“I LOVE your top,” the late
twenty-something guy stated as he put his hand to his heart in reverence. “My what, now?” I replied.
“Your top, I LOVE your top. The
color teal has a special place in my heart…” he continues, reminiscent,
“…because when I was younger, I had a teal Gameboy.” First of all, this long and continuous piece
of fabric covering both my top AND bottom is what we, here in 21st
century America, like to call a dress.
Secondly, is this guy OK? I feel
like maybe I should call his mom to come pick him up. Lastly, GAMEBOYS ARE GRAY. This is only my second time checking out the
blues dance scene since I’ve been in NY and it has already exceeded my wildest
expectations. Other dancers at this
particular Friday night dance include a guy who doesn’t actually like to touch
you at all when you’re dancing with him, a guy who likes to touch you entirely
too much when you’re dancing with him, and an older woman with a very serious
face as she provocatively sashays across the dance floor. Among others.
I personally love the grab bag of personalities you get at any social
dancing scene. I’ve almost forgotten
what life was like before I started dancing.
It isn’t a particularly expensive hobby.
It CAN be expensive if you’re one of the ones that take it very
seriously. Of course, I want to do more,
but when I almost over drafted my account to go to the $10 weekly Lindy dance
last week, it gave me some perspective.
I realized when I woke up a few
weeks back that I can see the sunrise in the reflection of an opposing window,
as long as that neighbor hasn’t turned their light on yet. I see vibrant pinks and blues scattered
behind fluffy clouds, if I look hard enough.
While the windows in my kitchen/living room (a.k.a. the dungeon) simply
open up to a brick wall, my bedroom windows afford me a breathtaking view of
fire escapes and windows to other lives.
Most people have their curtains drawn, but not I. I never close my blinds. I look out and wonder mostly just one thing. How can these people afford these
apartments? What do they do, harvest
human organs for the black market?
Everyone told me this city was expensive, but I had to find out for
myself.
Yesterday, Saturday, I only had one
commitment. I had to be in Brooklyn from
12-2. Because of those 2 hours, I
returned home with 5 bruises. Arriving
to my destination, I fell coming up from the subway. Matching bruises on both my knees. There was a guy standing next to me who saw
the whole thing. Naturally, he offered
no aid in my regaining composure as I struggle to get back on my feet, and
believe you me, it was a struggle. This
is New York, where you are most alone when surrounded by a bunch of New
Yorkers. Coming back, I see a sign that
my train has been re-routed (happens all the time) so I run to the other
platform only to be faced with the decision of whether or not to fight the imminently
closing subway car doors. I’ve seen
people do it many times. And one thing
I’ve always thought as I’ve seen them bravely stick a limb through the closing
doors is, “Wow, it really kinda looked like they struggled with those doors.” I now know that it’s because those doors close
with about 8 trillion pounds of pressure.
Again, I had to find out for myself.
I didn’t just stick a limb through the door, however. As I’m running towards the doors, people
inside are watching, wondering if I will go for it. I’m happy to entertain. I thrust my whole body through, with my arms
up beside my head to catch the brunt of it. I let out a little squeal as the doors
continue full speed ahead to squeeze the life right out of me. It was not unlike those machines at Sea World
that flatten and stretch pennies in order to stamp an orca on it for a
souvenir. The Metropolitan Transit
Authority was determined to flatten and leave its stamp on me. Everyone stands by. When in a situation like this, the thirst for
survival kicks in. You don’t have the
option of just giving up and hoping it all pans out in the end. You HAVE to fight the doors. No one is going to help you. It hurts and it’s scary, but you HAVE to push
back. I muster up all the strength and
energy I have and push back as hard as I can as I let out a painful groan. “DING! Stand clear of the closing doors,
please.” I did it! I’m glad I decided to have that second cup of
coffee earlier. I gasp a deep breath in,
go to the nearest available pole to hold on to, the train takes off, and it’s
business as usual. I will examine my 3
new bruises (2 on left wrist, 1 on right) when nobody is looking. Shit, I still got on the wrong train.
This train business is my greatest
cause of stress. My subway card is
almost completely useless. If I try to
get home after 10 o’clock, coming from any direction, I average about 2 hours
of travel time. At least how that’s how
it has been for the past 3 weeks. And
what’s worse is I usually end up having to get a car. Coming home last Thursday, I went to 4
different stations. I should say, I was
re-routed to 4 different stations. Each
sign said to go to a different train or station that wasn’t running or wasn’t
open. In hindsight, I’m not sure those
signs were hung by the MTA. Someone HAD
to have been having a laugh. And then it
was cold and started to rain, so I ended up getting a car, again, on top of a
subway card I already paid for (but couldn’t use.) This is me, throwing money out of all kinds
of windows. Powerless.
With that being said, I walk a
lot. I usually have my ear buds in and
I’m in my own Wes Anderson film as I walk by all the compartments. The dry cleaners, the coffee shops, the nail and
hair salons, the Turkish restaurants, the bodegas, the liquor stores, the yoga
studios, the shoe shops, the doggy daycare where the dogs are separated by size…my
neighborhood is actually pretty boring. And
while I like being able to walk to work, I signed a lease on the wrong
apartment. From home to work, it is 22
blocks. That’s 15 street blocks and 7
avenue blocks. It takes me 30 minutes
from door-to door and there are obviously many different routes to take as long
as I’m walking southwest. The more west
you go, the more soul-less the city becomes.
Park Avenue, Madison Avenue, 5Th Avenue, etc. I make jokes about not being able to
pronounce the names of the designers, but I truly haven’t a clue, nor could I
care any less. I’m not a very swanky
gal. In fact, I think that part of New
York is the very antithesis of who I am as a person. Those dogs humping each other on display at
the doggy daycare have better lives than the vast majority of children in the
rest of the world, yet these people are consumed by thoughts about what
handbags are “in” this season and what their next cosmetic operation will be.
Living in New York is constantly
being reminded that you have to pick your battles. Battles with your super, your management
company, the MTA, the electric company, the bus driver, the panhandler, your
radiator, your toilet, your breaker that trips when you use more than one
electrical device at a time. Oh the
things I took for granted. When it first
started getting cold, I heard the question thrown around a lot, “Have they
turned the heat on in your building yet?”
Central heat in a prewar building, get real. We have radiator valves in our units that we
can open or close, but it all comes down to whether or not the super turns on
the main one. I left a pathetic and
frantic voicemail for him a couple weeks ago as I was recovering from yet
another bad cold. It was frigid in my
apartment and I had the valves wide open.
I knew I probably wouldn’t get a call-back anytime soon, if at all, so I
resolved to bundle up and get under all my blankets. He apparently turned the heat on in the
middle of the night, for the sound that woke me up was unlike any other I had
heard before. The clinking and clanking
that ensued sounded as though a league of miniature banshees were playing
roller derby in my pipes. I might’ve
been perturbed if I hadn’t been so grateful for the warmth. Now when I hear the hiss of the radiator, I
consider it a creature comfort. Pick
your battles. Perspective.
Don’t look up,
Courtney
