People, truth, confrontation, my failings, and deserted sketchy streets in the middle of the night, apparently don’t scare me.
10:30 p.m – Central Park North
I start on the journey to Brooklyn to meet my old great love, A., and his younger brother at a loft party. A.’s brother, Little A., is now twenty-eight, and I haven’t seen him since he was around fourteen. I head out at 10:30 p.m. and walk to the subway station on the north side of Central Park, which is not as well-lit as across the street, but instead I have the glow of the frozen lake by my side.
I pass a group of tough-looking street kids. Though it’s dark by the park and aside from them, deserted, it brings me no apprehension, until one of them skates way too close to me on his skateboard. He has massive dreadlocks. I jerk my head toward him with a what do you think you’re doing scowl. This is a last resort on my part, because in New York, people don’t look at each other. Maybe in such a congested city a culture of not acknowledging one other is necessary in order to maintain a collective sanity. Also, showing fear/concern/interest can be interpreted as weakness in a city where tough facades are de rigueur.
But in this case, he’s just too damn close, his gliding shoulder almost touching mine as I walk. So I glare at him, and he says, more to his friends than me:
“Oh shit! I thought you was Tyrese!” Really? With my billowing sheer dress, visible under my coat, and patent-leather ankle boots? He has a charming, impish face and his eyes sparkle. But I find I’ve firmed my grip on my purse, and in this moment, I realize I’m no longer a New Yorker. So I loosen my grip again, ashamed, but also relieved that it’s too dark for him to have noticed my private tug of war with the purse strap. For all I know, his friend “Tyrese” could be a petite transgender person with a 20’s bob exactly like mine.
He and his group scatter off as I continue toward the subway.
It’s been fifteen years since I lived in New York. Now when I visit, I turn into a tourist, and this is never a point of pride. The upside is, I take in the greatest city in the world — yes, I’m one of those — with new eyes. The styles of architecture are varied and often spectacular, and for some reason it all feels magnified, like I’m seeing every detail up close. This must have to do with the proximity of buildings in proportion to their enormity. Walking around, there is a looming sensation to the streets, as if the buildings are alive. It’s dizzying and wonderful. To some, it’s also claustrophobic. As a New York devotee, I could never admit that I might fall under the last category too, even as I continue to live in Los Angeles where I navigate through my routines in the peaceful isolation of my car.
New York energy is tightly wound and urgent. In Los Angeles, there is space, physically and therefore psychologically, and this gives you the luxury to make eye-contact; you feel no need to block out passing connections. But leaving yourself open in such a way would assault your psyche with other colliding psyches in New York.
The co-mingling of everyone’s energy in New York versus individual insulation in Los Angeles presents a fascinating paradox. Think of hot water molecules that move faster and faster, versus cold water molecules with their leisurely motion. New York energy is like hot water. The attraction between molecules competes with their speed, causing them to move apart. But when slowed down in cold water, the attraction bring molecules together. In Los Angeles, a momentary connection with passersby poses no threat, but in New York, you’re thrown into what seems to be the midst of all humanity and the cosmos, which causes you to retreat into an invisible tank around your body.
I take two different trains to Williamsburg in Brooklyn. The subway cars are overcrowded and sweltering under my winter layers. Keeping my layers on while trapped between people, rather than carrying them, is the most efficient way of transporting the clothing from the swarming underworld back to the cold where I can’t do without their warmth. There’s no available hand space on the poles and handles, and I actively avoid acknowledging that the reason the jostling train isn’t throwing me around is because I’m held up from all sides by the weight of an entire compartment full of people.
To Zen out in the middle of your claustrophobic nightmare is the only hope in preventing a mental breakdown because panic would only speed up the feeling of suffocation. It’s like quicksand.
11:45 p.m. – Williamsburg
At the party, I discover that New York hipsters are exactly the same as Los Angeles hipsters: Questionable facial hair and creative use of accessories abound, such as a 60’s box purse converted into a hat.
I drink wine, talk, laugh, dance, and meet a bunch of people. One such person is a very tall man with Greek-god nose and hair. I’m drawn by his intelligence, repelled by his boozy flirtation. Little A., turning out to be as sweet as he was fourteen years ago, checks on me more often than does A., who is busy eating brie and head-deep in a philosophical discussion about music.
