by Liz Phair
“No, I want to go back to my hotel,” I whined, feeling blindsided and disoriented. I hate unexpected changes when I’m out on the road. A tour has a predictable rhythm, a daily routine that’s the only thing keeping me sane when I have to surrender my life to the music business. “I’ll call a different car service,” I mumbled, already googling. “Or take a cab. I’m going back to Manhattan.”
“I tried. Seriously. You’ll never get a cab in this weather.” Greg searched my face, hesitant to leave me but anxious to get moving himself.
“Yes I will,” I snapped, imagining myself stuffing twenty-dollar bills through the opening of a taxi window, bribing either the passenger or the driver to let me share a ride. I had that flinty, faraway look in my eyes that said I was already disassociating from the situation, traveling in my mind to a happier time in the future when I’d have solved whatever dilemma I was facing. I was looking straight at Greg, but I was no longer really there. He knew better than to argue with me when I got like this.
“Okay.” He shrugged, heading off to supervise our load-out. “Are you sure?” He turned back, aware that I was being unrealistic but overwhelmed by his own responsibilities. He had six other people to worry about.
“Yeah,” I said, staring at my phone screen. “Go do your thing.” He’d done all that he could. Technically, I’m his boss.
I wasted precious minutes dialing every car company in town, even hitting up those tacky stretch-limo places that cater to groups of prom-goers. I received the same answer repeatedly: No one was accepting new reservations; there was no way to get back into Manhattan. Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes as I realized our next gig was now in jeopardy. If we didn’t play our show in Virginia the following night, I’d lose a lot of money that my insurance would only partially cover, since it would be a first claim. That was unacceptable. There had to be another way.
Other than teleporting, it seemed like my only alternative was to abandon my luggage at the hotel and stay out there in Brooklyn with the band. Tomorrow I’d have to cram myself into the van and hope against reason that the highways were clear. I’d specifically elected not to make the drive with the guys, choosing to fly on my own instead, because it would be a five-hour slog through heavy traffic on the best of days. I didn’t even want to think about how long it would take after the mother of all storms dropped a foot and a half of snow on the East Coast. My claustrophobia was already making hives break out on my cheeks, big ugly welts that felt hot to the touch.
Fuck it. I’d just have to suck it up and deal. I made multiple calls to hotels in the area. Every hotel room in Brooklyn was already booked, some with waiting lists. Thousands of people were stranded here in Brooklyn, just like me, and they’d had two extra hours to panic and prepare their accommodations while I was chained to a microphone onstage, oblivious. I regretted calling out an audible spontaneous addition to our set, the song “Help Me Mary.”
I’d run out of ideas. I had nowhere to go, and the club was emptying out. I regretted not accepting help from Greg, who was doubling as our tour manager to save costs. I truly didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t secure a car or cab to take me anywhere. There was full occupancy at all the hotels I could walk to. By the time the club locked up for the night, I could be begging a security guard or janitor to let me stay at their place. There probably wasn’t even a gas station or laundromat open that I could stay awake in all night, if it came to that. Everybody had gone home and boarded up their doors, practically. It was a freaking mammoth blizzard.
By a stroke of luck, I spotted Greg’s brother’s girlfriend, Eliza, crossing the lobby. I was overcome with relief to see someone I knew who hadn’t left yet. She offered to let me sleep at their place, on the floor of Greg’s brother’s studio. She doubted he had extra sheets and blankets, but she was sure they could provide me with some sort of makeshift mattress. At the very least, I’d be safely inside. I imagined myself curled up like a dog at the foot of their bed. It was an option, but one I would definitely feel weird about.
She also mentioned that the subway system was still running. My heart skipped a beat. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? It felt like a stay of execution. I’d be able to get back to the city and sleep in my own room. I asked her to explain exactly what train line I needed to take and give me detailed directions to the nearest subway station. She rattled off a set of instructions, easy enough for a native to follow, but after seeing my worried confusion, she graciously offered to escort me there. It was only a few blocks away.
