I went to community college two more semesters. Instead of I poetry, I concentrated on word-processing classes. When I M felt I was skilled enough to get a job, I quit. I moved to Manhattan when a friend of a friend told me about a friend (named Gandy) who needed a roommate for a six-month sublet. My father said, “Why? You were doing so well.” I told him, “Because I’m too bored to live here,” and he just shook his head. “You always expected so much,” said my mother. “You expect even more after what happened. You have to enjoy what you have.” And I replied, “But I don’t have anything here. I need to go where I can have something.” My father looked down and left the room. I had hurt him, but he couldn’t do anything about it—I still had what was left of the French money and I could do what I wanted.