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ALMOST NEW YORK CITY
Here I am, coughing up what feels like a lung, wondering why I went out the way I did last night.
They say New York City never sleeps, but I think you could say that about anywhere. ‘Sleeps’ is relative. What it comes down to is, if you want something obscure enough at an ungodly enough hour and you can’t get it, the city does. Sleep, that is.
Boulder sleeps. New York City probably does, too, but it’s not worth contesting. In Boulder, you can’t even get a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cone after ten-last night, I had blueberry pie à la mode in Times Square at one AM.
You’re probably thinking, how romantic. It wasn’t. It was just pie, and it was just Times Square, and truth be told, it was way overpriced. Plus, since I’m sick and I’ve been sucking on lozenges and Chloraseptic strips non-stop for the past couple of days, my taste buds are pretty much useless.
Maybe it was the kind of pie that gets the Literarily-inclined all hot and bothered-fireworks exploding in your mouth, and all that nonsense. But I’m betting that it wasn’t. I’m betting that it was just pie.
How I ended up in New York City in the middle of December is, my dad’s parents have a house in Greenwich. We used to come up here for Christmas every year for my first six-or-so, then my second brother was born and we started having Christmas in Boulder. Now my grandpa, my dad’s dad, has Alzheimer’s, so here we are.
Jordan, the guy I had pie with, he’s here learning about Judaism. The fact that we’re here at the same time is pure coincidence. It’s funny-the older I get, the more that happens. Seeing people my own age outside my hometown, that is.
It used to be that family vacations were a break from all that. For a week or a month, I could be as loud and obnoxious as I wanted, or as quiet and reserved-as mature or immature, because there was no basis for comparison. There were no other six-seven-eight-nine-ten-year-olds around who my parents could guilt me into acting like. There was no Susie-Who’s-So-Well-Behaved, so there was no Mina-Who’s-So-Well-Behaved. Just me.
Sure, I’d rant and rave about missing my friends and all the things I’d rather do than sit around with my parents and younger brothers on some dumb sailboat in the middle of the dumb ocean or see dumb plays at the dumb theater, but I think deep down, I liked it. I liked to be free from cruel pre-pubescent social politics-from having to construct a suitable identity every time I went out of the house.
So I’m sitting in Times Square with Jordan, and my dad calls. It’s time to go home now, he says, back to Greenwich and to bed. But he won’t be there for another ten-fifteen minutes.
------
Rewind. When Jordan met us, my family and I, the first thing we did was go to F.A.O. Schwartz.
I told my friend Golden when we watched Big that the next time I was in New York, I was going to play chopsticks on the giant F.A.O. piano. When we got there, all I could think was, how could I have been so naïve?
The piano was roped-off and surrounded by security guards. They were letting people onto its surface, sacrosanct in its new enclosure, four-at-a-time to give it their best for a full two minutes before: time’s up, next!
I didn’t play the piano.
I felt sick just being around so many people-their wallets full and hearts hollow.
For my family-the six of us plus Jordan, four younger brothers and me-wrestling our way out of the F.A.O. consumer crowd was a SWAT-caliber maneuver: a brilliant execution of timing and skill, probably the fifth that day.
Out on the street, though, it was still December, and we were just another seven faces in the crowd.
------
Fast-forward-the diner again. I ask the waitress for the bill, and she brings it. Fifteen dollars for pie and coffee. Jordan says, this could be a sit-com. I’m thinking, this could be a scene from Pulp Fiction.
The sit-com thought, they planned that. Every detail of this place is calculated: the waitress’ comforting German accent, the 50s-style booths and counters, the lighting. I don’t care, though, because tonight-I’m Mia Wallace.
I pay, and Jordan and I see my dad where two streets lined with gargantuan neon signs meet. He’s driving a white Grand Marquis-a rental. We look like tourists, and these signs look like God.
These signs make the real sights-the empire state building and the statue of liberty-look tired.
Everything is Times Square is augmented, pushy, larger-than-life. I can’t relate.
------
We have to drop Jordan off at his hotel, and that means driving past God times a thousand: elephant-sized tributes to impossible ideals.
By the time we reach the hotel, my head is swimming. I hug Jordan goodbye, and we keep driving.
I am awake-more than I’d like to be-and God makes me think about things I’d rather not.
When we get to the house, in Greenwich, all I want is oblivion. I close my eyes, and everything is quiet.
