I was born on Central Park South in a luxury apartment building with twenty-four floors. It has a huge lobby with plush wall-to-wall carpeting, pots of white orchids, and a concierge. At one time or another, Stokely Carmichael, George Harrison, Irene Dunne, Sugar Ray Robinson, and Mayor Koch lived here. I’m not sure who lives here now because the staff aren’t allowed to say. Once I rode up in the elevator with Prince. When he got out at the tenth floor, he put his hand around my ponytail and gave it a little yank.

     My parents are not famous. They are rich because my dad collects money from a whole bunch of his friends and buys iron ore in South America. 

     According to a test I took in middle school, I have a high IQ, and I was always a straight-A student. But Inez said, “There are all kinds of smart, cariňa, not just the school kind. And there are also things more important than smart.” Inez was our housekeeper and my part-time nanny, even when I was in High School, because my parents traveled a lot. Inez taught me how to cook papusas, and she sat beside me for hours while I did my homework and when we watched TV in the evening. Sometimes after a favorite sitcom, I acted it out for her, delivering the dialogue in fake Spanish. That made Inez hysterical – she called me La Reina de la Comedia.

     My parents and teachers expected a lot from me. It was a foregone conclusion that I would go to Barnard because it’s right in Manhattan, and my mother went there. But Barnard was more my parents’ ambition than mine. In truth, our privilege, money, and our lifestyle embarrassed me. I didn’t want to be “elite.” I wanted to live in the real world.

     Our apartment has four bedrooms, an office for each of my parents, a solarium, and a maid’s room, where Inez stayed when she slept over. The only time anyone went into the solarium was when Inez and I ate lunch together. She loved the big plants because they reminded her of El Salvador. 

      One morning, Inez took me on the subway to her apartment on E. 128th Street. She told me that if my mother knew, she would probably get fired.  She said her baby was sick and she had to see if he should go to the hospital. Her young niece Julia was minding him. We got to her building and walked up five flights of stairs. I asked if the elevator was broken. The hallways were dim and smelled of old cooking, and her whole apartment could have fit into the lobby of our building and then some. Bedding was folded up under furniture, clothing hung from nails on the walls, and the bathtub was in the kitchen. It was the first time I ever thought about whether Inez was poor or how she lived. Being so unaware made me feel ashame 

    The baby’s name was Raul, and he was six months old. He was better by the time we got there. I watched her change him and dress him. She kissed him all over and tickled him until he gurgled and laughed. While Inez made some sandwiches, I sat down with Julia, who was eight, one year younger than me. We played with her two Barbies. I remember thinking how I would love to have a sister like Julia, sweet and bright and pretty, but my mother told me she was too old to have more children. Julia kissed my cheek when I said goodbye and asked me if she could come to my apartment to play. I told her yes – I would ask my mother, but of course I wasn’t allowed to invite her. The best I could do was get Inez to take a couple of my Barbies to Julia. I knew my mother wouldn’t notice.

     Downstairs from Inez’s, there was a store with a large wooden barrel on the sidewalk. I asked Inez what was in the barrel.  She said, “Pickles.”

     “Do you eat that?” 

     “No, they’re for Jewish people.”

     “I’m Jewish!” 

      “You’re a different kind of Jewish, cariňa. Your mother doesn’t buy pickles from barrels.”

     On the street, I saw people of every color, speaking languages I didn’t recognize, wearing clothes no one would ever wear in my neighborhood. They walked arm in arm, kissed on the street, darted through traffic, and swore out loud. Inez had to pull me along. 

     The years went by, I grew up, and Inez left us. In August of 1974, the month before I was to start Barnard, my friend Jennifer took me to a party in Soho. By that time, I was tall and had long reddish hair and curves. Recently, my Uncle Peter made an awkward speech to me. He said, “Andrea, because of the way you look, men will be after you. Most of them will not care about you at all, just the way you look, your body. You have to be careful and respect yourself. Choose someone because you want them, not because they want you.”

     That night I wore my mother’s green silk dress, pearls, and high-heeled sandals trimmed with rhinestones. I realized that this outfit wouldn’t be hip in Soho, so I was about to change when Jennifer convinced me not to. She said, “Down there, the Lana Turner look will be a conversation starter. You’ll get a lot of attention.” When I looked in the mirror on the way out, my heart skipped a beat. I didn’t know how to be that person. I tried to quiz Jennifer about the party, but she didn’t know much. She said, “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fun.”  

