The New Colossus

‘By the Winter of ‘96, I had developed a private hatred for the people in New York that looked poor on purpose. I could always spot them from our third story window. The man in ripped jeans and combat boots with the beautiful woman hanging off his arm, both of them huddled together on the street sharing a cigarette. Girls in torn crop tops, fishnets and daisy dukes outside the bar, as if the cold were a myth made up by mid-westerners. The man on the corner in fingerless gloves, just as likely to ask for change as he is to have excellent opinions on Czech literature.

I had been in Manhattan for six months. The visions of the city I had had from movies and my cousins were long behind me. The smart sophisticated city of Manhattan, the stylish city of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, even the dangerous city of Taxi Driver or New Jack City, had faded to a distant memory by the time December had come.

I had gotten a job at the bar across the street. The Shady Cat. It wasn’t a great job. The work sucked and so did the pay, but it kept me fed and I could give a few bucks to Leah now and then for letting me crash. And it gave me time to write.

Leah and I were poor in the more traditional sense. We shared a tiny one-bedroom apartment on Avenue B. Actually, Leah shared it with me. She had the place long before I decided to come with her at the last minute.

The radiator banged and hissed all night; luckily, the sirens, dogs and other city noises tried their best to drown it out. In the summer, the heat was unbearable. And in the winter, the apartment became a walk-in fridge. It was like having Ohio weather all year long, only indoors. Not the reminder of home I needed.

“You’re up late.” The lamp in the living room gave me away.

“Hey Leah. How was the event?”

“Ugh, let’s see…Some old dude from Belgium explained photos to me for what seemed like an hour… Simon called everyone darling…oh, and nothing got sold.. Ugh… my feet are killing me. So, yeah, as good as could be expected, I guess.” She removed her long jacket to reveal a charming black dress.

“Wow. someone treated themselves.”

“Oh no, it’s not like that. Marta lent it to me. Isn’t it nice?”

“It looks great on you, Leah..”

She blushed and gave a twirl, then made her way to the kitchen; which consisted of a sink, a stove, and two cupboards, accented by a lovely brownish-yellow wall that I’m sure was once white; and held her hands out over the partially opened oven. This had become part of our winter heating ritual.

Then she went into her room and quickly emerged in one of my giant tees. It looked giant on her, anyway. I didn’t tell her, but to me she looked just as good as she did in that dress. She plopped down on the couch next to me, snuggled up to my side and covered herself with my blanket. I wrapped my arm around her. We listened to the city for a moment.

“Whatcha write-in’?” She said it in the voice of the girl who owns the diner back home. It became a kind of running joke between us to use it in less serious times.

“A book about nosy roommates.”

“Ha. ha. ha.” She said deliberately and sarcastically. “Real funny.”

“No. It’s about back home.”

“Danny.”

“It’s fine… It just helps me organize my thoughts.”

“I just... I worry. You dwell on things. I just care about you.”

“I know.”

I squeezed her a little, turned my cheek towards her face, and gave a kiss, half on the top of her head, half on nothing.

“Don’t get any ideas, perv.”

“With you? Never.”

“I wish we had a T.V.”

“You keep hanging out with these socialites, and you’ll have one in no time.”

“You should have come. Get out of the apartment.”

“Why? To hang out with Simon?” I said the Simon part with a posh snootiness. “While you listen to some German dude rant about photos.”

“He was Belgian…And it’s my job.. You seem to hate it more than I do sometimes.”

“Exactly. It’s your job. I don’t need to be there.”

“But you don’t go anywhere. It worries me. You’re surrounded by the greatest city in the world and you just sit here and type.”

“I go to work. And to the diner.”

“You’re observing the culture when you could be participating in it. You should go out, go to a writing group or something. Meet some people… it’s been over a year, Dan. It worries me.” As if grief suddenly had a time limit.

“I need to observe people. For my work. For my stories… A group? I don’t know. A bunch of people sitting around criticizing each other? Sounds too much like therapy.”

“You need to experience people. You can’t write about them from the outside looking in. You need to feel what they feel… And… you’d get to criticize them too, to their face, in the name of creativity.”

That was just it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel anything. That was why I wrote. Sometimes I would right so much and so frantically that the clacking of the keys would wake Leah from the next room. It helped me clear my head. It helped me escape. This, I had thought, surely, was better than losing my feelings to booze or drugs. Although it wouldn’t have been hard.

