We are hurrying through Central Park, picking our way around joggers’ spittle. A wad of travelers’ cheques throbs under my armpit. It’s a frosty night; the air hisses through our nostrils. Someone jogs by, wearing only phones and musical earphones. The Manhattan skyline looms above the treetops like a set of black teeth. In the City, we pass a shop advertising ‘Hot. Kinky. Bizarre. All Male Review. Striptease – to the bone!’

We reach the famous New Wave Book & Coffee Shop. A notice outside says ‘Art Sale – All canvases slashed!’ they stock titles like ‘A Taoist lesbian view of modern accounting procedures’, and ‘Become yourself and feel great’.

Downstairs is the fiction-reading. We go down thinking ‘Wow, this is it! This is where it is all happening!’ We order tea, waiting while the guy looks it up in his recipe book. I peep at the notice board: ‘If you are a lesbian or gay guy with a drug abuse problem, then it’s hard to be proud. Phone. . .’ The guy arrives with two cups of a yellow liquid. He has green hair and black eyes. There is a hint of a razor blade and safety pin about him.

‘Thanks, mate.’

He stares at my mouth. ‘Where are you frum?’

‘The Third World.’

‘Run that by me again?’

‘Australia.’

He holds out his palms. I inspect them: not too clean. He stumps away, annoyed. ‘Sheet, man.’

‘Roger’s kinda tight,’ someone says, leaning across. ‘Yr sposed t’ press the flesh.’ Roger is prowling behind the counter, smouldering. ‘He’s really a pretty actualized person.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s this burg.’

‘How’s that?’

‘People are guarded – they gotta be. They’ll open up, once they know your angle. Just don’t look outa line.’

‘Even in here?’

‘Sure. I wuz mugged three times.’ He looks proud; a veteran. ‘I hear a car backfire and I hit the dirt.’

‘Why do you stay?’

‘Why? Hell, this is the greatest place on earth! Ain’t you heard?’

Roger oozes nearby, cool and mean-looking. ‘Australia, huh?’

‘Yep.’

‘I hear it’s a real jam place.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s got space, right?’

‘Yes.’

He points into the air, like a guided missile. ‘Well space is where it’s at.’

I wonder if I’ve missed something: right now in Australia, it’s Saturday afternoon and even the flies are sweating. Down on the beach, Buddha will be sitting under a toweling hat, can in hand, the folds of his gut stacked on his knees. His sinewy brown wife lies inert beside him. On the radio, the cricket drools to itself. The children – little dads – stump around in sunglasses and towel hats, hands outstretched to catch the wind. Behind them, bird whistles ricochet through the trees like rifle fire.

Back at the fiction-reading, a man in check trousers and bow tie introduces the two famous writers. The woman is heavily made up, with a vinyl face; the man is a pixie. They are both gay, and announce that they have fallen in love. Their respective lovers leave in a huff. The fiction continues with some readings. After a few minutes, I begin to study the dandruff of the person in front of me. The surface of their head is like puff pastry.

We pad off along Manhattan’s numbered streets, moving down the numbers like a countdown. Numbers, not names. Down the black and white streets, rainbows blaze until it’s broad daylight. Negroes truck past like smoldering cats.

Getting into the restaurant is like passing a job interview. The maitre d’ checks our credentials, and ushers us into a room smothered in waiters. ‘Wow,’ I think, this must be where it’s happening.’

The menu is like a taxation form. We decipher it and order. I study the bandstand. There are drums and microphones, and the chair is where He sits. ‘He’ is the famous Jewish film-maker. We’ve come to see him playing the clarinet. I suppose it’s a bit like watching Gore Vidal eat spaghetti. I wonder if his chair has ‘Director’ on the back. In the front row is a table of dark-suited men and predatory-looking women. Probably media executives taking their husbands to dinner.

‘Why doesn’t the band play?’

‘I guess they’re waiting for us to warm up.’

We eat. Finally, a party of likely F.B.I. agents takes the stand. They begin playing Dixieland – which is a small price to play. But where is He? Everyone is craning to see. The clarinetist wears a large nose and glasses, but there the resemblance ends. I ask the waiter.

‘No, he couldn’t make it tonight.’

I destroy a napkin. It crumbles easily, littering the table like broken glass. I’m thinking of the thousands of miles we’ve come, of our massive bill.

A second shift of diners are milling in the foyer. They watch the entrance, bright-eyed with hope. ‘Should we tell them?’

‘Nah.’

Out on the street, snow steams on our faces. We trudge off through Glass City, the air ablaze. A small group pass us, swaddled in affluence. One of them drops 20c into my cap. Cars steal past, eyes low and searching.

Outside the ‘Drug King’ emporium, a young guy with a cap over his ears stares at us in crazy fascination. I look back and notice he is following. Paranoia means never being alone. I go over the rules in my mind:

1. Know your territory and stay there.

2. Be alert to anyone who is out of place.

3. Clutch valuables close; be ready to fight for them if necessary. Better still leave them alone.

4. Avoid subways.

5. Don’t look at strangers.

We pass a picture theatre. The queue stretches down a side street, then into an alley where the last couple is being mugged. In the distance is the constant wailing wind of a police siren. I look back; the young guy is still there. I think of something Roger said: ‘Australia needs exploiting right?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Listen, if you can dream it, you can do it.’

I wonder whose fantasy become Manhattan.

(Published in Westerly; a Quarterly Review; Vol 28 No 3)