      We took a taxi downtown to an address on Spring Street. It was an industrial building with an elevator that groaned and clanked up to the sixth floor. It opened onto an expanse of concrete floors and exposed pipes. Two huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and circular red velvet sofas were recessed into the floor. Jennifer and I had decided to split up, so I walked around for a while and then found my way to the kitchen. I saw a man pouring tequila into a tub of ice. He glanced at me and said, “Why don’t you squeeze some of those limes over there, and I’ll give you a margarita.” He spoke in a slow, easy drawl. He was wearing a Rolex watch, which looked something like my dad’s. I guessed he was about thirty. He was tall and blond with deep blue eyes, something like Robert Redford in “Day of the Condor.” He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, and he terrified me.

     When I was done with the limes, he stood up and said, “I’m Ben. Who are you?” I clutched, and I blurted out,” Have you ever modeled?” Hearing myself, I blushed. I felt dumb and childish.

     He smiled and said, “Do you think I should?” After a pause, he said, “Actually, I’m a photographer. He opened his wallet and pulled out a card that showed a beautiful black nude holding a white Lily.

     “I said, “Oh…” and backed out of the room, furious with myself.

    I walked around the main room of the loft and looked at a Calder print mounted on a brick wall. A tiny Japanese woman wearing a tuxedo put her arm through mine and led me in a slow dance to a Cat Stevens song. She didn’t smile or say a word, but when the song was over, she mouthed a kiss and left. It was so clear that I was way out of my depth at this party, but I made a little vow to do my best to hold my own.

     I saw Ben on one of the red velvet sofas. He smiled and motioned me over. I smiled back and went to look at another piece of art. I felt him come up behind me, and taking my hand, he led me to the center of the room. He danced with grace and held me close. His smell, the feel of his chest, and the way his hand felt through the silk of my dress, made my head swim. He said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Andrea, you don’t have to say or do anything. We can just dance together.”

     I said, “How do you know my name?” 

     He said with a twinkle, “I asked.” 

     It occurred to me that he was enjoying the big bad wolf scenario and seeing me as his Little Red Riding Hood. Despite my vow, I decided to leave.

     I said,  “Okay, goodbye,” and moved away from him.  

     He said, “Whoa! Wait! There’s one thing you have to see. He took me to a large window that looked out onto the lights of the city. He said, “This is where we live, Andrea. Isn’t it wonderful?” He pointed to the block he lived on when he first came to New York, the park where he played pick-up and kissed his first girl, and the supermarket where he worked during high school. He told me stories about growing up in Galveston that made me laugh. He said, “The only thing I really miss about Galveston is surfing during the hurricane season when the waves are high.” 

     He asked me to talk about myself, but I didn’t want to tell him that I lived on Central Park South or that I was going to Barnard in the fall. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t brand me as some kind of rich-girl debutant. So I kind of fumbled it. My “D” in sophistication had slipped to an “F.” 

     I intended to go, but I was still standing there looking at the lights when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint. He lit it and offered it to me. I said, “No, I have never––” 

     “Well, pretty lady, don’t you think it’s about time?” I took the joint, and he said with kindness, “Looks like this might be a night of firsts for you.” A jolt of fear went through me. Jennifer and I had promised that we wouldn’t start college as virgins, but I knew I wasn’t up to Ben.  

     He instructed: Hold it in for a moment before you inhale. This stuff is strong, so one toke will probably do it for you.” I paused and looked at the joint as if it might be bad medicine. He said. “No one ever died or got addicted to marijuana. It will probably open up your mind and your senses. You might start thinking of chocolate chip cookies, and we might have a memorable conversation.” I took my toke, waited a little bit, didn’t feel much, and took a second. The high came on fast and strong. I tried to take control and slow things down, but it was beyond me. Everything in the room was supercharged. I looked up into Ben’s eyes and found him so utterly beautiful and alluring, I couldn’t look away. He kissed me, and I kissed him back and couldn’t stop. He took me to a dark corner, put his arms around me, and told me to “relax, just breathe.” We danced, hardly moving,  then he turned me so my back was against him and moved his hands over my body. I had my first real orgasm right there and then. 

     When I came to, I was mortified.  I couldn’t imagine how that could have happened, how anyone could have an orgasm that way. He had tricked me. I pushed Ben away and walked back into the party. I found Jennifer in the kitchen dancing.

     She said, “It’s early. I’m not ready to go home yet.” 

     “Ok, I’ll go find a taxi.”

     Her partner said, “Don’t go out alone in this neighborhood. You might have to walk up to “West Houston. It’s a couple of blocks.”

     Ben came up behind me and said, “I’ll take you down.”

     I said, “No,” and looked at Jennifer desperately, but she said, “Go with him, Andrea. It’ll be safer.”

     Neither Ben nor I said a single word in the elevator, but the tension could have cracked a wall. On the street, we walked, and then he held my face in his hand and kissed me, and I didn’t stop him. When a taxi appeared, he gave the driver an address on Canal Street.

