Yep. You read the title correctly. Once upon a star, I was a fashion model. Allow me to explain.
I was recruited in college at the age of 20 by our yearbook photographer. She was blinding me slowly by testing her flash setting as I held up a light meter for her.
"What's your name hun?" She asked, fiddling with an aperture setting on a camera so massively clunky that it was making the tripod creak and groan.
"Joshua." I replied looking into the camera—unsure if I should be—then trying to look anywhere but.
"That's a beautiful name. Joshua. I think if I ever had a son, I'd name him that." She shook her head, "But I won't. I had a hysterectomy after a really messy abortion." She said, nonchalantly snapping a photo of my suddenly horror-struck face.
"I'm really sorry to hear that..." I trailed off.
"It's okay. I think everything happens for a reason. Jesus didn't want me to have kids I guess. Maybe they would have grown up to be murderers or something. Even normal people like us can have kids that kill."
"Anything's possible I guess..." I was so uncomfortable that my back was bolt upright in the chair, as if we were in a plane that was going down, and my eyes were the size of dinner plates.
"You have excellent posture." She said, snapping a few more photos.
"Thanks. I think I'm just nervous. Usually I shamble around like Igor on a bender."
"You also have an exceptionally symmetrical face. And your eyes are gorgeous. What color would you say those are?"
"My ex called them baby-poop green. The description kinda stuck."
She shook her head. "You don't give yourself enough credit. The camera loves you. If you want to make some extra money, give me a call. I always need models for the talent gigs I shoot." She handed me her business card.
Weeks went by before I called. It took my credit card being declined at the school bookstore when I tried to buy a used copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At first she didn't remember who I was. She didn't even remember coming to my school.
"Who?" She asked irritated, as if I were a telemarketer.
"Baby-poop eyes." I said.
"Oh yeah. That guy. Come down to my studio and we'll take some portfolio shots."
And so I did. She photographed me in jackets, polos, t-shirts, sweaters, khakis, jeans, swim trunks, and lastly, underwear. After 2 hours of costume changes and photography, she showed me some digital proofs. I didn't see whatever it was she saw that made her so confident in my ability to shut up and look pretty, but I wasn't about to argue with free money. She invited me to a function she was going to the following weekend to meet the organizers of a talent agency—ProScout.
ProScout apparently was a big deal. Had I known this, I wouldn't have eaten 2 helpings of spaghetti and meatballs at the school cafeteria before arriving in my fat jeans and Frankenberry t-shirt. I was introduced to Sean and Rebecca who gave me a run-down of the event.
"Today is a big day. Hopefuls from all over New England are here to audition to become runway models." Sean said, clapping his hands together and practically skipping with delight.
"Sean and I are the judges. We pick who stays to work with us, and who goes home." Rebecca said flipping her hair and checking her Blackberry .
"That's great!" I said with all the feigned enthusiasm I could muster. "But what does this have to do with me? Mary, the photographer, said I should come and help you guys out today?"
"Mary has worked with us for 15 years. We trust her implicitly. Normally, we'd have you try out with the rest of the talent, but we want you to sit with us at the judge's table, observe, learn how a runway works, and tell us who YOU think would make good models. We want a fresh eye." Sean whispered to me while holding my shoulder.
"I'll certainly try my best, but I don't really know what to look for." I replied.
"Oh. You'll know it when you see it. Just look for star quality. Mary sees it in you, so maybe you can see it in others." Sean said in the manner of a life coach or camp counselor.
"I don't really follow that logic, but okay. I'm happy to help."
"Good." He took my hand and led me over to a curtained-off area behind a large stage.
I was handed over to a team of production assistants who, without saying a single word to me, took my clothes off, measured my torso, inseam, waist, chest, and neck, and then dressed me in a pair of tan capri pants, sandals, and a military shirt. They tussled my hair into a jumbled mess and threw in a pair of sunglasses to keep the nest together. I was then led over to a make-up artist who sprayed my face with something that burned, tweezed my eyebrows, and put on enough foundation to build a condo.
I tried speaking to the staff and offering protestations, but it didn't seem to matter. I was told I needed to look the part, not to struggle, and that I required a lot of work. Gee thanks.
After about an hour of prep time, the lights were dimmed in the giant conference area which had a makeshift runway set up and big curtains at it's start. Parallel to the stage on the left-hand side was a judge's table. To the stage's right were hundreds of seated people—parents of the talent—all come to watch their children be "discovered." The show was ready to begin. An announcer introduced Sean and Rebecca as the judges, and I followed them out to join them at the table. We were all set up with sparkling water, notepads, pens, and an alphabetical roster of the evening's talent. Next to each hopeful's name were 5 columns: Age, Height, Weight, Nationality, and a large blank box for Notes.
As the announcer was psyching up the crowd and the lighting was going wild, Sean leaned over to me and whispered "Just pay close attention to how they walk, how comfortable they feel in the spotlights, and then write 'yes' or 'no' in the notes column. We'll compare all our notes after the show and the talent with two or more yes's will be given contract opportunities. Sound easy enough?"
"Yes, actually. That sounds pretty easy." I replied, starting to think that this may actually be kinda fun.
All the lights except those directed on the stage were cut off. Music you'd expect to be playing at a rave started blaring, fog machines erupted—spilling mist onto the stage, and the first girl strutted out onto the runway. She was stunning. I'll never forget how confident she looked, strutting her stuff and looking like she owned the whole building even though she must have been terrified going first. I looked down at my alphabetized roster to the first name: Libby Abraham, 19, 5'10", 125 lb, English American. I picked up my pen and started to write "yes" in the notes column at the same time as Sean wrote "no" in his. I looked down the table and saw Rebecca write "fuck NO" on hers. I was at a loss for what to do. I looked back up at the stage and Libby had begun her retreat towards the curtain. The next girl was already center stage. A third girl had begun her stage entrance.
I hadn't written a single thing down yet. I panicked and began writing "maybe" for the first three names because I'd already missed the majority of their walks. By the time I looked up again there were three entirely different girls on the stage. The one walking back towards the curtain had leopard print leggings on so I wrote "no" next to her name—at least the name I thought would be hers. The girl center stage at the tip of the runway looked like a bitch so I wrote "no" for her too, and the one barreling down the runway with wild arms and elbows looked more like a freight train than a model, so I wrote "no" again. I thought I was caught up at this point and I leaned over to Sean and whispered "That was the sixth girl on the list, right?"
"Seventh." He replied while writing feverishly but never even looking down at his roster to do so.
"Fuck." I said, and started crossing off all that I'd written down and writing arrows indicating that it should be for the name one line down instead.
"The girl with the leopard pants—Jessie Adams?" I asked, thinking I'd had it all sorted out now.
"Melanie Aclent." Sean whispered back.
"Shit." I started drawing more arrows branching off of the previous ones.
"What number are we on now?" I whispered down to Rebecca, tired of interrupting Sean.
"Fourteen." She said, never looking away from the stage.
"Jesus Christ!" I snarled, and started writing yes's and no's furiously and at random to catch up.
I whipped my head around and got the attention of the nearest staff member. "I need a fucking pencil! Fuck this pen shit!" I hissed louder and angrier than I'd meant to. I think a girl on stage heard me and stumbled.
The production assistant returned with a pencil for me and I started scribbling feverishly with it. So feverishly in fact, that the tip broke after about ten minutes.
"F-U-U-U-C-K" I mouthed to nobody in particular, but Rebecca and Sean both saw me struggling and sniggered. Sean gave my shoulder a squeeze while Rebecca snapped her fingers at a crew member and a few moments later he returned with several pencils, a pencil sharpener, and a little nip of vodka which he handed to me. Not being of legal drinking age, I wasn't sure what to do, but Rebecca gave me a nod. I looked down at the list and saw that we were only up to the letter C so I chugged it down and kept writing.
It took about three hours before we reached the end of the list. The nips of vodka kept coming the entire time, so I was feeling pretty good by then. Sean and Rebecca weren't far behind me either. After Amy Zuranakis finished her walk, the lights came back on.
"Thank GAWD!" I crowed at them, standing and giving them both a high five. "It's over! We earned our paychecks today, eh kids? I am getting paid for this right? That wasn't really discussed."
And then the announcer boomed overhead "We'll take a twenty minute intermission and begin the Men's Competition!"
I fell back into my chair. I was crushed. Despondent. Defeated. My fellow judges saw me on the verge and offered their condolences.
"Don't worry, it's almost over. The Men's Competition is much shorter."
Needless to say, it was one of the longest days of my life. But, when it was over and I was thoroughly shitfaced, I had a check for $1,000 in hand as well as a modeling contract from ProScout. Sean and Rebecca thought I was not only funny, but "totally adorable." I disagreed entirely but for money like that, I was going to do whatever was required of me.
My first few gigs were as a "promotional model," which is a nice way of saying "meat puppet." Basically, you are hired to attend high brow events, looking your absolute best, and attempt to draw more people into attendance out of sheer fabulousness. One event was the opening of a Mercedes dealership. Another was the unveiling of a new line of perfumes and colognes at Neiman Marcus.
