There was no smoking gun. No horrible family secret behind why I left. No reason at all for me, at nineteen, to leave for New York, ready for anything life had to offer--especially if it involved certain proclivities. In the time required to walk to Times Square from the Port Authority Terminal, my naivete was wiped away. I witnessed a prostitute performing her nightly hustle. In the days to follow, I was mugged twice, ripped off while trying to purchase pot, and beaten to the point of soiling myself. But a chance encounter with a young hustler led to a meeting with Mr. B, mob-connected owner of multiple clubs on Times Square, all under fire from a new mayor embarking on an anti-sleaze campaign directed squarely at The Deuce. I spent the next twenty years of my life coming of age on the streets, but now, as I speed south across the countryside, heading for my native New Orleans and a dying sister, I make a pact to leave New York in New York, only to find coming home proves harder than coming out.