By 4 a.m., I’m over the party and let A. know I’m fine to leave on my own. He knows better than to stop me, and can’t come along because he’s waiting with some others for food to be delivered. On the way out, I lose my scarf while navigating through the loft’s crowd. So I drop down to look for it in the dark among many legs. The Greek-god hair guy is all at once squatting in front of me and pretending to search with me. But really, he’s there to strategically intercept my face with his, counting on lip contact.
I find my scarf and grab it, chuckling and shaking my head no.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” I say, still perched in between partygoer legs.
“Oh. I thought you were drunk enough,” he replies, thinking himself charming. I can see he doesn’t believe me and expects me to kiss him in the end.
“I am quite. But alcohol’s got nothing on my self-possession.” I stand up. He finally believes me. I walk away, waving goodbye. His tactic reminds me of the contrived “accidental” kiss of romantic comedies, which is precisely why I don’t return his call the next day. Or ever. I’m world-weary, he’s cliché, and there exists no emulsifying agent to mix together that salad dressing.
4 a.m. – Brooklyn Subway
I’m not afraid of too many things. Maybe breaking my bones while snowboarding, which might explain the amount of years it’s taken me to attempt double diamonds. Also, rats. And sometimes in the ocean, I imagine sharks to the point of having to leave the water. But people, truth, confrontation, my failings and deserted sketchy streets in the middle of the night apparently don’t scare me. So I walk to the subway, definitely tipsy, but most certainly not showing it.
In the subway station, I add $20 to an expired Metrocard, not paying attention to the prompts on the machine that warn not to refill an expired card.
Naturally, at the turnstile the expired card doesn’t work, my $20 having gone into the ether.
I approach the booth to remedy the situation, but the caged attendant is slack-mouthed and snoring away. I utter one or two tentative “excuse me, sirs” to no avail. He is too deeply delved in his private slumber and I can’t bring myself to wake him. This is not only out of consideration, but because rousing him feels too…intimate.
At this point impulse takes over me. When this happens, I’m already in the midst of action before the option of thinking it through even occurs to me.
So I turn, run, and jump the turnstile.
Yeah, I could’ve bought another card. Or I could’ve pulled the turnstile back and slipped through. Instead, I jump over it, ninja-style, skirt and all. By most standards, I’m middle-fucking-aged (consider this my coming out).
And the little man entering the station who sees me do it?
I bet he has as much fun watching me — the fancy lady in Chanel patent-leather boots — as I do mid-leap with my Peter Pan complex in full effect.
The train from Brooklyn to Manhattan is inexplicably crowded even though it’s close to 5 a.m. The majority aren’t dressed for nightlife, nor do they give off the vibe of those about to begin or end a work shift. Who are these people and where are they going? It’s surreal. And they’re all nodding off like they’re in some drug cult together. But I suppose they’re just tired.
5 a.m. – Manhattan
I get off in Manhattan at the 14th Street station. I take the underworld passages by foot to change for my second train and discover that what might be worse than a claustrophobic, overpacked subway system is an utterly deserted one. It’s like everyone’s gone from earth and I’m left behind in a grim purgatory.
I laugh at myself. Seems I have complaints about both the presence of, and lack of people. Then I marvel at my habit of entrancing myself during otherwise mundane moments and infusing them with the surreal. And I realize each is a projection of my mood.
In the dirty subway, I learn for perhaps the dozenth time in my life, so much of my feelings and perceptions are choices.
I scan the deserted passages again to make sure I’m alone, and with the confirmation, begin to skip. For this moment, all of it belongs to me. If I knew how to do cartwheels — and if the ground weren’t so filthy — I’d have endless space to do them. Instead, I skip with arms waving in the air until I reach the stairs to my empty platform.
When the train comes, it too seems to be completely empty. So I ride in between cars where it’s forbidden, if only to see whether someone might appear to admonish me and break the spell. But no one does.
Back on Central Park North, I walk home by the frozen lake. The air is crisp.
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