I can to enjoy the finer things: the museums, the theaters, the restaurants, the shopping, and the men.” “Yeah, there’s some good shopping here,” Jason says. I try to hold back my laughter. We all drink our second shot of whiskey. “Boys, would you be interested in coming back to my hotel room at the Waldorf for a little romp?” he asks. “The both of us?” I ask. He nods. “$350 for two hours, plus a tip,” he says. “I think that’s a bit low. How about $500?” asks Jason. Henry excuses himself to go to the bathroom. We order another round of drinks and are really getting drunk. It seems like the bar is closing, and Henry hasn’t come back yet. “I have a strong feeling that Henry isn’t coming back,” says Jason; “I don’t think he liked that we turned down hisoffer.” The waiter comes to the table and hands us the check. It’s for $85.
On the Couch
Around the beginning of December, a strange combination of extreme anxiety and depression takes over me. My moods are unpredictable from day to day. Sometimes I feel fantastic for weeks, then I take a dive. Allison urges me to get professional help, and I start seeing Dr. Myron Levitt, a psychiatrist on the Upper East Side. He has paternal qualities that I like—he’s gentle and caring—but he speaks in a monotone that practically hypnotizes me. I am under extreme stress, because of the failure of the film project and my financial situation. I have tremendous amounts of energy, which I don’t know how to channel or control. I create compulsive lists of errands, possible job leads, people to call, things to buy, and doctor’s appointments. I get nothing done. There is too much swirling around in my head—I can’t contain it all in my brain.
December 16, 1984. 8:45 A.M. Upper East Side
.
As usual, I’m early for my 9:00 A.M. appointment with Dr. Levitt, so I stop to pick up a bagel and chocolate milk at the corner deli. I’m sitting in his waiting room staring at a horrifying piece of art hanging on the wall—a black-and-white abstract image that looks like an anorexic’s severed arms, folded. The print is slipping down into the mat. I want to mention it to him, but I keep it to myself. The waiting room is furnished with “contemporary” pieces from the seventies: a brown knotty couch, a chrome arched lamp, glass-and-chrome end tables, and two wooden chairs with cushions. Nothing matches. I’m not comfortable here. It isn’t clean enough for me. I have to work out my issues in a clean environment. I don’t understand what’s
Soon I become friendly with these working boys. Most of our contact is on the phone, but sometimes we’ll meet for a drink just to talk. Jason is a twenty-three-year-old med student at NYU, strong-looking and healthy, with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a great smile. Once as we’re standing outside the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel a middle-aged man dressed in a beautifully tailored suit approaches us and asks if we’d like to join him for drinks in the bar. Jason nods at me. “Sure, we’d love to,” he says, and we follow the man into the smoky bar. We find a table, and he introduces himself as Henry Alton. He shakes Jason’s hand and then mine. “Andy,” I say. When the waiter comes, Henry orders three shots of Jack Daniel’s for the group. He leans back and takes a deep breath. “So, boys, tell me a little about your lives in New York, won’t you?” Jason tells him he’s a medical student, and I tell him I work for a well-known fashion house. He seems equally impressed by both, which I find amusing. The waiter returns with our shots, and at the count of three we down the awful-tasting whiskey. “It’s good medicine,” says Henry. “I’ll get us another.” He signals the waiter. “Now tell us a little about yourself,” Jason says. “I’m just a real estate investor from St. Louis and I get to New York as often as I can to enjoy the finer things: the museums, the theaters, the restaurants, the shopping, and the men.” “Yeah, there’s some good shopping here,” Jason says. I try to hold back my laughter. We all drink our second shot of whiskey. “Boys, would you be interested in coming back to my hotel room at the Waldorf for a little romp?” he asks. “The both of us?” I ask. He nods. “$350 for two hours, plus a tip,” he says. “I think that’s a bit low. How about $500?” asks Jason. Henry excuses himself to go to the bathroom. We order another round of drinks and are really getting drunk. It seems like the bar is closing, and Henry hasn’t come back yet. “I have a strong feeling that Henry isn’t coming back,” says Jason; “I don’t think he liked that we turned down hisoffer.” The waiter comes to the table and hands us the check. It’s for $85.
On the Couch
Around the beginning of December, a strange combination of extreme anxiety and depression takes over me. My moods are unpredictable from day to day. Sometimes I feel fantastic for weeks, then I take a dive. Allison urges me to get professional help, and I start seeing Dr. Myron Levitt, a psychiatrist on the Upper East Side. He has paternal qualities that I like—he’s gentle and caring—but he speaks in a monotone that practically hypnotizes me. I am under extreme stress, because of the failure of the film project and my financial situation. I have tremendous amounts of energy, which I don’t know how to channel or control. I create compulsive lists of errands, possible job leads, people to call, things to buy, and doctor’s appointments. I get nothing done. There is too much swirling around in my head—I can’t contain it all in my brain.
December 16, 1984. 8:45 A.M. Upper East Side
.
As usual, I’m early for my 9:00 A.M. appointment with Dr. Levitt, so I stop to pick up a bagel and chocolate milk at the corner deli. I’m sitting in his waiting room staring at a horrifying piece of art hanging on the wall—a black-and-white abstract image that looks like an anorexic’s severed arms, folded. The print is slipping down into the mat. I want to mention it to him, but I keep it to myself. The waiting room is furnished with “contemporary” pieces from the seventies: a brown knotty couch, a chrome arched lamp, glass-and-chrome end tables, and two wooden chairs with cushions. Nothing matches. I’m not comfortable here. It isn’t clean enough for me. I have to work out my issues in a clean environment. I don’t understand what’s
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