Hiding in the basement of 76 Southern Boulevard

It was dripping and dank.  The floors were soggy and the cloudy smell of mildew permeated the air.  Thick and wet, like milky mud.

And I was down in the basement, hiding.  Shivering and scared.  Not knowing who to turn to or who to tell.

And 30 years later… it still seems too real to be a nightmare.  You can wake up from a nightmare.  This is a memory.  You can’t wake up from memories.

Someone asked me why I focus so much on my past.  It’s simple.  There are many holes in my past, many things that I have either willingly blocked out of my memory, or have simply never understood the consequences of the actions by others.  And if I can figure out why I blocked those memories out, then maybe – just maybe – the fact that I survived something like this might give hope to anyone else who has gone through what I did.  If I can pull through, then so can you.

It was only recently, through some serious research and discovery, that I found something from my past that, even today, is difficult to discuss.  I’ve resisted blogging about this memory for a very long time, but today I think I’m ready to tell the story. If nothing else, perhaps someone who may have gone through a similar situation – and really had no way to understand what was going on or how to deal with it – may finally know that they’re not alone in this world and that there is hope and support.

Let’s spin back 30 years.

It’s August of 1981.  In a few days, I would leave Albany for a four-year stint at Hamilton College.  I was excited and scared at the same time.  Off to college, and into a whole new world.

At that time, I lived with my aunt and uncle in a two-family apartment house at 76 Southern Boulevard, just off of Delaware Avenue.  On days when I had a few extra dollars, I would go to Bleecker Stadium on the weekends to watch the New York Eagles professional soccer team.  The Eagles were on their way to the American Soccer League playoffs, and I was excited.  Hell, there was no way we were going to lose, not when we had Billy Bolevic, the American Soccer League’s leading scorer, on our squad.

It was after a regular-season home game at Bleecker Stadium, and after sticking around for a few autographs – including Billy Bolevic’s – I was on my way home.  I had to walk down Lark Street to Delaware Avenue, and from Delaware to Southern Boulevard.  It was a warm, dark night, and I probably should have called my aunt and gotten a lift from Bleecker, but the moments away from the madness in my family were too precious to pass up.

I’m walking down Lark Street.  I’ve walked this journey several dozen times in my life.  And just as I’m about to cross from Lark to Delaware, I saw something out of the ordinary. It was an elderly man, also walking on the sidewalk – and he wasn’t doing so well.  He was stumbling and weaving, and almost fell into the street a couple of times.  He was definitely drunk.  I don’t know how drunk, but I wouldn’t want to be near him if he breathed on an open flame.  And if he wasn’t careful, he could end up falling right in the path of a car.

This isn’t good.  And I thought to myself, I gotta do a good deed here and help this guy get home safely.  I was a Boy Scout a long time ago – do a good deed every day.  Okay, I never got past Tenderfoot, but work with me here…

I went over to the man.  “Are you near your home?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he slurred, his breath reeking of cheap spirits.  “I’m on Jay Street.”

Two blocks away.  I can get him there.  “Hang on,” I said.  “I’ll get you home so that you don’t get injured.”

He seemed appreciative.  He gave me his street number.  I walked him down Lark Street – he almost stumbled again.  With a lot of effort, I finally got him to his house.

“Okay, you’re home.  Have a good night.”

“Wait a minute,” he mumbled.  “I need some help getting inside.”

Well, I’m here already… I took his keys, unlocked the door, and helped him inside his apartment.

I tried to flip a light switch inside the tiny apartment.  The lights didn’t work.

Now I’m nervous.  Did this guy not pay his electricity bill?  What’s going on here?  All the alarm bells in my head are going off like a Sunday church call.  I’ve done my good deed.  That’s all anyone can ask. Now I need to leave.

“Listen, you’re safe now, I gotta get home.  Good night.”

“Just a minute,” he said.

And suddenly, something happened. Something I was never expecting.

Although I couldn’t see anything in the room, I could feel him touching my hands. And he was touching them in a way that made me feel extremely nervous and uncomfortable.

I really needed to get out of there.  But my feet were numb.  I was in shock.

And then I felt him touch something else.

And it wasn’t my hands.

IT WAS NOT MY HANDS.

I immediately knew what had happened.  Drunk or not, this guy was about to put me in a very dangerous situation.  Very dangerous.  And I needed to run.

I broke free of his grip, turned and grabbed the doorknob.  The door was bolted.  Instinctively, I moved my hand up the darkened door – found the latch – and turned the deadbolt.

And I ran.  Out of that house.

Up Jay Street to Lark.

Down Lark Street to Delaware Avenue.

Ran all the way down Delaware Avenue.  Ran through two red lights and around a car that had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting me.

I ran and ran and ran.  Down Delaware Avenue.  And then a left turn onto Southern Boulevard.

Up the block.

And then I reached the two-family apartment house where I lived with my aunt and uncle and my aunt’s three kids.

I ran inside – our family’s apartment was on the second floor.

I ran upstairs – and then found the back stairway, and ran down to the basement.  It was cold and damp and the stench of mildew permeated the entire cellar.

I ran to the one corner of the basement, over by the water tanks, where it was the coldest and the darkest.

And I stopped running.

I slumped down, covering my head in my hands.

And I started shivering.  And shaking.  And screaming in agony.

I cursed myself.  How could I have been so stupid?  How could I have been so careless and blind?  What was I thinking?  Was I thinking at all?  All I wanted to do was do a good deed for someone who looked like they were in trouble, and I almost ended up as a victim.

I felt filthy and scared and confused and disgusted.  I had tried to do a good deed that night, and it turned into a scary, horrifying experience for me.

What was I going to say?  What COULD I say?  Who would I tell?  Who would believe me?  Nobody.  I didn’t even believe it myself.

I stayed in that basement for about two hours, maybe three.  And when I finally came upstairs, I went straight into the bathroom and showered and scrubbed my body until the hot water ran out – and then I stayed in there until I could no longer handle the cold.

My folks came home soon afterward.  I told nobody.  Not a soul.  Not until today.

Even though it was about 95 degrees the next day, I stayed inside the sweltering, un-AC’d apartment and wouldn’t budge. Not for any reason.  Not even to go down to the corner of Southern Boulevard and Delaware Avenue for some heat-wave-relief Stewart’s ice cream.

A few days later, I went to Hamilton College.  Central New York was my home for the next four years.  And when I finally returned to Albany, and got myself a small studio apartment overlooking Washington Park, I told myself that the old man who tried to hurt me was probably dead by now.

And perhaps he’s in his own special section of Hell – rotting like the sniveling punk coward that he was.