I slipped my arm through hers, latching onto her like a lamprey eel. We stepped through the front doors of the venue, leaning into the wind like a pair of old biddies. The street was filled with pedestrians and vehicles. Chaos reigned as people vied for the one narrow strip of navigable road space. Snow blew in our eyes, biting into every inch of exposed flesh. Multiple cars spun out in the icy conditions, unable to maintain traction. A BMW accidentally clipped a young man, who jumped out of the way and kept walking, unfazed.
As we rounded the corner onto a side street, we came across a block of abandoned cars, their noses pointing in all directions, ditched in whatever position they’d gotten stuck in, as the snow piled up on their roofs and filled in the gaps under their wheel wells. Wind blew the snow in ugly vortices. The situation was rapidly deteriorating. I cringed, caught off guard by the sudden explosion of thunder and lightning overhead. I couldn’t believe this charming neighborhood had become a surreal and terrifying landscape.
We stopped to help some stranded motorists push their sedan off a slippery patch of ice. The four of us dug our heels in against the weight of the chassis, rocking the car forward each time the driver gunned the engine, but it was hopeless. The car just slid backward into the curb again. We apologized and moved on. I had my own gauntlet to run. The most ominous sign came at the end of the block, when we were forced to scatter to avoid a Humvee—one of those double-wide, military-grade, all-terrain vehicles that Arnold Schwarzenegger used to drive—skidding off the road. Its tires burned rubber as the driver tried in vain to back it up—just another casualty in this automobile graveyard.
Eliza and I exchanged glances across the street.
“Can I really do this?” I called out to her. “Do you think I’m crazy to try?”
Our eyes locked, two young women who had probably grown up in similar circumstances, both of whom left home to seek out a more challenging, unconventional life. She’d just seen me rock out in front of a crowd of music fans at our show, singing about personal and painful experiences. In that moment, there was no distance between us because of our age difference. We read each other perfectly.
“Totally!” she shouted back, conveying her absolute faith in me and, by proxy, in herself—and more broadly, in all the girls who’d been tomboys at some point in their lives. “It’s going to be fine once you’re on the train.”
Famous last words.
* * *
—
Emerging from the underground, I find myself on a desolate and windswept tundra. Manhattan is completely deserted. I thought there would be some people still out in the city, or that it would in some way resemble the New York I’m accustomed to, with pavement and sidewalks. But there is nothing, nobody. As far as the eye can see, everything is buried beneath an unbroken blanket of white. I’m standing in a snowy wilderness. I feel as though I’ve stepped out of Professor Kirke’s magical wardrobe, into the wintry kingdom of Narnia.
All the signs are covered in ice. I can’t read any of them. I turn to ask the couple who came up out of the station behind me if they know which direction west is, but they’ve already disappeared around the corner. No one else got off at this stop. I’m completely alone, shivering in the midst of the silent, indifferent Manhattan monoliths.
I could kick myself for being so naïve. Most people left work early tonight, heeding the warnings of meteorologists t
o get home safely before the worst of the weather hit. Thankfully, there’s a lull in the wind so I can gather my thoughts. I tilt my face up to the black sky, shielding my eyes against the heavy flakes drifting earthward between the tall buildings. I feel so small in their shadows.
I look to the left and right, trying to orient myself. The silence is disconcerting, like that eerie hush that falls over the landscape when the birds stop singing ahead of a tornado. There are no cars on the streets, no taxis speeding along the avenues, no snowplows with their rotating yellow lights, scraping the roadways free of ice. It’s as if no one has ever lived here or ever will again.
Distant lightning behind the clouds illuminates the skyline for an instant, and I picture the whole, two-thousand-mile-wide storm system slowly spiraling above me, its vast arms reaching out across several states. The low snow clouds directly overhead seem gentle and enfolding by comparison, like a protective canopy, though they stretch on, I know, for unimaginable distances.