     The night was hot and humid. Ben switched on the overhead fan in the bedroom and said, “The only way to deal with this kind of heat is to stay wet.” 

      I was about to say, “Don’t you have an air conditioner?” but stopped myself. He led me into the bathroom, unzipped my dress, and turned on the shower. He said, “Trust me, Andrea, you’re going to like this.’ And I did.  I liked it a lot. I liked it twice in the shower, twice in bed, and once again in the morning.

     When we got out of bed in the late afternoon, I saw that there were Olmec figurines in the apartment – one sitting on the living room floor, another one in the closet, and two on the kitchen counter next to the toaster. I recognized them because I had seen some of these statues in a museum in Mexico City. I picked one up to gauge its weight and dismissed the thought that they were authentic. The apartment turned out to belong to a friend of Ben’s who was spending three months in Kenya. 

     Ben and I spent the afternoon touring the neighborhood. I was wearing a shirt and shorts that belonged to the Olmec owner, who was just a little larger than me. The only shoes I had were my rhinestone heels, so we bought some plastic flip-flops at the Latino market. We sat in the park eating ice cream with the dogs and the kids. A lot of Ben’s friends stopped by and lingered. He introduced me with, “This is my princess.” We also bought some ground beef because I wanted to make hamburgers for our first dinner together. When we got back, I mixed up the ground meat with bread crumbs and egg and made patties. I cut thick slices of onion and tomato and sent Ben out to buy catsup and buns. When I pulled open the broiler, a large brown rat looked up at me. I screamed, the rat ran into the bathroom and jumped through an opening around a pipe under the sink. Ben laughed at my hysterics and then stuffed the opening with a towel. He said, “You’re in the real world, Princess. We got critters, we got bad guys, we got it all.” 

     I called my parents later that evening. I got their answering machine and said, “I’m with a friend in Soho having a good time. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll call you.” But the next day I didn’t call, or the one after that. On the fourth day, I called Jennifer and asked her to talk to my mother and tell her I’m all right.”

     “What should I say to your mother about why you’re not calling or going home? That you’ve gone off with a god-knows-who twelve years older than you, and you’re living happily ever after with him? Are you out of your mind, Andrea?”

     “Yes, maybe. But there’s nowhere else in the world I want to be. I couldn’t tear myself away if I wanted to.”

     “So what do I tell them?”

     “I don’t know. Just tell them I’m sorry, that I love them, that I’m just taking a break from my life, that Barnard can wait.” I called Jennifer the next day and said, “Jen, if I do stay down here, why don’t we get together every couple of weeks? I’ll come up to you, and then you can tell my parents you’ve seen me and I’m okay.”

     My life with Ben was perfect except it turned out that he sold cocaine for a living, not photographs. We had it around all the time. I watched him snort lines of the white powder and lick the dust. His friends came over to the apartment, bringing their drugs, music, food, and their wives and girlfriends. It was always a party, and Ben was the center of it. He had his own kind of soft charisma. Being with him was like standing in a sunny place. I called it “Planet Ben.” 

     Ben was generous with his drugs, except to me. I asked him several times if I could try cocaine, but he always said, “It’s not for you, princess. Stick with pot.” 

     Living with Ben—cooking, eating, making love, going to parties, coming home, getting high, making love – it was a revelation. I especially loved those August nights walking out with Ben, the humidity hanging in the air and putting a sheen on our skin. I loved being part of the neighborhood. People lived in the streets, chairs were pulled onto fire escapes, even bedding. Women leaned out of second-story windows to gossip with their neighbors and yell at their kids. The men drank beer and played cards on the stoops. 

     While Ben stopped at various buildings to do his business, I talked to people and admired their babies. When the lights went out at the basketball courts, the young guys came back, and there was always at least one fight, the older men rushing in, swearing a blue streak, breaking it up. 

     And all the while I was looking forward to going back to the apartment and making love with Ben. I would have been happy to live this life forever.

     As we moved into Fall, I met Jennifer every other week at a café uptown. Each time I wrote a note for her to take back to my parents, telling them that I was fine, they shouldn’t worry. I promised that if I needed anything, I would call. My mom always sent a gift—a fragrant soap, a scarf, a box of chocolates from Schrafft’s. She always wrote a note to me, too. She said that if I would call her, she promised she wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. But I thought calling would be too hard for both of us. I didn’t want to explain myself, I didn’t want her tears, l didn’t want to feel ashamed. Sometimes I cried on the subway going home, but as soon as I got out at Grand Street and walked back to Ben, I felt good again.

     Once, while we were making dinner, I told him how dull and dead my neighborhood was compared to Soho and the Lower East Side and how I loved the lifestyle – the color and noise and activity. I loved how people partied on the streets with their neighbors. 