I can't possibly explain how bad I was at these jobs. Not only did I look incredibly out of place amongst my model brethren, but our personalities clashed like the cymbals at an elementary school band. Every event was composed of the same ratio of models—three or four tall, thin, beautiful women between the ages of 18 and 30, three or four incredibly buff, gym-obsessed men between the ages of 23 and 35, and myself. I was told that I was the epitome of the "boy next door." Just attractive enough to fit in with the other models, but not so attractive as to appear unobtainable or make people uncomfortable. I took this to mean that I was basically hired to be the fat girl who is kept around by her skinny friends to make them seem even thinner and prettier. Nevertheless, I was incredibly flattered. It's sort of like being told that you're upper-middle class. I was deigned upper-middle pretty.
It wasn't until after several years of working with the same agency that I transitioned into fashion modeling. In 2007, I was offered a spot in a Fall Fashion Show in New York City. I was asked to model an upcoming line of Kenneth Cole clothing and accessories to bigwig retail distributors who would hopefully like the line and carry it in their stores. My agent, Kim, was the one who told me about the offer.
"It's potentially a career highlight." She squealed excitedly over the phone. "There will only be about 20 models total. They've been hand-picked by Kenneth's own people!"
"A career highlight? I have a career—and it's not modeling. This is just to get by. And why me? I've never done fashion before. Let alone runway. I don't know what I'm doing." I fretted.
"Because with the bad economy, high fashion is changing to accommodate the masses. You represent the masses. You're the boy next door."
"Ugh! Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because it's true. You have a very likable face and you're tall and thin—but not too thin as to look like an addict—so stuff looks good on you. Plus, pale is very 'in' right now. People aren't spending money on tanning anymore."
"Gee. Thanks Kim."
"Now, let me go over the details of the contract with you. There's some things you should be aware of first."
"Such as?" I sensed her nervousness at telling me everything.
"Well... for starters the show is in less than 2 months."
"Okay... so what?"
"That gives you only a month before your fitting—before which you need to drop about 12 pounds." She said solemnly.
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah. They want you at 150 lb or less."
"You just said I was thin but not too thin! What happened to that?"
"Don't take it personal. It's just business. There's more."
"What else?" I snapped.
"You can't cut your hair between now and the show."
"Okay."
"You can't bite your nails."
"Okay."
"You can't shave for at least two weeks before the show."
"Okay."
"They will be sending you a skin care package. You have to use everything in the package prior to the show."
"Okay."
"If you go outside between now and then, you have to wear SPF 50 or higher. You can't be tanned."
"Okay."
"You have to go to New York one month before the show for a fitting."
"Okay"
"You have to attend an after party following the show wearing a designated outfit from the line and mingle with the retailers."
"Okay"
"At the after party, there will be an open bar and h'orderves. You cannot eat or drink while in attendance."
"Okay."
Silence.
"Is that ALL?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom.
"Yes. That appears to be everything."
"You can tell Kenneth Cole to FUCK HIMSELF!" I screeched.
"It pays $5,000 and you get to keep the clothes." She chirped.
"Sold."
For the next month I was a hermit. I didn't leave the house except to go to work and back—for fear of the sun. I didn't cut my hair. I didn't shave towards the end of the month. I spent hours putting on all the lotions and creams and vials that were shipped to me. And, I was a raging bitch to everyone around me because of my soup-only diet. I was miserable. I would step on the scale every morning and fly into a frenzy when it wasn't going down fast enough. I would burst into tears at the drop of a hat. I became hated and feared by friends and coworkers alike. They all wanted to hear specifics about the show and thought it was all very exciting—which in hindsight is true—but in my current state I would just complain sourly.
Three days before my fitting in New York City I was having a tantrum in my tiny bathroom in Somerville, Massachusetts. I had stepped on the scale again—156 pounds. I had only lost 6 pounds during my diet and was expected to lose another 6 in three days. I had never felt fat or ugly in my life before then. Strange how being selected for something that was supposed to be an honor—a testament to your looks—only made me feel hideous and ashamed. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself with scraggly, long hair, beard stubble, and a sunken, paler-than-usual face. It was then that I decided this would be my last modeling venture. It simply wasn't worth it.
In the meantime, I was determined to see my contract through. I had come this far and wasn't going back. Plus, the money had already been spent. I stopped eating altogether and was only drinking water until my fitting. Occasionally I would switch it up by drinking a diet soda or lemonade. It was a wretched experience but I made it down to 152 pounds by my fitting. I figured that was close enough.
The drive to New York City from Boston was riddled with traffic so I was an hour late for my fitting. When I arrived, there was a squad of stylists and irritated tailors at the ready.
"Hi!" I chirped at the sour-looking group. "I'm really sorry I'm late. The traffic was awful and I couldn't find any parking so I had to use a valet. I've never used a valet before in my life. I Don't suppose you guys validate?"
A man in black with a headset and clipboard held up his hand to silence me and grunted "Name?"
"Josh." I said. "Degregorio." I quickly added when he scowled at me.
"Ah yes. Here you are. At the very bottom of the list." He said smugly, and implying that the bottom of the list was somehow fitting.
"So... what do I do now?" I asked.
"Nothing." He replied, turning his back to me and assessing several racks of clothing. "It's what you people are good at."
The man in black—I never did learn his name—was so surly and rude during my entire fitting that at one point I had to excuse myself to the bathroom just to cry in a stall for a while. When I returned, I was greeted with another dig.
"I hope you were throwing up in there. You need to fit into these corduroys."
There were a million insults I wanted to hurl at this odious man, but none of them were worth five-thousand dollars so I kept my mouth shut. I was also paranoid that he would purposely ruin whatever I was supposed to wear and send me down the runway in pajama jeans and a windbreaker.
The man in black and four minions all took my measurements—being extremely careful to call me fat at every opportunity—and then began tailoring whatever I was supposed to wear for the show. After my measurements were taken, my confidence shattered, and the tailors had set to work on altering the clothes, I was sent to the lounge to wait for my fitting. In the lounge there were about fifteen beautiful models relaxing in chairs and on couches, all chatting up a storm. Until I came in.
A hush fell over everybody when I entered the room. I thought I was in trouble when they set their scrutinizing gaze upon me, but it only lasted a few seconds. Then they were all smiles and eager to welcome me into their clan. Apparently, I was deemed "not a threat" to their careers and they could all relax again. My mediocre boy next door looks had put people at ease once more.
The hotel that we were in was kind enough to leave out a tray of finger sandwiches while we waited for our actual fitting. The platter of sandwiches was completely untouched. As was the tray of cookies. The only thing my model kin were consuming was bottled water for the girls and some foul-smelling protein shakes for the guys. I felt terrible that somebody went through the trouble to arrange all this food and it was all being wasted. Not to mention that I hadn't eaten in days. I walked over to the table and picked up a large peanut butter chip cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. There was a collective gasp as I took a bite of it, and stunned silence as I devoured it before their very eyes.
When we were called back into the conference room to try on our freshly tailored outfits, I was excited to see what was laid out for me. I was completely giddy when I saw the tailored jacket, jeans, cardigan, cute suede boots, and messenger bag. The second and third outfits I was to wear were also cute. Relief flooded over me. The Man in Black hadn't screwed me over.
Tailors and seamstresses helped me get dressed and pinned everything in place because it was ridiculously tight. I was warned that I should drop some more weight if I didn't want to look like a summer sausage in the getup. When I asked why they didn't simply tailor the clothes to fit me, I was told, quote:
"We would run out of fabric trying to work around those hips."
I spent the remaining month before the show on the Atkins diet. I managed to drop down to an all-time low of 148 pounds (not bad for someone that's 6 feet, 2 inches). I was determined not to give any of the horrible production crew reason to call me fat or have some sort of "costume malfunction" on the runway and make the local news.
The runway show was to begin at the W Hotel in Times Square at 7 pm. You might think that we had to show up an hour or two before-hand to get changed. In fact, we had to show up at 7 am. Because we had to be on-site so early and I lived far away, they put me up in the hotel the night before. It was beautiful and even though I had to share my room with a frat boy hick from Tennessee, I enjoyed myself. A beautiful breakfast platter was delivered to the room at 5 am. I was so nervous about the day's events that my stomach roiled at the sight of food and I threw up for twenty minutes after the room service man left. I've always wondered why the production staff sent us food knowing that we weren't allowed to eat anything. Was it all pure spite and malice? Was there a hidden camera in the room? I bet the Man in Black got a big kick out of me heaving up peanut butter cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. Emphasis on chunks.
When we all stumbled down to the giant hotel conference room, we were introduced to Trevor and Dee. They were our runway coaches for the day. In the conference room there was a 50-foot long, 6-foot wide runway set up. We were informed that for the next 4 hours we belonged to Trevor and Dee and that we had to get our walks perfect. To do this, we had to make sure the conditions would be identical to how they would be that night.
The curtains were drawn completely closed and we were plunged into darkness. Stage lights were turned on to illuminate the runway. At the beginning of the runway in front of gold curtains, Trevor and Dee appeared suddenly in a plume of smoke. They glided down the stage towards us, like a pack of Nosferatu, reached the end, backed up several steps, turned around sharply, and glided back to the starting point, struck one last pose, and disappeared behind the curtains.