Here I am, coughing up what feels like a lung, wondering why I went out the way I did last night.
They say New York City never sleeps, but I think you could say that about anywhere. ‘Sleeps’ is relative. What it comes down to is, if you want something obscure enough at an ungodly enough hour and you can’t get it, the city does. Sleep, that is.
Boulder sleeps. New York City probably does, too, but it’s not worth contesting. In Boulder, you can’t even get a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cone after ten-last night, I had blueberry pie à la mode in Times Square at one AM.
You’re probably thinking, how romantic. It wasn’t. It was just pie, and it was just Times Square, and truth be told, it was way overpriced. Plus, since I’m sick and I’ve been sucking on lozenges and Chloraseptic strips non-stop for the past couple of days, my taste buds are pretty much useless.
Maybe it was the kind of pie that gets the Literarily-inclined all hot and bothered-fireworks exploding in your mouth, and all that nonsense. But I’m betting that it wasn’t. I’m betting that it was just pie.
How I ended up in New York City in the middle of December is, my dad’s parents have a house in Greenwich. We used to come up here for Christmas every year for my first six-or-so, then my second brother was born and we started having Christmas in Boulder. Now my grandpa, my dad’s dad, has Alzheimer’s, so here we are.
Jordan, the guy I had pie with, he’s here learning about Judaism. The fact that we’re here at the same time is pure coincidence. It’s funny-the older I get, the more that happens. Seeing people my own age outside my hometown, that is.
It used to be that family vacations were a break from all that. For a week or a month, I could be as loud and obnoxious as I wanted, or as quiet and reserved-as mature or immature, because there was no basis for comparison. There were no other six-seven-eight-nine-ten-year-olds around who my parents could guilt me into acting like. There was no Susie-Who’s-So-Well-Behaved, so there was no Mina-Who’s-So-Well-Behaved. Just me.
Sure, I’d rant and rave about missing my friends and all the things I’d rather do than sit around with my parents and younger brothers on some dumb sailboat in the middle of the dumb ocean or see dumb plays at the dumb theater, but I think deep down, I liked it. I liked to be free from cruel pre-pubescent social politics-from having to construct a suitable identity every time I went out of the house.
So I’m sitting in Times Square with Jordan, and my dad calls. It’s time to go home now, he says, back to Greenwich and to bed. But he won’t be there for another ten-fifteen minutes.
------
Rewind. When Jordan met us, my family and I, the first thing we did was go to F.A.O. Schwartz.
I told my friend Golden when we watched Big that the next time I was in New York, I was going to play chopsticks on the giant F.A.O. piano. When we got there, all I could think was, how could I have been so naïve?
The piano was roped-off and surrounded by security guards. They were letting people onto its surface, sacrosanct in its new enclosure, four-at-a-time to give it their best for a full two minutes before: time’s up, next!
I didn’t play the piano.
I felt sick just being around so many people-their wallets full and hearts hollow.
For my family-the six of us plus Jordan, four younger brothers and me-wrestling our way out of the F.A.O. consumer crowd was a SWAT-caliber maneuver: a brilliant execution of timing and skill, probably the fifth that day.
Out on the street, though, it was still December, and we were just another seven faces in the crowd.
------
Fast-forward-the diner again. I ask the waitress for the bill, and she brings it. Fifteen dollars for pie and coffee. Jordan says, this could be a sit-com. I’m thinking, this could be a scene from Pulp Fiction.
The sit-com thought, they planned that. Every detail of this place is calculated: the waitress’ comforting German accent, the 50s-style booths and counters, the lighting. I don’t care, though, because tonight-I’m Mia Wallace.
I pay, and Jordan and I see my dad where two streets lined with gargantuan neon signs meet. He’s driving a white Grand Marquis-a rental. We look like tourists, and these signs look like God.
These signs make the real sights-the empire state building and the statue of liberty-look tired.
Everything is Times Square is augmented, pushy, larger-than-life. I can’t relate.
------
We have to drop Jordan off at his hotel, and that means driving past God times a thousand: elephant-sized tributes to impossible ideals.
By the time we reach the hotel, my head is swimming. I hug Jordan goodbye, and we keep driving.
I am awake-more than I’d like to be-and God makes me think about things I’d rather not.
When we get to the house, in Greenwich, all I want is oblivion. I close my eyes, and everything is quiet.