I need to make a decision. There’s no one I can call in the middle of the night who’ll pick up—except for Greg, and I don’t want to wake him, considering he has to make the long drive tomorrow with our band and all our gear. He’d have to wait up for me if I rode all the way back to Brooklyn. But I can’t stay out here freezing my ass off much longer. With two feet of snow on the ground and more coming down fast, I need to think quickly. I don’t want to spend the night in the subway station. It seems stupid to try to get a reservation at another hotel, one I could actually locate if I got off at another stop. They’re all probably booked, and I’d only be there a few hours before I had to come back for my luggage anyway. I might as well soldier on.
I start walking, my thin boots making squeaky, crunching sounds as the snow compacts beneath my weight. I have to swing each leg forward with effort to wade through the dense accumulation. Within seconds, my toes are aching from the cold. My plan is to figure out which direction I’m heading by triangulating the street number, avenue, and address outside the station I just left, which should be easy once I reach the first intersection. But by the time I get to a street sign, I discover it’s been shellacked with frozen muck. I can’t knock off the ice, no matter how hard I bang on the pole or jump up and smack it with my fist. I struggle on, hoping for better luck on the next block. No dice. That sign is illegible, too.
I take a left, thinking maybe one of the side streets was spared the brunt of the wind, but every sign I encounter is mummified, frozen solid. I could be walking north, south, east, or west for all I know. I start to panic, speeding up as I search my surroundings for recognizable landmarks. I pull out my cellphone, trying to remember the name of my hotel. I start googling keywords, losing track of time. All of a sudden, I look up and realize I’ve gotten completely turned around, and I don’t even know how to get back to the subway station. I retrace my footsteps as far as they go, but fresh snow is filling in the tracks too quickly.
A sickening jolt of fear passes through me as the reality of my situation sinks in. I’m really in trouble now. I have no idea where I am. Everything is closed, locked up, the inhabitants asleep. I don’t know if the storm is going to get worse, and I have nowhere to take shelter. As far as the eye can see, New York is dark, silent—a ghost town. I start to run, passing imposing doorways, gates, and windows with iron staves. It feels like the city is turning its back on me. I think about pressing a random apartment buzzer and asking a stranger for help, but I know how unwelcome a late-night solicitation would be.
I pull out my cellphone and brush off the snow that keeps melting on the screen. I have only one bar of battery life left. One freaking bar. I’m lost in a snowstorm, I have no other way to find my hotel, and there’s no one who can help me. In this moment, I realize—no hyperbole—that I’ve put myself in a situation where I could actually get frostbite or worse. This is crazy. I’m going to freeze to death in one of the busiest cities in the world.
“Please, please, please,” I beg God, my fingers shaking as I type repeated keywords into Google. “Triangle hotel New York.” “Wedge hotel.” “Cake slice building.” “Triangle building new york.” Finally, I hit upon the magic phrase. The screen fills up with a picture of the Flatiron Building on a bright and sunny day. My memory comes flooding back: lecture slides from my college art history class. Greg asking me this December if I’d like to try out a new hotel in a famous building downtown. The doorman holding open the door of my cab earlier today as I left for Williamsburg.
Google Maps shows a location a quarter mile from where I’m standing. I follow the GPS, my heart racing. I’m so close. But I’m terrified the battery is going to die.
“C’mon.” I beg my phone to live, willing it to keep me company on this bleak and frightening trek. I’m Tom Hanks in Cast Away, talking to my volleyball. I’m pretty sure I’ve memorized the way to my hotel now, but I feel an irrational attachment to this glowing screen, my only lifeline. My shock at my own recklessness has me rattled. I slog through the heavy snow, my legs aching, my pants damp and crusted with ice from the thigh down. What series of catastrophic mistakes brought me to this point in my life? How did I stray so far off the beaten path? It’s hard to say.
I’m still recovering from being betrayed by my ex-boyfriend Rory, a year ago. Something died in me at the end of that relationship. It changed me in a fundamental way. If you object to religious terms like “penance” or “purgatory,” then I’ll describe my state of mind as a self-imposed moratorium on love. I have no interest in dating seriously. My faith in my ability to spot the wrong kind of guy is nonexistent. I survived the blow, but just barely. I got back up and started living again. That’s the most positive thing I can say about my recent history.