Most of the models clapped and applauded the display. I was dumbstruck. To me, it looked completely ridiculous and I was dreading it.
We broke out into groups for the next few hours. First we were handed over to tailors for final fittings and to put on an outfit we would be wearing this evening. Then we were given to stylists for hair and makeup preparation. And finally, when looking just as we would for the show, we were given over to Trevor and Dee for more private runway lessons.
The morning got progressively worse as I went through these stages of preparation. The final fitting was awful and nothing fit quite right. The tailors lamented and chastised me for losing weight since the last fitting—even though I was told to—because now everything had to be reworked.
When I went to styling, I was informed that my hair was going to be cut shorter. This, I was happy about. Until the stylist started cutting and moussing and gelling and brought out a mirror to show me what remained—a fauxhawk. For those of you that don't know what a fauxhawk is, it's like a mohawk except instead of being shaved on the sides of your head, the hair is gelled flat to your skull while a longer, middle patch of hair is left tussled and un-gelled. It looked awful. Tears started to rise, but I pushed them back down, knowing that I could get it all cut tomorrow when I was rid of this place.
"There. Now you're the boy next door with an edge!" The stylist said, admiring her work.
"I'm a monster." I retorted.
She just chuckled and sent me over to Trevor for runway lessons.
Unlike the majority of the production people, Trevor was a kind and patient teacher. Locked away in the dark conference room, he taught me the best ways to walk on the narrow runway, how to not be blinded by the lighting, how to walk in rhythm to the music that would be playing, and how to be pose more subtly than he had demonstrated earlier. I'd like to point out how difficult it is to walk a straight line in bright lighting, on a runway covered in mist, and keep time to techno music all the while. My cute, but exceedingly large boots didn't help matters and it was a struggle to not make noise stomping around in them. The trickiest part, however, was actually passing the oncoming model as you are entering and exiting the stage. Why they don't make runways wide enough to accommodate two people side by side is a mystery, but they don't. You both have to sort of fold yourselves up and make room so you don't smash into each other in passing. This is when I had my first collision.
I was doing fine until The Man in Black arrived to witness everyone's progress. I knew something insidious was coming when he actually complimented me on my walk.
"It's really coming together Josh. You're doing an excellent job with them Trevor."
Trevor beamed at this.
"Uh... thank you." I stammered from the stage.
"But there's something not quite right here...your messenger bag. It looks flat and lifeless. See how it swings as you walk on the stage? We need to weigh it down a bit. We need it to look full and utilitarian—like you're a student on the way to class."
"Want me to put some books in it?" I asked.
"No...something more weighty but not so big as to make it look like its bursting..." He pondered aloud.
"I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "I'll be back. As you were."
A few minutes later the Man in Black returned with 2 bricks stolen from a construction site down the block.
"Put these in your bag." He handed them to me. "It will calm the bag down without it looking too full."
"Bricks? Really? This seems excessive." I worried aloud.
"It's perfect." The Man in Black was grinning at me.
At the first runway rehearsal with everyone outfitted and walking in order of actual appearance, I slammed into another model with my wrecking ball of a bag and he went tumbling off the stage. Thankfully, he was mostly unharmed.
"What the fuck is wrong with you dude?" He shouted from the ground. "Are you fucking retarded?"
"Well I must be—walking around with a bag full of fucking bricks!" I yelled back.
"Calm down boys. Let's start over." Trevor said from the sidelines, shaking his head.
We did 10 full rehearsals before everyone got it right. Not only is it a combination of everyone walking properly and without conflict on the stage, but it's also a task for the production crew to strip everyone naked as soon as they get back behind the curtains and change them into their second and third outfits without messing up hair and makeup. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, cursing, sweating, and yelling to be heard over the music. If you're ever wondering why the music is so loud at fashion shows—it's so you don't hear the shouting behind the curtains and clomping of heavy shoes on the runway.
The actual show went off without a hitch and was well-received. The clothes were beautifully designed and well-made. A lot of work went into everything, and it showed. There was much applause from the crowd as we were backstage. Trevor was behind the curtains clutching a crucifix necklace and praying silently. Admittedly, I was praying too.
Before the after party began, I had to go up to my room and take a shower because I was drenched in sweat. I don't think I have ever been so nervous in my life. I thought for sure that I was shaking as I was walking the runway, but nobody said anything if I was. I was just so incredibly thankful the show was over that I was actually looking forward to the party. It was supposed to be a chance to relax a bit and give retailers a closer look at the articles of clothing they liked. Relaxing it was not.
Maybe for those people who could eat and drink it was a fun time. For the rest of us, it consisted of being poked and prodded like mannequins. I had several drunk men and women cop a feel with the claim that they wanted to see how the clothes "breathed" in the crotch and ass area. The poor female models had it the worst. Horny old men were blatantly grabbing their breasts and asking how the clothes offered "support."
I had one middle-aged woman with gin on her breath shove a martini in my face and tell me to drink because I "looked like I needed to loosen up." Three polite refusals later, she was still pushing a drink on me and when I pushed it back towards her she spilled it all over herself and stormed off in a huff.
By 10 o'clock the party was still going on and I was getting light-headed with hunger. Watching everyone eat and drink when your stomach is empty is torture. I decided that eating something was crucial to not passing out in the middle of the party—regardless of the rules, I'm sure they wouldn't want that on their hands. When I was sure nobody was looking in my direction, I stole a tray of vegetable tempura with dipping sauce and ran into the bathroom. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and devoured the entire platter, washing it down with the sauce. I left the empty tray in the bathroom, gargled with some tap water so I wouldn't be accused of—dare I say it—eating, and quickly hurried back out to the party.
By midnight, the party was winding down and we were excused to our rooms. I insisted on not spending the night and just wanted to drive home. I was given the remaining clothes I wore in the show and my choice of several other designer items in my size and ran out the door.
Before I started the long ride home on I-95, I stopped at the first restaurant open late—McDonald's—and ordered a 50-piece chicken nugget, 3 Big Macs, 2 large fries, a chocolate shake, large Coke, and 2 apple pies. The cashier didn't even bat an eye as the boy slathered with makeup, a fauxhawk, and wearing Fall clothes in the middle of Summer devoured a meal meant for 5. That's one thing I love about New York City—no matter how crazy you look, people have seen worse.
Several weeks later, I got my $5,000 check in the mail. Along with the check was a 1099 form indicating I had to file the wages on my taxes, as well as a dry cleaning bill for $135 from the old bat who spilled a drink on herself. By this time, none of the cute clothes I'd received from the show even came close to fitting. I gave most of them to Goodwill and was glad to be rid of all remnants of the experience.
Anybody want an autograph from The Boy Next Door? Thought not.
Tales of a tactless twit
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Mistaken For A Prostitute
Not too long ago, on a beautiful Fall morning, I was outside on the corner waiting for my bus. It was on this morning that I was solicited as a prostitute.
The morning started out pretty spectacularly. I love autumn. I love the weather, the changing leaves, the way the air feels so crisp, and I love that it enables the layering of cute clothes without the necessity of a jacket. I woke up, showered, shaved, and picked out what I thought was a snazzy outfit—skinny-fit tan cords with a bright yellow t-shirt and matchingly bright, retro cardigan. I was fortunate enough to be working for a church at the time and there was no corporate dress code—it was come as you are. So, to match my hipster clothes, I had let my hair grow longer than usual so that it came down to my eyes and shoulders.
Before I left the house, I did the standard mirror-check while brushing my snaggle-teeth. Looking good.
I grabbed my messenger bag with requisite ipod and book for the ride into work, and left to go wait at the empty bus stop. Situated on the corner of my fairly busy street and an even busier thoroughfare, there was a lot of street traffic. Occasionally I would glance up from reading my book and look down the road to see if the bus was approaching, but mostly I was engrossed in my sci-fi and indie music. No sign of the bus. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb.
I looked up to see a large silver Lexus idling there. The tinted passenger side window started rolling down. I saw a man in his mid-40's or so leaning over the column to get my attention. I thought nothing of this behavior at all. People are always pulling me aside in my neighborhood to ask me for directions—usually how to get the hell out of my neighborhood. I took my earbuds off, closed my book, and approached the car so I could hear the man.
"Hi!" I chirped.
"Hey there." He replied with what I thought was an abnormally large grin.
"...Can I help you?" I asked after a few seconds of quiet.
"Oh yes. I think so." He said in a half-chuckle.
A few more seconds of quiet.
"So... you workin'?" He asked in typical Bostonian.
At this point, any sane person would have stepped away from the car, realizing instantly what was happening—possibly before he even spoke. I, however, stood there, bent over, looking at him with a blank stare.
"I'm sorry?" I stammered.
"Are you workin'?" He repeated.
I didn't understand what was happening. My feeble mind couldn't grasp the very clear scenario. It was full of sweaters and shoes and Project Runway and thousands of miles from the stupid boy being propositioned. It felt like I was standing there, hunched over for hours even though it was only minutes at most. I tried desperately to comprehend what he was asking. Do I work at the bus stop? Like a driver taking a break? Does he think I work for the city? Oh! Maybe he thinks I'm an undercover cop?
The man with the wedding ring, mustache, and Lexus was getting impatient, watching his trick stand there like a deranged banana slug. He let out a very deep sigh and shook his married head.
