New York Labryinth

Lafcadio Hearn

This is plain speaking; but I think it is necessary for you. You cannot make yourself physically attractive to me. Don’t try. I am an artist, a connoisseur, a student of beauty, and it is very hard to please me. Don’t disgust me, please—

Yours truly,

L. Hearn.

Superbowl and Humanity

I’m on the 6 Subway back to Midtown, 2 hours post Superbowl, and I’m witnessing a unique kind of humanity. Two beautifully dressed Japanese women are debating an age old question, “How do I respond to this text? Like, I’m not gonna respond to something like that.” In the meantime a drunk and very large black man slowly stumbled towards the empty space beside them. They move over, making just enough room for him to slowly drop his body down. The other 5 people occupying the rest of the bench ease over in discomfort, smiling in that communal understanding of harmless awkwardness. The large black man pulls out a wad of 20s from his ragged black wallet, and holds them in his hand, counting the bills in an apathetic sort of way. One 20 slips from his hand and flutters to the floor. The two people flanking either side of me begin to call his attention, “Sir, Sir, your money fell, sir!” He just sits there silently closing his eyes, and holding on to the seemingly unaffected wad of money. Soon the entire left side of the cart becomes invested in this man’s strange behaviour. The two Japanese women get off at the next stop, and in their place a 40-something-year-old man sits down and grabs the 20 off the floor. He holds it up to the unresponsive man, and begins poking him on the arm, “Sir, your money has fallen.” The unresponsive man only smiles, and the left side of the subway begins to rile up slightly amongst themselves, watching this peculiar scene. Finally the 40-year-old slips the $20 into the unresponsive man’s hand, adding it to the rest. The unresponsive man breaks his silence and yells in a daze of liquor, “THE GIANTS WON! THE GIANTS WON, YAA THE GIANTS ONE! I’M A DIE HARD FAN FOR THE GIANTS.” The 40-year-old man beside him donning a Giants jersey points to his chest and says, “Me too buddy, me too.” The entire cart bursts into laughter, and I jump up realizing I’ve just about missed my stop.

When I get off the train and look back through the window I see something amazing. The entire cart, both left and right sides, are peering over to the drunk, but happy man. They all watch him, making sure he’s okay, protecting his money, and wallet no doubt loosely falling from his lap. Post Superbowl, New Yorkers have allowed their patriotism, and loyalty bleed over to their fellow man, and return $20 to an unresponsive drunk who couldn’t care less.

In the morning this will be forgotten. We’ll fall asleep feeling more content than usual, and wake up slightly more chipper, not entirely sure where to place the cause of this subtle change. Maybe it was the Superbowl or maybe it was that Subway trip home—either way my faith in New Yorkers has been rejuvenated, and that alone is worth more than $20.

Virgin Mobility

All I wanted was the reassurance that I was worthy. As if the metallic surge of vibration through my Verizon could verify that. Copy. Do you read me? Or am I alone? I find myself fighting back reasons to love my self, fighting back reasons to care, to cry, to crawl up in a ball and tell myself that these words weren’t mistakes, but promises. I thought I saw your eyes glimmer with hope that perhaps this time would be different. That the body lounging across from me in a chair not made for comfort and elbows resting on glass could actually reassure me that this would be worth it. That sharing a cup of coffee over past stories and histories could guarantee a future. But there is no guarantee, and the warrantee expired. In fact, I don’t think I was even given a receipt. Small print at the bottom of the page: You will over analyze everything he says, and wonder if he’s thinking about you, and wonder if when he says he’s busy if he really is, and ask yourself over and over, what the eff did I do wrong, because the last time I checked you were looking at me from across that glass covered table telling me promises with your eyes I wanted to do everything with, but return.

But a man is still a man. I am still just a girl. My brain fuse burns. My electrical lines cut short. Pulses and glitches surge through every vein that once pumped blood, but now pumps steal. You stole that. My own human emotion to feel. My control of everything I once thought was real. I can’t stand the thought that this metal fucking phone controls how fast my heart beat. My respiratory in the form of Verizon. But the more accurate phone line would be Virgin. Mobility wouldn’t cut me free, so I sat here for days on end mulling over the same thought—repetition. My feet chained to seat of regression, my hands gripping tight my manuscript of every word we ever shared over the last 72 hours. The beautiful flower I grew from the memory of you is slowly, but surly decaying.

I hate that when you text eliptical my mind conjures up a million words to fill in the blanks—I’m not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, cool enough. I stuff myself with a million reasons as to why you’re better than me. But stop. Yield to this yellow conspiracy and see for yourself that you are good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, cool. If his almond brown eyes refuse to oblige move along. If his fists aren’t banging against your door to get in, or your phone isn’t ringing off the hook at the mere thought of talking to you than forget about it. Who are we to allow a message box determine our happiness. Or better yet, who are you to make us feel that way in the first place. I was made for more than this. I deserve my knight in shining armor, but I see I’ve mistaken that for you, when in reality you’re the tin man, sent back to the Wizard of Oz with a prescription for a new heart and while you’re at it grab some courage and a brain. Because when I do finally decide I’m ready for my king, I certainly won’t settle. I will rise higher than that. And if I so choose to, I might wave from the top of my hot air balloon. But don’t count on it. Because from way up here I can’t see your almond brown eyes, but I can see the skies, and I won’t stop, not even for a second, from reaching them.

-NBee