The church was located in Hell’s Kitchen on 41st Street and 9th Avenue (Carroll Studios). A little guy named Jimmy made it possible for services to happen in a music studio. It brought him consistent cash, besides rehearsal rentals. It was convenient for me.

My job with Carrier Travel was at 1040 6th Avenue on 40th Street. The church was at the back of the Port Authority bus station. It was next door to an underground sleazy bar, near where the buses parked before exiting onto the highway. The sidewalk was slick with oil, and the air was full of gas fumes, but when I got inside that little studio, we turned it into our oasis amid the chaos. This was my new family. 

I told one of the elders of my ugly situation with my roommate in Harlem. It was not good. I had to get out of his apartment like yesterday. 

That night the elder was called up to minister the word. When he began his message, he veered off on to this spiel about people praying for answers and then God answering and people rejecting the answer. He mentioned from the pulpit that the drummer at the church was looking for a roommate. The guy was this dirty, hippie, surfer, Caucasian dude. Nah, no way. 

After the church service, the drummer and his friends were leaving and headed over to the Westway Diner. They invited me along. I was resistant, but I joined them. They asked me, “Why don’t you take a look at the apartment? You might like it.” Maybe, I thought, but the drummer was too weird for me. I just couldn’t imagine us living together. I took a breath and took a chance. 

We got on the A train at Port Authority and rode it to West 4th Street and switched for the D going to Brooklyn. The train ride took forever. Getting off the train at Avenue H, we exited into a dark alley and walked to the corner before turning right into the building. When the drummer showed me the apartment, I was more than surprised. It looked like a huge dance studio with big mirrors and a grand piano. Wow. 

I couldn’t tell much about the neighborhood by looking out of the windows. The drummer suggested that I spend the night and then go check out the neighborhood in the morning while he was at work.  He gave me the keys. 

That morning when I woke up, I couldn’t believe how beautiful the area was. I hadn’t been able see it the night before. The apartment building that I was in was the only one in that area. The neighborhood was adorned with big houses with great lawns and huge trees lining the sidewalks. It was breathtaking. 

I walked up the block to see the main avenue. When I got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I ran closer to see if it was really true, and yes it was true. There was the dentist’s office that my mother used to bring us to when I was a child. I ran into the office, hysterically crying with tears of joy and asked about the dentist that used to do my teeth. They told me that he was gone. I ran out and sat in the exact spot that I sat in when I was 5 years old when I told my mother that I loved this neighborhood and wished I could live here.

She had answered “They will not allow us to live over here, it’s only for the Jewish people.” (this was Midwood) 

I sat there in that same spot, as I had all those years earlier, with my new keys in my hand for my, now affirmed, new apartment; and my new roommate happened to be Jewish.

RIP Chris Allen. 

Stay on the train.

***

Peter Anthony Moore was born in Brownsville, Brooklyn.  He is a graduate of Fiorella La Guardia High School of the Arts. Mr. Moore is an original cast member of The Lion King on Broadway.