"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A DATE OR WHAT?" He barked, snapping me out of my ponderings.
Something all of my friends and family know about me is that when I'm nervous, I laugh. I laugh so hard that I start snorting and can't breathe. This poses particular problems in job interviews and being pulled over.
I was very nervous. I started giggling. Realization hit me like a pigeon turd from above—sudden and sloppy. The absurdity of the situation got the better of me and I wasn't even able to reply. I started backing away from the car, shaking my head, and giggling uncontrollably. I started snorting and dropped my book to the sidewalk, doubling over.
Clearly annoyed, the man rolled up his window and sped off through a red light to get away from the crazy laughing hooker. This happened just in time for the bus to arrive.
I got on the bus, paid my fare, and found a seat. I was laughing and crying the whole ride. Fellow riders gave me a very wide berth that morning.
When I got to work and told my coworkers what had happened, they were shocked.
"I can't believe a man was looking for a prostitute at 8 a.m. at a bus stop!" One said.
"I wonder why he thought you were for sale, you look fine to me. Especially if you were reading a book." Another chimed in.
I marched into my boss's office to get his outraged thoughts on the scenario.
"Do I look like a hooker to you?" I asked indignantly.
"I could see that." He replied after not much thought.
"WHAT?!" I shrilled.
"Well, with your long hair and weird clothes, you look like you could be on drugs. Plus you're really pale. I can see the confusion."
And so, my nice Fall morning ended abruptly.
I thought I was totally cute and hipster, but I was really just hooker.
The morning started out pretty spectacularly. I love autumn. I love the weather, the changing leaves, the way the air feels so crisp, and I love that it enables the layering of cute clothes without the necessity of a jacket. I woke up, showered, shaved, and picked out what I thought was a snazzy outfit—skinny-fit tan cords with a bright yellow t-shirt and matchingly bright, retro cardigan. I was fortunate enough to be working for a church at the time and there was no corporate dress code—it was come as you are. So, to match my hipster clothes, I had let my hair grow longer than usual so that it came down to my eyes and shoulders.
Before I left the house, I did the standard mirror-check while brushing my snaggle-teeth. Looking good.
I grabbed my messenger bag with requisite ipod and book for the ride into work, and left to go wait at the empty bus stop. Situated on the corner of my fairly busy street and an even busier thoroughfare, there was a lot of street traffic. Occasionally I would glance up from reading my book and look down the road to see if the bus was approaching, but mostly I was engrossed in my sci-fi and indie music. No sign of the bus. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb.
I looked up to see a large silver Lexus idling there. The tinted passenger side window started rolling down. I saw a man in his mid-40's or so leaning over the column to get my attention. I thought nothing of this behavior at all. People are always pulling me aside in my neighborhood to ask me for directions—usually how to get the hell out of my neighborhood. I took my earbuds off, closed my book, and approached the car so I could hear the man.
"Hi!" I chirped.
"Hey there." He replied with what I thought was an abnormally large grin.
"...Can I help you?" I asked after a few seconds of quiet.
"Oh yes. I think so." He said in a half-chuckle.
A few more seconds of quiet.
"So... you workin'?" He asked in typical Bostonian.
At this point, any sane person would have stepped away from the car, realizing instantly what was happening—possibly before he even spoke. I, however, stood there, bent over, looking at him with a blank stare.
"I'm sorry?" I stammered.
"Are you workin'?" He repeated.
I didn't understand what was happening. My feeble mind couldn't grasp the very clear scenario. It was full of sweaters and shoes and Project Runway and thousands of miles from the stupid boy being propositioned. It felt like I was standing there, hunched over for hours even though it was only minutes at most. I tried desperately to comprehend what he was asking. Do I work at the bus stop? Like a driver taking a break? Does he think I work for the city? Oh! Maybe he thinks I'm an undercover cop?
The man with the wedding ring, mustache, and Lexus was getting impatient, watching his trick stand there like a deranged banana slug. He let out a very deep sigh and shook his married head.
"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A DATE OR WHAT?" He barked, snapping me out of my ponderings.
Something all of my friends and family know about me is that when I'm nervous, I laugh. I laugh so hard that I start snorting and can't breathe. This poses particular problems in job interviews and being pulled over.
I was very nervous. I started giggling. Realization hit me like a pigeon turd from above—sudden and sloppy. The absurdity of the situation got the better of me and I wasn't even able to reply. I started backing away from the car, shaking my head, and giggling uncontrollably. I started snorting and dropped my book to the sidewalk, doubling over.
Clearly annoyed, the man rolled up his window and sped off through a red light to get away from the crazy laughing hooker. This happened just in time for the bus to arrive.
I got on the bus, paid my fare, and found a seat. I was laughing and crying the whole ride. Fellow riders gave me a very wide berth that morning.
When I got to work and told my coworkers what had happened, they were shocked.
"I can't believe a man was looking for a prostitute at 8 a.m. at a bus stop!" One said.
"I wonder why he thought you were for sale, you look fine to me. Especially if you were reading a book." Another chimed in.
I marched into my boss's office to get his outraged thoughts on the scenario.
"Do I look like a hooker to you?" I asked indignantly.
"I could see that." He replied after not much thought.
"WHAT?!" I shrilled.
"Well, with your long hair and weird clothes, you look like you could be on drugs. Plus you're really pale. I can see the confusion."
And so, my nice Fall morning ended abruptly.
I thought I was totally cute and hipster, but I was really just hooker.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Why I Hate Dating
There are plenty of reasons to hate dating. It is time-consuming, expensive, and most of the time proves to be fruitless. My biggest fear about dating is the first disappointment—whether it's disappointment in my date or theirs in me—typically it's the latter.
Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.
I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.
The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:
Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?
Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.
Noah: Excuse me?
Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?
Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—
Me: YES!
Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?
Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'
Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?
Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.
Noah: Do you like French cuisine?
Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?
Noah: Do you like French wines?
Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.
Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.
Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.
Noah: You must know how attractive you are.
Me: I... You're... Thank you.
Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.
Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.
Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.
I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.
Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.
When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.
Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:
"So... where do you go to Temple?"
Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."
"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"
"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."
"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.
"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.
He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.
"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."
"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."
He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."
"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.
"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."
"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"
"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."
"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.
"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.
"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."
The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.
When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.
"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."
My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.
To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."
Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.
I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.
The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:
Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?
Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.
Noah: Excuse me?
Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?
Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—
Me: YES!
Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?
Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'
Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?
Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.
Noah: Do you like French cuisine?
Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?
Noah: Do you like French wines?
Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.
Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.
Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.
Noah: You must know how attractive you are.
Me: I... You're... Thank you.
Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.
Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.
Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.
I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.
Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.
When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.
Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:
"So... where do you go to Temple?"
Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."
"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"
"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."
"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.
"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.
He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.
"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."
"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."
He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."
"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.
"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."
"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"
"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."
"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.
"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.
"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."
The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.
When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.
"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."
My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.
To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Trouble With Public Transit
Regardless of your political affiliation, stance on global warming, or whether you're a social butterfly or hermit, I think there is something we can all agree on—public transportation is a good idea—but we never want to have to use it. In my eyes, the reason is very simple: public transportation is open to the public.
Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.
The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.
Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.
The Woman on Crack. Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:
"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"
The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:
"I ain't got no job!"
*CLAP*
"I ain't got no money!"
*CLAP*
"Nobody cares about me!"
*CLAP*
Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.
The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"
"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.
The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.
Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.
I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.
Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.
I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.
She whips around in her seat towards me,
I see something black and shiny in her hand.
I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.
Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.
The crazy bitch took my picture. I imagine it looks something like this:
She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?
Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.
The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.
Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.The Woman on Crack. Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:
"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"
The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:
"I ain't got no job!"
*CLAP*
"I ain't got no money!"
*CLAP*
"Nobody cares about me!"
*CLAP*
Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.
The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"
"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.
The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.
Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.
I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.
Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.
I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.
She whips around in her seat towards me,
I see something black and shiny in her hand.
I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.
Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.
The subway car stops, I hear the ding as the doors open, and I hear the Bag Lady jump out of her seat and scurry out the doors. As she's leaving I hear the distinctive whirring sound of her advancing the film on a disposable camera.
She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
New York City Apartment
We all know that New York City is the most populated city in America, but let me clarify exactly what that means.
In the year 2010, New York City is currently estimated to house 8.3 million people. The entire population of the United States is currently estimated at 307 million. That means roughly 2.7% of the United States' population is in New York City alone. Did you know that Manhattan in its entirety is 23 square miles? And that it holds 1.6+ million people? That's 66,490 people per square mile. The population density of the entire United States is approximately 76 people per square mile.
So what do all these numbers translate to in real life? Basically it means that New York City is an overcrowded, loud, filthy cesspool where dreams go to die. Sure, some of you starving artists might make a name for yourselves in the Big Apple, but most of you will be on the next Fung Wah bus home. Even if only 1% of the population in NYC is aspiring to realize the same dream as you, that means you have 83,000 competitors. Are you really a better actor, writer, singer, dancer, artist, or stock broker than 83,000 neighbors? I thought not. I tell you these things not to crush your spirit, I simply want to save you from a non-refundable security deposit, first, and last month's rent, and probably a realtor/finder's fee—a combined price tag averaging $4,950 for a one-bedroom in the city limits.