Working at a bar in Manhattan in the 90’s was like working at a buffet for the unsavory. Anything you wanted, night or day, was likely a conversation with a patron of that fine establishment away. I never participated directly. I didn’t like drugs and alcohol made me nauseous. I always smoked weed, but that wasn’t really a drug, and it helped me with my writing, I thought. I could never understand how the great writers were always fucked up. Hemingway, Thompson, Poe, Burroughs, Williams, Fitzgerald. Or maybe that’s what greatness requires? The ability to remove yourself from the present, tired reality we so painstakingly dissect. Maybe this removal is created through the consumption of mind altering substances? I couldn’t have a single glass of wine and write a decent, nor coherent sentence, I’m sure. Kerouac. Can’t forget Kerouac.

As far as vices go, I always had one. Women. And The Shady Cat had its share of the captivating type. The intriguing type. There were women you could woo with your wallets and others with your words. Some, for which, you needed both. Some women that would make you feel as if you’re the only one in the room, while everyone else in the room knew you were being played.

I always fantasized about the women I’d see at work, even flirted with some of them, but I would never act on it. A don’t shit where you eat kind of situation, I guess. It wouldn’t have been hard. Being a bartender, people are always asking for favors. I’ve been offered everything from boob flashes to blowjobs, and rarely have I given in. Yes, rarely. I am human.

Leah was different. Not to say that I didn’t fantasize about her, because sometimes I did. She was my best friend and roommate, and I respected her boundaries, but I certainly enjoyed the times I would accidentally get a glimpse of her. She was not shy about her body, nor was she careful about being covered, so I saw her naked on numerous occasions. And she was incredibly beautiful. Dark, satin-like skin. Curly, shoulder length black hair. Piercing blue eyes that could have destroyed a weaker man’s life. Pointy, perky breasts, that she’d tried to hide under hoodies and sweaters, without much success.

“Maybe. I mean it can’t hurt to get other perspectives. There’s a workshop over on Orchard every Tuesday. I’ve seen flyers.” I think I secretly wanted to go, but I would rather it be her idea.

“I’d go with you if you wanted… What time does it start?”

“Yea. I think I'd do that.. 7:30, I'm pretty sure.”

“Perfect. I have class until 4:30. I’ll even bring you Ray’s for dinner.”

“You just have a crush on that new guy.”

“Hey, you’re the one that always raves about it.. And his name’s Phil.”

I laughed. “Well yeah, it’s cheap, and within walking distance. And they’re always open… It meets all of my requirements.”

“You’re a simple man, Mercer. At least it’s better than any pizza in Ohio.”

Famous Ray’s Pizza had become a ritual since the day we moved in in August. We had been driving all day in the heat with no AC in Leah’s 1986 GMC pickup. It was an eight hour drive but it felt like sixteen. When we arrived in the city we were dehydrated and half-starved. Somehow the Twizzlers and Colas we had on the drive didn’t have the nutritional value I had assumed. We had no furniture or utensils, just two suitcases between us, so we hit the closest place that looked within our limited budget. Luckily, Ray’s was just a few blocks down, something most people in New York could say at the time.

At least some iteration of Ray’s. There was Ray’s Pizza, Famous Ray’s Pizza, Original Ray’s, Famous Original Ray’s, World Famous Original Ray’s, and, my personal favorite, Not Ray’s Pizza. Each of which had several locations across the city.

We wandered in, soaked in sweat and beat up by the day. Gio greeted us with an enthusiastic, “How ya doin?”. To us, it served as a welcome from the city itself. As if we had traveled from a faraway land in search of great opportunity and immediately granted reassurance upon our arrival.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Is what I really heard, as clear as Gio’s Italian-American accent. We weren’t immigrants, but Ohio sure did feel like a world away. To us Gio was, and remained, a sort of ambassador to the city. Or a spokesman, perhaps.

By the time we got back to the apartment, the pizza was still warm and the bottled water was cold. Ever since it’s been the go-to whenever we were bored, broke, or ‘tempest-tost’. Our 'golden door'.

We talked a bit longer until we both fell asleep to the sounds of the radiator, and the giant city on the other side of the wall. At least I did. By the time I woke, she had left and the morning had passed me by.’