New York, Part Two
I had a moment at work the other night that reminded me of why New York and I had gotten together in the first place.
It was around midnight and I was catering a very loud, very boisterous and now very inebriated Greek wedding party in Manhattan. I was in charge of table #22 which was currently (and thankfully) empty. Everyone was on the dance floor or in bathrooms or out smoking so I was refilling waters and wines and refolding napkins in peace. Best to keep busy at this time of night.
The band had finished a song and the lead singer was chatting, once again congratulating the new bride and groom. He then announced that they would play one last song for the evening. The crowd sighed and cheered as the musicians lifted their instruments, and on a downbeat, the song began. It was the old standard, "New York, New York." Our song.
It hit me. Right in the chest. It had been so long since I had heard it. And it sent me reeling.
I had immediate flashbacks to when I only dreamed of meeting her, only read about her fickleness, only fantasized about walking down her long limbed avenues. When I had slept under an image of her- a tacky decoupaged poster with her name printed in all-caps below. I never expected that we would ever hold hands- her and I- in a dark alley of Chinatown- and pinky swear to try to make this crazy thing work.
I looked up and I saw my fellow cater waiters- detailing their tables around me- quietly swimming in their own dose of her drug. Reminiscing of their own complicated romance with the City. All of us transported to a tender memory, a heartfelt wish, one long taxi drive home.
I see the Novelist, putting fresh forks down, who is editing his final draft in his head. I see the pretty Actress, filling water glasses, who not only struggles to get an agent, but a work visa as well. I see the Screenwriter, the Masseuse, the Stand Up Comedian. I see the Folk Musician, the Accordion Player, the Grandma, the New Father. I see the husband and wife team whose feet are so calloused and beaten from rehearsing with their dance troupe all day, and yet they are here, refilling petifores and cleaning red wine spills.
We come from Indiana, Ireland, Brazil and Bismark. We come from broken homes and broken hearts. We come from dreams realized and dreams differed. We come from high rents and small square footages, prestigious MFA programs, and sometimes families to feed in another county. And we are here for a singular reason. We just can't get enough.
That night I recommitted to that child inside of me. Inside my polyester tuxedo. The one who told me if I could make it here I could make it anywhere. The one who always dreamed, who always believed, who always loved a little more and cared a little less. The one who slept under that cheap decoupaged poster and made me buy that one way ticket and asked me to never look back.
The band ended the song to wild applause. And my fellow waiters and I were quickly transported back to Reality. But it couldn't be denied. Something had changed.
It was around midnight and I was catering a very loud, very boisterous and now very inebriated Greek wedding party in Manhattan. I was in charge of table #22 which was currently (and thankfully) empty. Everyone was on the dance floor or in bathrooms or out smoking so I was refilling waters and wines and refolding napkins in peace. Best to keep busy at this time of night.
The band had finished a song and the lead singer was chatting, once again congratulating the new bride and groom. He then announced that they would play one last song for the evening. The crowd sighed and cheered as the musicians lifted their instruments, and on a downbeat, the song began. It was the old standard, "New York, New York." Our song.
It hit me. Right in the chest. It had been so long since I had heard it. And it sent me reeling.
I had immediate flashbacks to when I only dreamed of meeting her, only read about her fickleness, only fantasized about walking down her long limbed avenues. When I had slept under an image of her- a tacky decoupaged poster with her name printed in all-caps below. I never expected that we would ever hold hands- her and I- in a dark alley of Chinatown- and pinky swear to try to make this crazy thing work.
I looked up and I saw my fellow cater waiters- detailing their tables around me- quietly swimming in their own dose of her drug. Reminiscing of their own complicated romance with the City. All of us transported to a tender memory, a heartfelt wish, one long taxi drive home.
I see the Novelist, putting fresh forks down, who is editing his final draft in his head. I see the pretty Actress, filling water glasses, who not only struggles to get an agent, but a work visa as well. I see the Screenwriter, the Masseuse, the Stand Up Comedian. I see the Folk Musician, the Accordion Player, the Grandma, the New Father. I see the husband and wife team whose feet are so calloused and beaten from rehearsing with their dance troupe all day, and yet they are here, refilling petifores and cleaning red wine spills.
We come from Indiana, Ireland, Brazil and Bismark. We come from broken homes and broken hearts. We come from dreams realized and dreams differed. We come from high rents and small square footages, prestigious MFA programs, and sometimes families to feed in another county. And we are here for a singular reason. We just can't get enough.
That night I recommitted to that child inside of me. Inside my polyester tuxedo. The one who told me if I could make it here I could make it anywhere. The one who always dreamed, who always believed, who always loved a little more and cared a little less. The one who slept under that cheap decoupaged poster and made me buy that one way ticket and asked me to never look back.
The band ended the song to wild applause. And my fellow waiters and I were quickly transported back to Reality. But it couldn't be denied. Something had changed.
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