If I haven't successfully scared you off this notion of moving to New York City to follow your dreams, let me tell you one of my many personal tales of woe when moving there.
Doe-eyed and innocent, my friend Leanne and I hopped into my car the weekend before we were supposed to move to NYC. Our mission was to drive into Manhattan, secure a cheap apartment, and move in the following week. A week's time might not seem like enough to get an apartment and move, but we were assured by many people, realtors included, to wait until the last minute to find a place. The turnover rate for rentals in the city is so high that nobody lists apartments more than a month ahead of time—and if they do, there is something horribly wrong with it.
We scraped together our pennies, printed out some craigslist ads, and went in search of the perfect 2-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Our first stop: the East Village. We arrived an hour late because of traffic and taking the wrong bridge that instead led us directly into a Chinatown fish market. The smell was unbearable and it was impossible to get around when all the roads were either blocked off by police or by giant dragon floats. We instead parked the car as soon as we could and walked to our first appointment.
We knocked on the door of the seemingly nice building but got no response. We rang the bell. Nothing. We knocked a little louder. Nothing. We called the contact number listed. Nothing. Frustrated, we turned to walk away when the door banged open. A middle-aged woman in an over-sized t-shirt with no bra was standing there squinting at us.
"Yeahhh?" She asked with a New Jersey accent.
"Hi, we're here to see the apartment...sorry we're late. Are you the person we spoke to over email?"
"Naw. I'm here with my boyfriend from Jersey. We just stayed the night...partied a little too hard and just woke up. My cousin couldn't be here. You wanna come in and see the place?"
"Sure."
We went inside and had to shuffle sideways down the extremely narrow (and obviously illegal) hallway to the first bedroom. Asleep in a sleeping bag surrounded by cigarette butts and empty cans of Miller Light was the boyfriend. The room couldn't have been bigger than 10' x 10' and being on the first floor with a window right onto 1st avenue, it was extremely loud. We were then ushered into the "second bedroom" which actually had us giggling. We had to take turns going in and out of the room because it wouldn't fit more than 2 people at a time. It housed no bed, only a small secretary desk against one wall, and that's all it would allow. With one doorway into the other bedroom and another doorway into the kitchen, it was more like a nexus than a room—it had no windows, no closet, and no floor—just subflooring.
Continuing into the kitchen we encountered an ungodly smell accompanied with a sink full of month-old dishes and grime. There was a fully-formed spiderweb complete with eggsacs on one of the faux-wood cabinets, and in place of a pull-out drawer underneath the countertop was a layer of duct tape.
Jersey ushered us into our final stop in the morning's tour—the bathroom. Leanne went in first and immediately about-faced and exited, covering her mouth. I peered in to see a giant dump in the toilet peeking it's head over the bowl and slowly oozing down onto the broken-tile floor. We exited the apartment immediately.
Sitting in a park right outside the building after having seen the horrors within, we collected ourselves and began to scour over the city's newspaper for apartment listings—the Village Voice. Finding nothing else in Manhattan within even $500 of our price range, we decided it might be best to try extending our search into the burroughs. We'd both heard good things about Queens so we called a few places in an up and coming neighborhood called Astoria. All but one were already rented so we agreed to go see it.
As I was hanging up the phone with Lucas—our future landlord, a fight was breaking out between two homeless men on a bench across from us. It went a little something like this:
"Hey fuck-face, where's my fucking Metrocards?" (Metrocards are what you use to access NYC's subway system.)
"I dunno. I ain't seen 'em"
"Don't fuckin' lie to me Roger, I know you been looking at 'em."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Go home." (To the shelter, I assume).
"I ain't goin' home without my fuckin' metrocards. They were hidden in my shoe, what did you do with 'em?"
"Your shoes? I threw them away."
"What the FUCK is wrong with you man? You threw my shoes away?"
"Yep."
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Gone."
Throwing up his hands and walking away, the angry man said matter of factly "You're gonna get shot." And left to retrieve his gun.
It was at this point that we covered our faces with the newspaper and started running down Avenue A towards Chinatown and the parked car.
When we got to the car it had been keyed and there was a $75 parking ticket on the windshield. Furious and terrified we set out to see the apartment in Astoria, Queens. 45 Minutes later when we still hadn't arrived in Astoria, we called the landlord to ask for directions.
"What do you see around you? Any landmark buildings?" He asked us.
"Nothing," I replied, "Just highway and hills."
"You must be in New Jersey. You went the wrong way on the tunnel, you gotta turn around, go back through Manhattan, and out the other side to Queens."
On the verge of tears, we turned around. 2 Hours after our expected arrival, we pulled up in front of the apartment building. It was nondescript and the apartment was on the first floor, which made me nervous in the city. We were let inside and were happy to find that both bedrooms were a decent size, along with a small but reasonable living room, kitchen, and bathroom. It all had nice woodwork, hardwood floors. and was freshly painted white. Wanting to be done with the search already after having only seen 2 apartments, we took it.
At $1,600 a month, we shelled out $4,800 for first, last, and security deposit. I'd never written a check for that much before. The instant his sausage fingers closed around it, I regretted the entire operation. We drove home, trying to be excited that we found an apartment and convince ourselves that we hadn't made a huge mistake.
The following week we packed up our meager belongings and drove our U-Haul to New York City during a snowstorm. With help from friends and family, it didn't take too long to get everything inside. They left right after the last box was in, trying to get home before the snow got worse and roads started to close. Leanne and I wandered around the apartment in a daze, stumbling around boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt entirely like a dream. We'd try and look out the windows to confirm that we were in fact in our new home in the middle of New York City, but all we could see was white.
That evening, trying to focus on unpacking and getting settled, we started to see all the flaws in the apartment. My room faced a busy street and people could peer inside easily. Paranoid, I threw a blanket across the windows and unpacked in the dark because there was no overhead light or lightswitch. I rummaged through my boxes and pulled out a desk lamp for some light. I hunted around, tripping over boxes, searching the walls for an outlet—there was only one. One solitary outlet in my entire room. Walking out into the living room, I searched the walls—one outlet. The kitchen—one outlet. I walked into Leanne's room where she sat on the floor, crying quietly into a balled-up sweater.
"Whats wrong?" I asked, leaning down to hug her.
"There's no outlets. There's no closet. There's no stairs on the fire escape outside my window. This place is ridiculous. There's a window in the living room that faces a brick wall, and below there is just a pit. A dark, scary bottomless pit."
Things never really improved in the apartment. We had a fly infestation, a moth infestation, a roach infestation, an Asian Long-Horned beetle infestation, mice in our walls, and a sketchy-as-hell landlord who lived upstairs and would disappear for months at a time—sending thugs to bang on our door and collect our rent checks. We also figured out that there was a gaggle of 20-somethings living in the unfinished basement. It was unclear if they were squatting or if they were illegally renting the space, but they would come and go without speaking to either of us. The only way we'd even know if they were home is when we'd smell pot smoke wafting through our floor vents.
Through the Summer months, our apartment was so hot that we would stay locked in our bedrooms with our window air conditioners on—plugged into our solitary outlet—and sit in the dark. It was near impossible to sleep with the deafening city sounds after growing up in the country. Outside of Leanne's window facing away from the street, she had to put up with the constant barking of a pit bull, the shrill fighting of an unhappy couple, and the blasting latin music from a neighbor's boombox. At the front of the house, I got to hear the drunk people walking by my window and shouting, car horns, car alarms, ambulances, and sirens. Most of these nights we would stumble out of our rooms and into the living room, looking exhausted, sweaty, naked, and generally defeated. There we would sit on the couch together, watching reruns and late-night infomercials on basic cable from the television plugged into our single living room outlet.
When our lease was up, we moved into a different apartment in Long Island City, Queens. Our address was easy to remember—2548 44th st, 3R. Simple, right? This time not only did we get suckered into first and last month's rent plus security deposit, but we also had to pay a realtor's fee, making it a more expensive apartment than our last one even though the rent was a mere $1450/month. Again, the place seemed great at the time. 2 nice bedrooms, huge living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Because it was so full of the current tenant's junk when we looked at it, we didnt get to do a thorough inspection. It wasn't until we moved in that we went around counting electrical outlets—one in each bedroom again. None in the kitchen except what the fridge and stove were already plugged into. None in the bathroom.
Our first week there we heard the all too familiar sound of scratching between our bedroom walls, complete with wood shavings and mouse droppings everywhere. The apartment was on the 3rd floor of a 4-story walk-up, and the heat during the summer was unrelenting. If you left milk on the counter, it soured in minutes. We had a bag of potatoes in the cabinet that went bad within a week. Leanne reached up, pulled the top of the plastic bag off the shelf, and the bag swung downwards and back upwards at her face, spraying a trail of rotten potato juice all over her clothes and face. It was the color of bile. She vomited on the floor.
Some other highlights from this apartment include it being a 20-minute, agonizing walk to the nearest train or bus station, the landlord spoke no English, it was near a police station so we could hear every siren wailing as a police car raced by, and also near the La Guardia airport so we could hear every low-flying plane break the sound barrier. We broke our lease and moved back home after six months at the second apartment. We had both gone through about 10-15 jobs each, all of our cash, and all of our patience.
