This text to my brother pretty much sums up my first 3 weeks here:
Greazy Goombas, closet homos, anorexic business women, power mongering capitalists,
starry eyed Midwestern chewies, maniacal Euros, obsessive NY Giants fans, 12 hour work days, 1am dinner at Wendy's, rat race, bags-under-your-eyes-fatigue, grotesque wastefulness, rats in the street, tiny hot apartments with shuddering radiators, immigrant dreams, New York knuckle fuck!!!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Fortune Favors The Brave
Despite my rather grim portrait of my new life (?!) in New York, I do not have doubts about my move here. The fact is that I am a refugee, fleeing from my past failures. Like any immigrant I have brave dreams of a rosier future.
I never expected New York to be easy. Everyone knows that its not. I don’t even want easy. I don’t respect easy. I enjoy the journey. I relish the struggle.
When people ask me what brought me to New York, what made me leave sunny, idyllic California for the brutal, austerity of New York, its hard for me to answer. I didn’t come to get famous, I didn’t come to get rich, I didn’t come, really, even for school. The real reason I came is to change my destiny. Its that simple. And that complicated.
Oops I Did It Again!
Its sad to admit but I've haven't been having too much fun in NYC. My new job is running me into the ground! I've never worked so much in my life. Maybe I'm spoiled but I'm not used to 50 hour work weeks and 14 hour days with only one (unpaid) half hour break. Plus most of that time is spent on my feet frantically rushing around a busy restaurant catering to the needs of Upper Crust, Nice Enough but No Bullshit Bring-Me-What-I-Want-NOW-New Yorkers. The place is insanely busy. I spend most of my week running around (like a chicken with its head cut off), feet and legs aching, heart pounding, sweating uncomfortably in a black polyester vest and tie. It ain't glamorous, let me tell ya.
The only thing that has made my long shifts somewhat fun has been flirting with a cute busser. A lot of the guys that work there get really stressed out and aggro and yell at each other all the time. But this one is like an angel, always sweet and friendly and helpful. Not to mention tall and sexy. And only 22. Dear Lord help me!
We were riding the subway home the other day and he started up with the usual line of questions I get from non-American guys at work. It always goes like this: Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Why not?! They just can't seem to figure it out. How can a pretty, nice-seeming woman of a certain age not be with a man? How can she still be single and not even have a family? I always shut them up by telling them I am waiting for love, waiting for someone who truly has a good heart, who is loving and honest and kind. At that point I think I must seem like some crazy, high minded idealist to them.
Next thing you know we are having beers at a bar together. Then my new roommate called and told me that her boyfriend had been violent with her that day, she was staying at her sister's house and she wanted to warn me that he might try to come by the house that night. I felt horrible for her. I was tired and drunk and sad and I didn't really want to go home alone to the house with some psycho ex-boyfriend trying to get in. Honestly, there's been very, very little pleasure in my life of late. So, you can figure out what happened next...
We were crammed together in my little twin bed with the sound of the N Train constantly rumbling through the night outside my window. At five in the morning he said he couldn't sleep. He apologized and went home.
I lay alone in that little bed cursing myself. Cursing my rotten luck at love. Cursing my pathetic longing for companionship and affection. Cursing my raw need for sex and physical touch. I even thought maybe I could go to Iceland, far away from everyone I knew and end it all. Anything that would end the endless cycle of loneliness and stupidity.
In the morning I woke up. I felt OK. I'm used to these things, I guess.
The only thing that has made my long shifts somewhat fun has been flirting with a cute busser. A lot of the guys that work there get really stressed out and aggro and yell at each other all the time. But this one is like an angel, always sweet and friendly and helpful. Not to mention tall and sexy. And only 22. Dear Lord help me!
We were riding the subway home the other day and he started up with the usual line of questions I get from non-American guys at work. It always goes like this: Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Why not?! They just can't seem to figure it out. How can a pretty, nice-seeming woman of a certain age not be with a man? How can she still be single and not even have a family? I always shut them up by telling them I am waiting for love, waiting for someone who truly has a good heart, who is loving and honest and kind. At that point I think I must seem like some crazy, high minded idealist to them.
Next thing you know we are having beers at a bar together. Then my new roommate called and told me that her boyfriend had been violent with her that day, she was staying at her sister's house and she wanted to warn me that he might try to come by the house that night. I felt horrible for her. I was tired and drunk and sad and I didn't really want to go home alone to the house with some psycho ex-boyfriend trying to get in. Honestly, there's been very, very little pleasure in my life of late. So, you can figure out what happened next...
We were crammed together in my little twin bed with the sound of the N Train constantly rumbling through the night outside my window. At five in the morning he said he couldn't sleep. He apologized and went home.
I lay alone in that little bed cursing myself. Cursing my rotten luck at love. Cursing my pathetic longing for companionship and affection. Cursing my raw need for sex and physical touch. I even thought maybe I could go to Iceland, far away from everyone I knew and end it all. Anything that would end the endless cycle of loneliness and stupidity.
In the morning I woke up. I felt OK. I'm used to these things, I guess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
