<p>THAT AFTERNOON， I went to work at the music store as<br />
usual. It was just around the corner from where we lived， and I<br />
worked there every afternoon from three o clock until seven， while<br />
its owner， a violin and piano teacher on the side， gave the lessons<br />
which more or less supported the store. There was apparently no<br />
great passion for music in the Bronx at that time， and the sparseness<br />
of the customers， other than Mr. Levenson s pupils themselves， al-<br />
lowed me to finish my homework as rapidly as possible and then<br />
pore greedily over as many copies of Theatre Magazine as the library<br />
would allow me to take out at one time.<br />
It was， as far as I was concerned， the perfect job. There was usually<br />
even enough time， before Mr. Levenson returned at seven o clock， for<br />
a good half-hour or so of pure， idle dreaming; a necessity as basic<br />
to a twelve-year-old boy as food and drink. I was thoroughly<br />
conscious of the fact that my own dreams of glory were quite unlike<br />
those of the other boys on the block， for the fantasies and specula-<br />
tions I indulged in， after I had reluctantly turned the last page of<br />
Theatre Magazine， were always of Broadway. They were fantasies<br />
because though I had been born in and had lived in New York City<br />
all of my life， I had never actually seen Broadway.<br />
In my twelve-year-old world it was permissible to work after school;<br />
it was， in fact， rather a necessity. The four dollars I earned every<br />
week was an item that counted heavily in the shaky family budget，<br />
but the rules did not permit my going downtown alone. True， I<br />
had passed underneath Broadway many times in the subway on the<br />
[3]<br />
<br />
</p>
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