If you value any shred of solitude, quiet, savings, cleanliness, or courtesy from your fellow man, then this is not the city for you to live in. By all means, visit, but for the love of Pete, don't stay! And to those of you 8.3 million people from New York City, I'd tell you to go to hell, but you're already there.
In the year 2010, New York City is currently estimated to house 8.3 million people. The entire population of the United States is currently estimated at 307 million. That means roughly 2.7% of the United States' population is in New York City alone. Did you know that Manhattan in its entirety is 23 square miles? And that it holds 1.6+ million people? That's 66,490 people per square mile. The population density of the entire United States is approximately 76 people per square mile.
So what do all these numbers translate to in real life? Basically it means that New York City is an overcrowded, loud, filthy cesspool where dreams go to die. Sure, some of you starving artists might make a name for yourselves in the Big Apple, but most of you will be on the next Fung Wah bus home. Even if only 1% of the population in NYC is aspiring to realize the same dream as you, that means you have 83,000 competitors. Are you really a better actor, writer, singer, dancer, artist, or stock broker than 83,000 neighbors? I thought not. I tell you these things not to crush your spirit, I simply want to save you from a non-refundable security deposit, first, and last month's rent, and probably a realtor/finder's fee—a combined price tag averaging $4,950 for a one-bedroom in the city limits.
If I haven't successfully scared you off this notion of moving to New York City to follow your dreams, let me tell you one of my many personal tales of woe when moving there.
Doe-eyed and innocent, my friend Leanne and I hopped into my car the weekend before we were supposed to move to NYC. Our mission was to drive into Manhattan, secure a cheap apartment, and move in the following week. A week's time might not seem like enough to get an apartment and move, but we were assured by many people, realtors included, to wait until the last minute to find a place. The turnover rate for rentals in the city is so high that nobody lists apartments more than a month ahead of time—and if they do, there is something horribly wrong with it.
We scraped together our pennies, printed out some craigslist ads, and went in search of the perfect 2-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Our first stop: the East Village. We arrived an hour late because of traffic and taking the wrong bridge that instead led us directly into a Chinatown fish market. The smell was unbearable and it was impossible to get around when all the roads were either blocked off by police or by giant dragon floats. We instead parked the car as soon as we could and walked to our first appointment.
We knocked on the door of the seemingly nice building but got no response. We rang the bell. Nothing. We knocked a little louder. Nothing. We called the contact number listed. Nothing. Frustrated, we turned to walk away when the door banged open. A middle-aged woman in an over-sized t-shirt with no bra was standing there squinting at us.
"Yeahhh?" She asked with a New Jersey accent.
"Hi, we're here to see the apartment...sorry we're late. Are you the person we spoke to over email?"
"Naw. I'm here with my boyfriend from Jersey. We just stayed the night...partied a little too hard and just woke up. My cousin couldn't be here. You wanna come in and see the place?"
"Sure."
We went inside and had to shuffle sideways down the extremely narrow (and obviously illegal) hallway to the first bedroom. Asleep in a sleeping bag surrounded by cigarette butts and empty cans of Miller Light was the boyfriend. The room couldn't have been bigger than 10' x 10' and being on the first floor with a window right onto 1st avenue, it was extremely loud. We were then ushered into the "second bedroom" which actually had us giggling. We had to take turns going in and out of the room because it wouldn't fit more than 2 people at a time. It housed no bed, only a small secretary desk against one wall, and that's all it would allow. With one doorway into the other bedroom and another doorway into the kitchen, it was more like a nexus than a room—it had no windows, no closet, and no floor—just subflooring.
Continuing into the kitchen we encountered an ungodly smell accompanied with a sink full of month-old dishes and grime. There was a fully-formed spiderweb complete with eggsacs on one of the faux-wood cabinets, and in place of a pull-out drawer underneath the countertop was a layer of duct tape.
Sitting in a park right outside the building after having seen the horrors within, we collected ourselves and began to scour over the city's newspaper for apartment listings—the Village Voice. Finding nothing else in Manhattan within even $500 of our price range, we decided it might be best to try extending our search into the burroughs. We'd both heard good things about Queens so we called a few places in an up and coming neighborhood called Astoria. All but one were already rented so we agreed to go see it.
As I was hanging up the phone with Lucas—our future landlord, a fight was breaking out between two homeless men on a bench across from us. It went a little something like this:
"Hey fuck-face, where's my fucking Metrocards?" (Metrocards are what you use to access NYC's subway system.)
"I dunno. I ain't seen 'em"
"Don't fuckin' lie to me Roger, I know you been looking at 'em."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Go home." (To the shelter, I assume).
"I ain't goin' home without my fuckin' metrocards. They were hidden in my shoe, what did you do with 'em?"
"Your shoes? I threw them away."
"What the FUCK is wrong with you man? You threw my shoes away?"
"Yep."
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Gone."
Throwing up his hands and walking away, the angry man said matter of factly "You're gonna get shot." And left to retrieve his gun.
It was at this point that we covered our faces with the newspaper and started running down Avenue A towards Chinatown and the parked car.
When we got to the car it had been keyed and there was a $75 parking ticket on the windshield. Furious and terrified we set out to see the apartment in Astoria, Queens. 45 Minutes later when we still hadn't arrived in Astoria, we called the landlord to ask for directions.
"What do you see around you? Any landmark buildings?" He asked us.
"Nothing," I replied, "Just highway and hills."
"You must be in New Jersey. You went the wrong way on the tunnel, you gotta turn around, go back through Manhattan, and out the other side to Queens."
On the verge of tears, we turned around. 2 Hours after our expected arrival, we pulled up in front of the apartment building. It was nondescript and the apartment was on the first floor, which made me nervous in the city. We were let inside and were happy to find that both bedrooms were a decent size, along with a small but reasonable living room, kitchen, and bathroom. It all had nice woodwork, hardwood floors. and was freshly painted white. Wanting to be done with the search already after having only seen 2 apartments, we took it.
At $1,600 a month, we shelled out $4,800 for first, last, and security deposit. I'd never written a check for that much before. The instant his sausage fingers closed around it, I regretted the entire operation. We drove home, trying to be excited that we found an apartment and convince ourselves that we hadn't made a huge mistake.
The following week we packed up our meager belongings and drove our U-Haul to New York City during a snowstorm. With help from friends and family, it didn't take too long to get everything inside. They left right after the last box was in, trying to get home before the snow got worse and roads started to close. Leanne and I wandered around the apartment in a daze, stumbling around boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt entirely like a dream. We'd try and look out the windows to confirm that we were in fact in our new home in the middle of New York City, but all we could see was white.
That evening, trying to focus on unpacking and getting settled, we started to see all the flaws in the apartment. My room faced a busy street and people could peer inside easily. Paranoid, I threw a blanket across the windows and unpacked in the dark because there was no overhead light or lightswitch. I rummaged through my boxes and pulled out a desk lamp for some light. I hunted around, tripping over boxes, searching the walls for an outlet—there was only one. One solitary outlet in my entire room. Walking out into the living room, I searched the walls—one outlet. The kitchen—one outlet. I walked into Leanne's room where she sat on the floor, crying quietly into a balled-up sweater.
"Whats wrong?" I asked, leaning down to hug her.
"There's no outlets. There's no closet. There's no stairs on the fire escape outside my window. This place is ridiculous. There's a window in the living room that faces a brick wall, and below there is just a pit. A dark, scary bottomless pit."
Things never really improved in the apartment. We had a fly infestation, a moth infestation, a roach infestation, an Asian Long-Horned beetle infestation, mice in our walls, and a sketchy-as-hell landlord who lived upstairs and would disappear for months at a time—sending thugs to bang on our door and collect our rent checks. We also figured out that there was a gaggle of 20-somethings living in the unfinished basement. It was unclear if they were squatting or if they were illegally renting the space, but they would come and go without speaking to either of us. The only way we'd even know if they were home is when we'd smell pot smoke wafting through our floor vents.
Through the Summer months, our apartment was so hot that we would stay locked in our bedrooms with our window air conditioners on—plugged into our solitary outlet—and sit in the dark. It was near impossible to sleep with the deafening city sounds after growing up in the country. Outside of Leanne's window facing away from the street, she had to put up with the constant barking of a pit bull, the shrill fighting of an unhappy couple, and the blasting latin music from a neighbor's boombox. At the front of the house, I got to hear the drunk people walking by my window and shouting, car horns, car alarms, ambulances, and sirens. Most of these nights we would stumble out of our rooms and into the living room, looking exhausted, sweaty, naked, and generally defeated. There we would sit on the couch together, watching reruns and late-night infomercials on basic cable from the television plugged into our single living room outlet.
When our lease was up, we moved into a different apartment in Long Island City, Queens. Our address was easy to remember—2548 44th st, 3R. Simple, right? This time not only did we get suckered into first and last month's rent plus security deposit, but we also had to pay a realtor's fee, making it a more expensive apartment than our last one even though the rent was a mere $1450/month. Again, the place seemed great at the time. 2 nice bedrooms, huge living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Because it was so full of the current tenant's junk when we looked at it, we didnt get to do a thorough inspection. It wasn't until we moved in that we went around counting electrical outlets—one in each bedroom again. None in the kitchen except what the fridge and stove were already plugged into. None in the bathroom.