But I’m proud that I can recognize that this wasn’t just done to me, that my choices in life played a role in why I am alone. I kind of like being independent for a change. I’ve gone from boyfriend to boyfriend, playing the needy-girl part too often. I need to develop as a person.
Almost the moment I have this thought, my phone dies. Total loss of power. It’s just me out here now. Me and these imposing buildings. My awareness expands to encompass the eerie, silent world around me. Now that I have no up-close distraction I am forced to perceive myself from afar, to listen to the haunting sound of my footsteps in the stillness. I notice all the dark windows and remember that there are actually people behind those glass panes, some of whom could be watching me right now. I freak myself out imagining someone’s face suddenly appearing from behind a curtain. My heart starts beating rapidly. I have to shake the frightening image off.
I look down the length of these dark, snowy streets. It would be easy to believe I am the last person on earth. How fucking scary would it be if a pack of wolves were roaming New York right now? I can easily picture their shaggy gray coats and bowed heads. If they caught my scent and started chasing me, where would I run to? What could I do to defend myself? It’s a heart-stopping image, one that feels like it came out of the mists of time, from centuries ago when Manhattan was still a wild island. Trappers must have faced such threats if they were lost out at night, in the winter, alone.
I swap the image of a pack of wolves for one of the gaunt and ravenous hellhounds from An American Werewolf in London streaking toward me at unfathomable speed, fangs dripping with saliva, beady red eyes homing in on its kill. How terrifying would it be to be the object of that bloodlust, to watch your own death coming at you and be paralyzed? I’m scaring the crap out of myself.
I think I hear a noise, and I freeze, my heart pounding, my breath rasping. I stop and listen, mentally mapping the environment around me. All of a sudden, a huge floomp of snow falls off a tree and lands right on top of my head. I protest loudly, dusting the snow out of my hair, feeling like an idiot—like nature just threw a pie in my face for taking this all too seriously, for not looking around with an open heart and mind. I’m convinced that the trees and bui
ldings are watching and laughing at me.
But not in a bad way. It lightens the mood. I recognize it as a sign that I need to trust more, that I’m not as alone as I perceive myself to be. I feel like a loved child. This is the way I used to interpret the work of God in my life when I was a little girl. I often believed there was a benevolent presence or a guardian angel watching over me, a divine being with a sense of humor who would teach me lessons in the kindest, gentlest ways. Like the way I was taught not to lie.
When I was eight or nine, I went on a hike with my Girl Scout troop. I was bored by the manicured suburban woods we were tramping through, having grown up running free in much wilder regions. I wanted to break away from the pack, get out from under the noses of the volunteer moms. I pretended to see a rabbit hopping down a side trail and called out to my friends to come chase after it with me. I convinced them to keep following, making up a constant stream of falsehoods about how I saw the rabbit up ahead and how, if we hurried, we’d catch him. They knew it was a game, too; just an excuse to get away from the stupid badge activity and have a real adventure.
So you can imagine our surprise when we turned the next corner and saw a big fat rabbit sitting right in the middle of the path. He acted as unconcerned as if he were somebody’s pet; not scared of us at all. He just twitched his nose, stood up on his haunches to get a better whiff, and then hopped away, leaving us to stare, dumbfounded at the bizarre coincidence. Deep in the forest preserve, I knew God was playing a loving trick on me, reminding me he was watching, and that I’d better be good.
There was a time when a small part of this metropolis felt like home. I spent my junior year of college in an apartment overlooking the St. Mark’s churchyard in the East Village. I was just a baby back then, barely out of my teens. Navigating the transportation system was daunting. The trains were confusing and crowded, and I was too shy to hail a cab. I often walked twenty blocks or more to get to work, stopping occasionally in the doorway of a random apartment building to consult a shiny, gate-folded map.