MAKE IT HAPPEN STORY
By : Rick Monaco
Depression is a flaw in chemistry, not character.
So claims a huge sign, painted high on the side of a brick building at
72nd and Amsterdam. And it's a good thing too, or there'd be no drug
money to keep it up there. It's a nice fantasy, that someone might post
this sentiment just to cheer the downhearted, but this is New York City
and nothing flies without cash, beauty or balls. I've been here eight
months, but it took only a few days to realize this.
I sense my character dipping a bit on Saturday
night. I should be thankful, having managed my way into an actual dinner
party, after only a week in my current sublet on the Upper West Side. I
still don't really know anyone in New York, but when the
occasional invitation is extended I don't turn it down. She's from
Belgium, the one I'm talking to, a European transplant with two female
roommates. This is the stuff videos are made of. Her English is a bit
broken, and this along with the leather skirt works for me. I don't mind
a woman who begins most sentences with "um, how you say.." It takes the pressure off coming up with new conversation.
This flirty translation game works out reasonably
well for an hour or so, until my competition shows up. He's a tall
albino and Julliard actor who more than makes up for his lack of
pigmentation with a scintillating string of bullshit. Albinos are big
these days, or so I've gathered from reading The Davinci Code and seeing Cold Mountain.
They're popular culture's new ice-cool villains, and this one's jacking
any potential I had for not walking home alone. How can I keep up with
this? He's all over the place with his love for bluegrass guitar,
politics, and chocolate from her homeland. I don't think she's following
much of it, but after three vodka-raspberries seems content to watch
his bleached eyebrows arch and rest, lending expression to a passionate,
pink face.
And so it is I'm alone again, but with a short walk
home from West 83rd to my apartment. It's a good thing too, as winter
has yet to pull its teeth back in. This one's been particularly harsh
from what I've gathered, but it's hard to tell, coming from California.
I flip up the collar on my long coat, picturing myself like Neil Young
on the cover of After the Goldrush, but probably more resembling Clint Howard in his brother's adaptation of Nanook of the North.
My sublet is a bit of a dump, but it's warm. This is
the latest in a series of temporary moves, fueled by the reasoning that
I'm paying for the neighborhood, not the apartment. I'm down the block
from the Beacon Theatre and Fairway Market, allowing quick access to
pre-made Caesar salads and Elvis Costello with the Brodsky Quartet. But I
do have to return home at some point, if for nothing else than to
sleep. Rest has been more difficult of late, as the tenant above has had
his stereo on continually for three days. This, along with the fact
that I've heard no footsteps has me a bit concerned but I'm reluctant to
contact the landlord, as my tenancy isn't completely on the up and up.
This is Manhattan after all. Best to let the music play and allow the
authorities to deal with the rest.
The main branch of the public library on 42nd has
free Internet access and the glorious third floor reading room makes
grand office space for the self-employed, or those looking to kill some
time. But you have to put up with the general public, sitting shoulder
to shoulder at long wooden tables. This fact hits home hard on Wednesday
when a twenty-something kid pulls in next to me and plugs in his
laptop, not bothering to unwrap from the cold. He then utilizes the
high-speed hookup to join a one-on-one pornographic chat room and taps
furiously away until the young lady on his screen strips and assumes the
instructed position. I watch nervously to see what might transpire next
and whether I need to find another seat, but after ten minutes he folds
the machine shut and goes calmly on his way. I admire his singular
focus and specific intent, if not his choice of venue.
But that's New York; without direction you get
trampled. It almost happens to me later that evening in the middle of
Times Square, during the evening rush. My cell buzzes and it's my
Belgian friend, apparently having passed on Mr. Freeze and asking me if
I'm interested in sharing some champagne at a gallery opening. I
struggle to find a pen and scrap of paper, and in the process nearly get
trampled by a mob of teeny bopper tourists, straining to catch a
glimpse of some MTV hip-hop heartthrob, basking in the hot studio lights
above. I huddle against a store window for relative privacy, with the
phone pressed to my ear and coming face to face with Ozzy Osbourne's
autographed Harley. The connection is fading and it sounds like she may
have reverted back to French, anyway. I try and get out the pertinent
facts: Times Square, loud, Ozzy, no pen, please call back. Hopefully I'm speaking her language.
I'm awoken the next morning, alone again, to the
sound of Con Edison utility workers banging on a pipe outside my
basement apartment window. They're yelling something in Spanish and
having an unusually jovial time for seven a.m. The gas has been out for
three days, and I'm beginning to better understand the "Con" preceding
"Edison." On the up side, the music upstairs has stopped and I hear
footsteps. Life-affirmation comes in oddly small moments in this city,
and you have to grab it when you can. I walk down the street to Levain
Bakery, an early Upper West Side discovery with exceptional
oatmeal-raisin scones and good coffee. I enjoy my first cup and eat the
scone from a bag, taking in the early morning foot traffic. Any
comparisons are irrelevant -- this city is one of a kind.