Some other highlights from this apartment include it being a 20-minute, agonizing walk to the nearest train or bus station, the landlord spoke no English, it was near a police station so we could hear every siren wailing as a police car raced by, and also near the La Guardia airport so we could hear every low-flying plane break the sound barrier. We broke our lease and moved back home after six months at the second apartment. We had both gone through about 10-15 jobs each, all of our cash, and all of our patience.
If you value any shred of solitude, quiet, savings, cleanliness, or courtesy from your fellow man, then this is not the city for you to live in. By all means, visit, but for the love of Pete, don't stay! And to those of you 8.3 million people from New York City, I'd tell you to go to hell, but you're already there.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Arena Registration
Every school has their own methods of signing up students for classes. Many are now conducted purely online from the comfort of your own home or dorm room—just point and click and you're all signed up for your next semester. A thing of beauty. In my days at Franklin Pierce College they opted for a different system: Arena Registration.
Arena Registration can best be described as an intellectual Holocaust. A hellish, maddening, senseless rite of passage that all students must endure each year. Hazing is forbidden at Franklin Pierce, yet Arena Registration is worse than any amount of fraternity punishment.
It starts out simple. You receive a package in your mailbox containing a letter that says when you're supposed to show up to the 'arena' (a gymnasium), and a booklet containing all the courses, numbers, professors, and schedules for the next semester's classes. All you need to do is show up, sign up, and you're done. A cake walk. 5, maybe 10 minutes and you'll be cruising out of there to enjoy your afternoon, class schedule in-hand. Hah! Dream on Freshman. The only way you leave Arena Registration is in a body bag or a straight jacket.
When you show up to your first Arena Registration at 8 a.m. you'll find a line snaking out of the building and circling the parking lot. You see sleeping bags, pillows, and coffee canisters littering the scene. Students who have already experienced this tragedy have learned to camp outside of the gym and be first in line come the morning. By 4 a.m. the line is already hundreds long. You will proceed to stand in this line for several hours without it moving. Only 200 students are allowed inside at a time, like some sort of exclusive, red-velvet rope nightclub. By noon you might actually make it to the entrance. An admissions officer with a clipboard will peruse the list for your name, give you a nametag, some papers, and a pencil. Now, you will finally be ushered inside.
On first glance, the scene before you can best be described as Ground Zero or the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Students are lined up at only 4 computer stations containing the class rosters. Other students are in line to mandatorily speak with a Financial Aid Officer. In another corner is a heap of students, sitting down, weeping and defeated. Tear-stained faces, shredded papers, trash, backpacks, and sleeping bags all blending together so it looks like an internment camp. Off to the side is a long table where many professors sit—their sole job to console students who can't get into their classes, or if they're lucky enough, to sign a permission slip and join an already full class. They are all drinking Irish coffee and mimosas. The sound of 20-year olds weeping, screaming, and running from line to line is defeaning as it echoes off the gym walls and floor. It sounds like you're in a front row mosh pit at a concert of misery.
Before you can begin sign ups, you must be cleared by the Bursar's Office and receive a stamp on your class sign-up sheet. No stamp, no classes. Period. So you will wait in this line just to be berated by the financial aid staff for not ponying up enough tuition. If you are seriously behind payment schedule, you will be sent out of Arena Registration to go wait in a separate line at the actual Financial Aid building. One in every 3 students leaves this line sobbing to trudge down to see the Bursar himself. We will never see these students again.
If you are lucky enough to get the financial stamp of approval on your sign-up sheet, you will move onto a fresh hell. Now you have to wait in line at one of the computers to check the availability of the classes you want to sign up for. Panic will start to rise as you see student after student in front of you leave the computer station in a rage, fists clenched, knuckles white, and sign-up sheets blank or smudged after being erased several times. You'll want to call out to them "What is it?! What's going on?! What can I expect when I get up there?! Please! Tell me something!" But they are dead men walking.
When you sit down at the computer station, you will start typing in all of the class titles that you want or need to take. You'll start with the general education classes first—the ones required to graduate. Your first searches look incredibly grim:
Environmental Science
FULL
College Writing I
FULL
Science of Society I
FULL
Data and Statistics
FULL
Okay, clearly all the general education classes you wanted to take are full. You'll move onto the classes that fall within your major. In my case it would look something like this:
Graphic Design I
FULL
Color Theory
FULL
Typography I
FULL
Periodical Publication
FULL
Designing for the Web
FULL
At this point you'll start to sweat. How can this be? Every class?
Desperate, you'll write down your original schedule and run over to the table of Professors to ask their permission to join their already full classes.
"Is there a Professor Rosebush here?" You'll announce to the table.
"I'm Professor Rosebush. Can I help you?" One of the tired, sad faces will reply.
"Can I join your full Typography class?"
"I'm afraid I've already signed up 2 additional students already. I don't have room for more. How about my papier-mâché class instead? There's plenty of room there."
"uhhh...no thanks. Is there a Professor Justice here?"
"No sorry, Justice left early."
"Can someone else here sign me into his Graphic Design class?"
"No, sorry. Only the course professor can do that."
WTF.
"Is there a Professor Cadence here?" You'll bark, trepidation taking over.
"I'm here" a tiny voice will reply from down the table.
"Can I join your Color Theory class? It's full and it's a required class for my major."
"Certainly. The more the merrier."
Finally. A ray of hope. Thank you Cadence. Thank you.
"Oh...wait...have you taken 'Graphic Design I' yet?" The Professor asks.
"No. I wanted to sign up for it, but, big surprise, it's full. The professor isn't here to sign me in."
"I'm afraid I can't sign you into my class either then. Graphic Design I is a prerequisite for this course."
oh....my...god...
Now is about the time you'll go join the heap of disheveled, disheartened students weeping in the corner. You'll try to regroup and come up with an alternative course schedule only to go back to the computer station and find them all full.
Rinse. Repeat. Weep.
Around 6 pm when they are about to close their doors, you will pull together some semblance of a schedule and leave—sweaty, battered, and angry. You will look over your schedule for the next year of your life and weep all the way back to your tiny dorm—your own little Trail of Tears.
Semester 1:
Papier-mâché
Intermediate Algebra I
Integrated Earth Science I
Reason and Romanticism
Remedial English Lit. II
Semester 2:
Basketweaving
Stained Glass
The History of History
German I
Women's Studies
Next year you will be one of the beggars camped outside the 'arena.' Until then, anytime a newcomer asks you when they should show up to Arena Registration, you will tell them it only takes a few minutes and to go around lunch time.
Welcome to hell.
Arena Registration can best be described as an intellectual Holocaust. A hellish, maddening, senseless rite of passage that all students must endure each year. Hazing is forbidden at Franklin Pierce, yet Arena Registration is worse than any amount of fraternity punishment.
It starts out simple. You receive a package in your mailbox containing a letter that says when you're supposed to show up to the 'arena' (a gymnasium), and a booklet containing all the courses, numbers, professors, and schedules for the next semester's classes. All you need to do is show up, sign up, and you're done. A cake walk. 5, maybe 10 minutes and you'll be cruising out of there to enjoy your afternoon, class schedule in-hand. Hah! Dream on Freshman. The only way you leave Arena Registration is in a body bag or a straight jacket.
When you show up to your first Arena Registration at 8 a.m. you'll find a line snaking out of the building and circling the parking lot. You see sleeping bags, pillows, and coffee canisters littering the scene. Students who have already experienced this tragedy have learned to camp outside of the gym and be first in line come the morning. By 4 a.m. the line is already hundreds long. You will proceed to stand in this line for several hours without it moving. Only 200 students are allowed inside at a time, like some sort of exclusive, red-velvet rope nightclub. By noon you might actually make it to the entrance. An admissions officer with a clipboard will peruse the list for your name, give you a nametag, some papers, and a pencil. Now, you will finally be ushered inside.
On first glance, the scene before you can best be described as Ground Zero or the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Students are lined up at only 4 computer stations containing the class rosters. Other students are in line to mandatorily speak with a Financial Aid Officer. In another corner is a heap of students, sitting down, weeping and defeated. Tear-stained faces, shredded papers, trash, backpacks, and sleeping bags all blending together so it looks like an internment camp. Off to the side is a long table where many professors sit—their sole job to console students who can't get into their classes, or if they're lucky enough, to sign a permission slip and join an already full class. They are all drinking Irish coffee and mimosas. The sound of 20-year olds weeping, screaming, and running from line to line is defeaning as it echoes off the gym walls and floor. It sounds like you're in a front row mosh pit at a concert of misery.
Before you can begin sign ups, you must be cleared by the Bursar's Office and receive a stamp on your class sign-up sheet. No stamp, no classes. Period. So you will wait in this line just to be berated by the financial aid staff for not ponying up enough tuition. If you are seriously behind payment schedule, you will be sent out of Arena Registration to go wait in a separate line at the actual Financial Aid building. One in every 3 students leaves this line sobbing to trudge down to see the Bursar himself. We will never see these students again.
