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| Author Perry Brass, 1971 |
In October of 1966, after I had been in New York only 3 months, and was struggling with a dirt-pay job as a messenger at an art studio and going to art school at night at Cooper Union, my 42-year-old roommate on Central Park West Bob Schwiller asked me to sit down for “the talk.”
“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” he announced.
I was surprised.
“Why?”
“I don’t like your attitude,” he said.
“Whaaa?”
I was in disbelief. I had thought I had a good attitude. At least as far as I could see, it was good. For a 19-year-old kid it seemed good. I was a polite Southerner and most people saw that. New York had been difficult for me to get used to: it was crowded, abrasive, and pushy. I was not and didn’t want to be.
“Your attitude. You think you’re better than other people. I can tell it. You’ve been rude to my friends. Damn snotty if you ask me. And you don’t bring guys home. Wha’s th’ matter? Think you’re too good for guys on Central Park West?”
I tried to catch my breath. This came as a shock; I’d felt so alone in New York and now I’d be thrown back into the cold again.
