Part I.
I should have loved New York. Everyone loves New York. People write songs about it and filmmakers flock to the concrete jungle to shoot it. I was there on my parent’s dime anyway, and I should have loved every minute of it.
Maybe it was the suffocating summer humidity, or the streets that reeked of trash and urine that persuaded my sentiment, but I realized soon after move in day that I didn’t need this experience to complete my full circle of adulthood, nor had I really wanted it. The decision to live in the city lied within my ambition to impress upon my parents that I could do what it takes for a career. Twenty-one years old and already making sacrifices for my non-existent job, appropriating all the wrong reasons.
Mostly, I was lonely in New York City, whereas I was never lonely in California, southern or northern. Everyone in New York is lonely and the dreariness is oppressive, just like the jungle weather that changes hourly. People pretend like they have something to do and somewhere to go and they walk into you on the street on the subway – I think everyone just needs to walk with a purpose when they’re out on the streets of New York.
The employees at my internship were all dead. Three days a week I free-labored from 10-5:30 at a music journal publication only to have my words reorganized, rewritten, and retouched by assistant editor Christine or managing editor Marisa. We all sat in the same decrepit office room and didn’t converse even =once a day; if anyone had to say something they would send an instant message or email from their computer.
On my first day at College Music Journal, I drank enough coffee to keep myself perky and energetic throughout the morning until my late afternoon lunch break, an unusual habit in my diet and a well-learned mistake.
I arrived early and discovered that no one else was at the office; to kill time I explored a couple of blocks around the flatiron district. Out of nerves and lack of something productive to do, I proceeded to seek out my third cup of coffee from a morning pastry stand then rushed over to CMJ, hoping I could properly introduce myself to the editors and co-interns before the busy day started.
Upon arrival I was swept up in the bustle of a fast paced magazine publication, and got my first couple of story assignments before I had my company email set up. The other interns didn’t look up as I approached the conference table – they were all sitting with their headphones on, typing furiously on their laptops. I got to work and tried to catch up with the pace. Editors and managers walked to and from the conference room assigning random interns with proof-reads, news stories, or features to be pitched later that afternoon. I let the morning slip away and by late afternoon realized that I hadn’t left for lunch yet. I also realized I had to pee from my three cups of coffee and two water bottles acquired from my morning walk.
I grabbed the bathroom key and hustled down the hall. It took about five painful minutes to realize that the key wouldn’t work in the lock, and there was absolutely no one in the hallway that I could ask for help.
It was easy to decide where to get lunch since my mind was occupied with other issues, and I ran into the pizzeria two blocks down from the office building I discovered earlier that morning. After practically inhaling my lunch I walked directly to the restroom in the back of the pizzeria with the glow of relief painted on my face, only to quickly melt away once I opened the restroom door. The stench of urine and vomit hit my nose and tickled my gag reflex. The walls were dripping with brown substances and the toilet was colored yellow from the various customers who most likely misaimed their stream.
I practically jogged back to CMJ, determined to unlock the bathroom before getting back to work for the rest of the afternoon. I grabbed the key and headed directly for the restroom again, failing once more over the lock. I heard the elevator door open and saw Kate, one of the editorial interns, rounding the corner on her way back from lunch.
“Can you help me with the key? I’m desperate!” I called out to her. She smiled timidly and approached the bathroom door, watching me perform my pee-dance that I hadn’t used since 2nd grade. “I’m not really good with keys, I’m horrible at it actually,” she muttered as she jiggled the key in the lock a few times, and then handed it back to me. “Sorry, I can’t. Maybe try the men’s room?” I hobbled over to the men’s restroom across the hallway to see if the key would fit. The door was slightly ajar. “Is this totally weird?” I asked Kate. She shrugged. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” She turned and walked back to the office, and without further hesitation I slipped into the restroom and shut the door behind me. There were two small stalls and a few urinals lined against the wall, and I quickly slipped into a stall as the glow of relief returned to my body.
I reached for the lock, but quickly recoiled as I heard footsteps coming down the hall. There was no way out as he burst into the bathroom and ran the sink, muttering something to himself while vigorously washing his hands. I peered through the crack in the door to see if he was planning on leaving anytime soon, but he was staring at his reflection and splashing water on his face. “You can do it. You have to do it!” he kept repeating. “You deserve this raise. Just go in there and ask him”. At this point I had no idea if this guy was ever going to leave the bathroom, and I decided that the best thing to do was to waltz out of the stall with an air of nonchalance, and return safely to the office without ever seeing this man again.
The look on the man’s face matched the feeling in my stomach as I casually washed my hands and tried to explain the faulty lock on the women’s room door. He didn’t seem to hear me through his fit of shock and embarrassment, so I dodged out of there and tucked back into the CMJ office, forcing myself to focus on writing. A few hours passed before the senior editor took the opportunity to introduce the interns to the office staff. “Sorry we didn’t get around to it sooner, but we’re strapped for time and on deadlines so this has been our first chance”. The interns and I walked into another conference room where most of the staff was waiting for the end of day wrap up meeting. “Hi, I’m Jeremy. Webmaster and graphic designer,” I head a voice behind me. I turned around and introduced myself to the man from the bathroom. I blushed deep red as I attempted a smile, and sat as far away from him during the end of day meeting as possible.
I’ve come to learn that there’s no point being embarrassed over something that doesn’t matter. Jeremy could have thought I was some kind of bathroom pervert, or a transvestite, or just an idiot who still can’t figure out keys and locks, but who cares about Jeremy from CMJ anyway? If New York did anything for me, it taught me that it’s a lot easier to dish the bitterness back to the environment, something oddly more therapeutic than holding it all in with an air of politeness. Sometimes I found that I was rude just for the sake of being rude. I wanted to seem like I was a real New Yorker, and I wanted to trick myself into fitting in so that I could start living there mentally.
By around the second week of my internship I started to leave early, because the last half hour consisted mostly of emailing and facebook. I would jump onto the N or R train and travel uptown to the Lexington ave./59th st. station, where home was only a short five blocks away. The stop before mine, 5th ave., was refreshing because most commuters got off at that station and I could finally sit down for the 2 minutes until my stop. The struggle to exit the train was due partly to the fact that I was leaving a nice air conditioned room, and also because a sea of people struggled to squeeze into the train as a smaller number of people struggled to squeeze out.
If you don’t swim you sink, so I discovered that muttering “excuse me” as I tried to get through the doors would sink me – my extra commute to and from Queens on evening taught me the lesson I deserved. No more spinelessness. As the train approached Lexington Avenue the next evening I stood poised at the entrance, Taking Back Sunday blasting in my headphones, knees braced as the swerving train rolled to a stop at the station. I started digging my way through the crowd pouring into the train as soon as the doors opened. I felt the hot breath of the sticky humid subway station and propelled myself into the chaos with purpose and tenacity. I was streamlining for the escalator bank as I bumped against shoulder after shoulder in the crowd. As I stepped onto the escalator at the other end of the platform, I realized I was sweating and panting a little, but satisfied with my newfound backbone. From behind me someone called out “well EXCUSE YOU!” and I turned as I slowly ascended to the exit. A large, middle-aged woman stood at the bottom of the escalator glaring darkly at me. “I said ‘EXCUSE YOU’, bitch!” she called up at me. I was almost at the exit, I could have just turned away and let it go. I would never see her again. Instead, I kept my eyes locked on hers and called back, “oh, you’re excused!” I then hastily shuffled towards the turnstiles and mounted the steps towards the surface of the city.
I was empowered by those words and heat and music and focus.