If you are lucky enough to get the financial stamp of approval on your sign-up sheet, you will move onto a fresh hell. Now you have to wait in line at one of the computers to check the availability of the classes you want to sign up for. Panic will start to rise as you see student after student in front of you leave the computer station in a rage, fists clenched, knuckles white, and sign-up sheets blank or smudged after being erased several times. You'll want to call out to them "What is it?! What's going on?! What can I expect when I get up there?! Please! Tell me something!" But they are dead men walking.
When you sit down at the computer station, you will start typing in all of the class titles that you want or need to take. You'll start with the general education classes first—the ones required to graduate. Your first searches look incredibly grim:
Environmental Science
FULL
College Writing I
FULL
Science of Society I
FULL
Data and Statistics
FULL
Okay, clearly all the general education classes you wanted to take are full. You'll move onto the classes that fall within your major. In my case it would look something like this:
Graphic Design I
FULL
Color Theory
FULL
Typography I
FULL
Periodical Publication
FULL
Designing for the Web
FULL
At this point you'll start to sweat. How can this be? Every class?
Desperate, you'll write down your original schedule and run over to the table of Professors to ask their permission to join their already full classes.
"Is there a Professor Rosebush here?" You'll announce to the table.
"I'm Professor Rosebush. Can I help you?" One of the tired, sad faces will reply.
"Can I join your full Typography class?"
"I'm afraid I've already signed up 2 additional students already. I don't have room for more. How about my papier-mâché class instead? There's plenty of room there."
"uhhh...no thanks. Is there a Professor Justice here?"
"No sorry, Justice left early."
"Can someone else here sign me into his Graphic Design class?"
"No, sorry. Only the course professor can do that."
WTF.
"Is there a Professor Cadence here?" You'll bark, trepidation taking over.
"I'm here" a tiny voice will reply from down the table.
"Can I join your Color Theory class? It's full and it's a required class for my major."
"Certainly. The more the merrier."
Finally. A ray of hope. Thank you Cadence. Thank you.
"Oh...wait...have you taken 'Graphic Design I' yet?" The Professor asks.
"No. I wanted to sign up for it, but, big surprise, it's full. The professor isn't here to sign me in."
"I'm afraid I can't sign you into my class either then. Graphic Design I is a prerequisite for this course."
oh....my...god...
Now is about the time you'll go join the heap of disheveled, disheartened students weeping in the corner. You'll try to regroup and come up with an alternative course schedule only to go back to the computer station and find them all full.
Rinse. Repeat. Weep.
Around 6 pm when they are about to close their doors, you will pull together some semblance of a schedule and leave—sweaty, battered, and angry. You will look over your schedule for the next year of your life and weep all the way back to your tiny dorm—your own little Trail of Tears.
Semester 1:
Papier-mâché
Intermediate Algebra I
Integrated Earth Science I
Reason and Romanticism
Remedial English Lit. II
Semester 2:
Basketweaving
Stained Glass
The History of History
German I
Women's Studies
Next year you will be one of the beggars camped outside the 'arena.' Until then, anytime a newcomer asks you when they should show up to Arena Registration, you will tell them it only takes a few minutes and to go around lunch time.
Welcome to hell.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
To the Oblivious Bitch Across the Street
Dear Oblivious Bitch,
If your complete and utter obliviousness to those around you didn't cause me to lose sleep, it would actually be kind of funny.
This morning your dog woke me up at 6 a.m. with its shrill barking. I closed my window, turned on a loud fan, and tried to go back to sleep, desperate for more zzz's before the alarm was set to go off at 8. I got none. Your dog continued to bark incessantly for the next 2 hours. At 8 a.m., wide awake, I smashed my alarm off, ripped off my comforter, stomped out of bed and over to the window to see where this little hellhound was yapping from. Then I saw you on your front steps.
Sitting there, a cell phone in one hand and a leash connected to a min pin (miniature pinscher) in the other. What the hell is wrong with you?! You've been sitting on your apartment building steps for 2 hours talking on the phone while your shit-for-brains dog is barking into space? Who could you possibly be talking to for two hours at 6 a.m. outside? How can you possibly hear them over the banshee cries of your mutt? How can the person on the other line possibly hear you and tolerate it? Are they sitting on their stoop with a leashed up, rabid dog, infuriating all of their neighbors too? What a delightful little club you've started—the Stupid, Oblivious Bitches with Barking Bitches Club.
A middle-aged black woman, you are clearly old enough to grasp the concept of what you're doing. At any point in the past 2 hours you could have made your dog quiet down. I never once heard you yell at it. At any point you could have taken it inside and locked it up, put it in the dryer on high. At any point you yourself could have gone inside to finish your important conversation and taken your mutant offspring with you. At any point you could have gotten up and walked it down the street to the park not 2 blocks away—you know, the one not surrounded by sleeping people? You didn't. You took no action except sit there gabbing away, oblivious to anyone around you—including your dog. No better than a stupid teenager at the mall.
You left me no choice. I leashed up my own dog—an adopted 55 lb chow chow mix with a deep hatred for people of color (after a history of abuse), and headed out the door. We marched right over to your stoop and stood in front of it. Once your little yap-fiend saw my dog coming, he quieted right down. I stood above you, my dog tightly leashed at my side, but already starting to bark and snarl—as I myself would like to have done. Giving me a dirty look, you said your lengthy goodbyes to your friend and hung up the phone.
"You're a very rude boy," You said glaring at me. "I have every right to talk on the phone on my property. What's your problem? You don't know me. Get your dog away from me. He's mean."
"Hold on a second." I said flatly, and took out my cell phone.
I pretended to make a phone call while my dog continued his menacing barking and gutteral growls at you. You continued spewing nasty comments my way, but I just kept loosening my hold on the leash. My dog was slowly edging closer to you.
"Stop it right now!" You hollered, getting up and backing up a step. I slackened the leash. Closer he got.
"I mean it! Stop it right now before I call the cops!"
Closer.
"Get the hell away from me!"
Closer.
"Asshole!"
Closer
"Fuck you and your dog! You don't scare me!"
I let go of the leash.
"Ahhhh!" You cried and ran inside with Precious, slamming the door behind you.
With my foot on top of my dog's leash, he was secured the whole time. Next time, it won't be.
If your complete and utter obliviousness to those around you didn't cause me to lose sleep, it would actually be kind of funny.
This morning your dog woke me up at 6 a.m. with its shrill barking. I closed my window, turned on a loud fan, and tried to go back to sleep, desperate for more zzz's before the alarm was set to go off at 8. I got none. Your dog continued to bark incessantly for the next 2 hours. At 8 a.m., wide awake, I smashed my alarm off, ripped off my comforter, stomped out of bed and over to the window to see where this little hellhound was yapping from. Then I saw you on your front steps.
Sitting there, a cell phone in one hand and a leash connected to a min pin (miniature pinscher) in the other. What the hell is wrong with you?! You've been sitting on your apartment building steps for 2 hours talking on the phone while your shit-for-brains dog is barking into space? Who could you possibly be talking to for two hours at 6 a.m. outside? How can you possibly hear them over the banshee cries of your mutt? How can the person on the other line possibly hear you and tolerate it? Are they sitting on their stoop with a leashed up, rabid dog, infuriating all of their neighbors too? What a delightful little club you've started—the Stupid, Oblivious Bitches with Barking Bitches Club.
A middle-aged black woman, you are clearly old enough to grasp the concept of what you're doing. At any point in the past 2 hours you could have made your dog quiet down. I never once heard you yell at it. At any point you could have taken it inside and locked it up, put it in the dryer on high. At any point you yourself could have gone inside to finish your important conversation and taken your mutant offspring with you. At any point you could have gotten up and walked it down the street to the park not 2 blocks away—you know, the one not surrounded by sleeping people? You didn't. You took no action except sit there gabbing away, oblivious to anyone around you—including your dog. No better than a stupid teenager at the mall.
You left me no choice. I leashed up my own dog—an adopted 55 lb chow chow mix with a deep hatred for people of color (after a history of abuse), and headed out the door. We marched right over to your stoop and stood in front of it. Once your little yap-fiend saw my dog coming, he quieted right down. I stood above you, my dog tightly leashed at my side, but already starting to bark and snarl—as I myself would like to have done. Giving me a dirty look, you said your lengthy goodbyes to your friend and hung up the phone.
"You're a very rude boy," You said glaring at me. "I have every right to talk on the phone on my property. What's your problem? You don't know me. Get your dog away from me. He's mean."
"Hold on a second." I said flatly, and took out my cell phone.
I pretended to make a phone call while my dog continued his menacing barking and gutteral growls at you. You continued spewing nasty comments my way, but I just kept loosening my hold on the leash. My dog was slowly edging closer to you.
"Stop it right now!" You hollered, getting up and backing up a step. I slackened the leash. Closer he got.
"I mean it! Stop it right now before I call the cops!"
Closer.
"Get the hell away from me!"
Closer.
"Asshole!"
Closer
"Fuck you and your dog! You don't scare me!"
I let go of the leash.
"Ahhhh!" You cried and ran inside with Precious, slamming the door behind you.
With my foot on top of my dog's leash, he was secured the whole time. Next time, it won't be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)