Confession of a city boy -1

Found in D's notebook, written probably in 1991 when he lived in Nova Scotia for the Summer.   It's long so I divided into two parts.
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    I thought that I'd have a chance to explain to you about all this, about the way I approach this, but it's been ten years now, and if anything, it is even more confused.
    I come from the city. That's my orientation. Not the city but just a city.   Well, not a city, more like the edge of a city, but inside the city limits.  All right, let's say the suburbs, O.K.?  I come from the suburbs.  A rich suburb, even.  It's a string of towns outside Philadelphia, and it is called the Main Line.  There's a train that runs through these towns into the city, and it's called the Paoli Local.  There's a saying, "Nothing is so holy as the local from Paoli."  Oh, it's rich.  Full of the so-called Philadelphia lawyers and overbred snobs.  In The Main Line Times I read an anecdote about a famous rivalry between two expensive boys' academies.  A man was remembering playing in a football game, and before the game the coach says, "If you lose this game, you'll never live it down.  You'll grow up and every time you get on the train, you're gonna see these same guys.
"And they will look at you over their newspapers and you will look at them, and they will have one up on you.  Do you want that?"
    A really established, traditional environs, built around an old city.  But I brought it up because I'm from the city, I measure where I am by streets.  If I don't have streets with clearly marked street signs on the corner of every block, I'm disoriented, lost, nervous.  I got so lost once on a bicycle trip, when I was about fifteen.  I was on this trip with a bunch of these academy type Main-Line boys and/or their sisters.  Scions, blond, broad-shouldered, or wiry, good-at-sports.  Intense.  They all had nicknames for each other.  Tiger. Red. Curly, Tiny. Half-pint.  You can guess who was Half-pint, can't you?
    Anyway we were on Nantucket island (of course, of course), and this was around 1976 or 7, and I was about half-way to discarding the belief system of this academy football coach.  I had long hair and was into marijuana and said "whoa" a lot.  So I guess we were speeding along some road, almost raining, and I got sidetracked by something along the side of the road (whoa!).   When I looked up, or came to, or whatever, everyone was gone.  We were supposed to end up at a youth hostel, but I didn't know where that was.
    So I found a policeman.  Because there were no blocks, no signs, only ridiculous roadside clam joints and souvenir stands. I flagged down a squad car.  The policemen were positively jolly.  That's the only adjective that fits.  I remember because this demeanor was so different from the no-nonsense, harried bark that comes from a Philadelphia cop, which is what I wanted, actually, because it's the least embarrassing.  Just "Where's the hostel?"
"Nine blocks up, two right!"  And then a roar of tires and spitting gravel.  But no, that didn't happen.  These cops grinned!  "Lost, eh?"  well, well.  "Youth hostel?  I know where that is.  Other side of Siasconset!"  This of course meant nothing to me.  In my head I was screaming "What block?  What street?  What number!"

                                  continue to part 2