     Ben said, “Yes, but you’re a tourist here. It’s not your real life. Most of these people, the ones who are working anyway, have minimum-wage jobs and minimum-wage lives. Very few are going to get out from under it. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to live without money.”

     In November Ben’s friend came back from Kenya, and we moved into an apartment on Avenue C, where the windows rattled and the heat was unreliable. Ben got into trouble with his suppliers for running some kind of scam, and the money dried up. Then his friends stopped talking to him because they thought he stole one of the Olmecs. He said he didn’t. He said he was having a run of bad luck and had to go away for a couple of weeks. He came home broke and angry and without his jacket.

     That’s when Ben began pressuring me to get money from my parents. I tried to explain that if I asked them for money, it would prove that I had made a mistake, that I had failed at living my own life, that they would want me home.

     “Andrea,” he would say, dragging out his vowels, “You’ve got this really stupid pride. All you’d be doing is taking a pebble off that mountain of wealth you’re going to get when they die. They’d love to help you, you know that.”

     “Yes,” I said. “They’d like to help me, but I don’t know if they’d like to finance your drug deals.”

     He pushed me hard against the wall, bruising my forehead, and left. I sat on the floor crying and trying to make sense of what had happened. The wiser part of me knew that it was time to go, but my heart couldn’t bear the thought. Ben came home later with some cupcakes and a long-stemmed white rose, and we went to bed.

     To pay for basics, I began drawing money out of my own bank account, which Ben didn’t know about. Small amounts at first, for groceries, electricity. And then rent, which was pretty cheap. He didn’t ask me where it came from.

     Once when we were looking at a book of paintings by Andrea del Sarto, Ben said, “Man, someday I’m going to Rome to see these paintings.” I said, “Oh, no, you’ll have to go to Florence. They’re at the Uffizi. He shot me a dark look and left the room. 

     When he came back, he said,  “Who would you be without your parents’ money, Andrea? What have you ever done for yourself?” I knew he was right, and I felt ashamed. And I knew I had been sheltered all my life as if I had lived in a luxury hotel room with the door locked.

     One day, I came home and found Ben in the apartment with two rough-looking Latin guys. He was nervous and talking fast. After they left, Ben said, “These Guatemalan guys are tough, honey. They’re not fooling around. If I don’t get them their money, they’ll take me out and throw me into the river or something.” I had never seen him desperate before, or even scared.  He couldn’t meet my eyes.

     “How much do you owe?”

     “Three thousand dollars.”

     “These people would kill you for three thousand dollars?!”

     “To set an example.” 

     “I’ll get the money.”

     The thing that kept me stuck was those days that were loving and fun and sexually blissful. Then I would think that somehow things would right themselves, that Spring would come, that we would go back to the way it was in the beginning. The fact was, my life held no attraction for me without Ben, 

     A couple of weeks later, I came home late from visiting a friend in Brooklyn. There was a frigid wind blowing through the city that night. It whipped through the subway platforms.  My coat wasn’t warm enough, and I fantasized about sneaking into my parents’ place and stealing one of my down ski jackets. It was Christmas, the time of the year when my family went skiing in Aspen, something I always looked forward to.

     Hungry and miserable, I stopped to buy groceries because I knew that Ben wouldn’t have gone out in that weather. I trudged up the four flights of stairs with two heavy bags and found the door to our apartment locked from the inside. I knocked but there was no answer. I shouted Ben’s name. I shouted louder. He didn’t answer. I yelled, “Are you ok?  Is something wrong?  I’ll get the super!”

     Then he said through the door, “Andrea, honey. Come back in an hour, ok?” His voice was thick, he was stoned. And I heard a giggle. I put the groceries down and went back to the subway and home to Central Park South.

     So here I am, sitting cross-legged on my bed watching a cooking show and wearing the cashmere shawl mother bought me for Christmas. Beside me on the quilt is a batch of forms to fill out for Barnard. My father talked them into taking me for Spring semester. When I look out my window, I can see park benches and the tops of trees dusted with snow and doormen helping fur-coated ladies in and out of taxis.

      I’ve started to see a few of my high school friends, and I’m looking forward to college. I’ve been taking some art history courses at City, and I ran into a guy whom I had met one summer at music camp. We’ve been hanging out together. One night I had sex with him, but there was no thrill there.

     Ben called about three weeks after I came home. He said he was sorry and he missed me. He was very excited about an opportunity he said we could pursue together (“I take the risk, you get the money, hon!”).  I didn’t want to hear about some dope deal he wanted me to finance, but I let him talk anyway. I just wanted to hear his voice. 

     The End