American Gangbang: A Love Story

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Once upon a time, I was twenty-two and fresh out of college, with a heart young and open and free, and I had but one dream: to move to California.

My father seemed rather unwilling to grasp this concept. “Are we really that bad? You can’t even consider staying on the east coast?”

“David, calm down.” My mom nodded at me apologetically. “He really doesn’t mind the idea so much.”

“I don’t like New York,” I said. “In fact, I hate New York. I can’t even stand to be there for two days. You know that.”

“I have never met anyone who honestly hates New York. It just doesn’t happen very often. Quite likely you are the only Jewish person in the whole world who hates New York.”

It was hard to win an argument with my dad—being a psychoanalyst, he did this kind of thing for a living—but in this case, I didn’t have to win. All I had to do was leave. So I did. I took my graduation money and I bought a 1980 diesel Volvo,vind I drove it to California. To a place called Santa Cruz.

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