by Alida Nugent
It’s not just about having dreamy crushes on attractive strangers, either. There are so many people I come across every day that I always manage to feel something personal and real toward strangers. I do most of my living inside their heads, imagining things as they appear to them. The girl reading her book in the park, the little boy walking and eating a candy bar, the old man drinking a glass of wine at the sports bar, the couple having dinner. These are the people I form tiny connections with in my brain. I like that guy. I hope that couple works out. I hope that man has somewhere to go home to—it’s a workbook exercise, a practice of human compassion I may forget when I am cursing out a particularly slow pedestrian. I’m also presented with real human suffering. People who don’t have homes. Addicts. I don’t always notice them, I don’t always give them my quarters, but every once in a while, they will hit my heart in a way I didn’t expect. I don’t want to lose that. It makes me feel more a part of something, the kind of “Hey, I guess we’re all in this together.”
There are places you’ll call your own almost immediately, a hangout joint that is just right, a store that you just know you want to go inside. There is the small bar with the worst lighting in the world by my house, the kind of light my mother would yell at you for if you tried to read in there. This is the place I go to for happy hour because they run a two-for-one special and the bartenders know who you are. There is the bar that is a six-minute walk from my house that I go to only occasionally because it’s thirteen dollars a cocktail but they are really good cocktails. There is the place I go for brunch because they put six olives in the Bloody Marys and you can eat the same thing every Sunday and feel satisfied. There is the place that I bring all of my friends because there is the best fried chicken in the world, and there is the place I go by myself to eat hummus sandwiches and be upset. Wherever you are, it is your city, so set a flag down today, and try somewhere new tomorrow.
I still wander the city and get lost, and I intend on doing that for a really long time. I know that New York City is a grid, and that Brooklyn goes from south-something street to north-something street, but that doesn’t mean I won’t drink and stumble somewhere I’m not supposed to be. I have no idea how to find anything on Park Avenue, and I don’t know where to transfer on the F train to get to the L train, or whatever else you have to do once and never again. This keeps you from getting a big head, and it keeps me from claiming this place as entirely my own yet, even though I still feel good when tourists ask me for directions. I always feign irritation at my own self when I can’t help them. “Oh I know this,” even if I have no clue. “Christ, I just feel so silly! Sorry!” I am always nice when giving directions, to prove New York’s nasty reputation is unfounded.
There are places I can still walk around in and feel awe. When I stepped off into the South Street Seaport, taking in the slow waves of a place I never really travel to. Literal waves, there’s water there. I hadn’t heard the sound of salt water in months, I thought to myself. This is nice! Watching the Empire State Building light up in the colors of the rainbow the day gay marriage was passed in the city, the vastness of Times Square when you are up thirty floors, all of these moments are beautiful and surprising and wonderful. Later on, I might complain that I need to “get out of the city.” You will, too, traveling with friends to some state close by to lie on the beach, to somebody’s apartment in another city. You’ll miss the city, you’ll compare your city to other cities, and most often you never want to go back just yet.
I have met real friends here, friends I didn’t know before I moved to the city who have no connection with any of the people I met before I moved here. These are the secret friends you cherish the most—oh yes, my Australian friend who I met at a bar, she’s coming over for dinner tonight. Yes, that guy who lives right by Penn Station? I’m visiting him today. I am a capable person, capable of making connections with people not based on sex, who have lived in different worlds than me, and because of this I feel validated. You have never had to work hard to make friendships, and then you move somewhere new without the prospects of college classes or “friends of friends.” Sometimes you’ll meet somebody special to you, whether it is for ten minutes or ten years.
There are nights out that are uneventful, which start out disappointing and eventually become the relief of a still-packed wallet and a hangover-free morning. Not every single Saturday will be the Saturday that changed your life; not every weekend will mark some sort of wonderful, life-changing moment in the city that never stops drinking. Not the city that never sleeps, the city that is always down for another round in a place you promise will be good. I’ve taken the subway at four in the morning or six in the morning, sitting with my roommates, trying not to fall asleep. When you walk home in the light of day, you begin to question the little things about your life. I have done this on more than one occasion. (Although the general rule should always be: If it’s past 2 A.M. and you are alone, please always take a cab.)
You will have moments that feel so incredibly CITY—the night I flashed drag queens who later fed me 4 A.M. truffle mac and cheese while complimenting my breasts comes to mind—and you will feel like you need to get more Jeffrey Campbell wedges and go full-on fashion-urban-glamour-puss. But some of your best nights might involve playing board games and ordering Thai food. Talking to your best friend on the phone. Going to a museum.
Not every night is a magical night in the city, and I’m still trying to find the balance. There have been nights where I have cried. There have been nights where I have laughed, have tripped on my heels and thought I can’t do this, or gotten so overconfident in my place here I had to humble myself and take a breather. I have gone out drinking too many nights in a row, decided to stop drinking for a while and just sit on my couch with my roommate and watch Mad Men episodes, and times where I’ve taken a two-hour walk, only to be completely enraptured by the city I chose to live in. You get to know yourself in ways you didn’t think possible when you move into a city. It’s a beautiful experience.
You will accidentally make a blip: You will scribble something in Sharpie on a bathroom wall or lose your earring or give somebody wrong directions. You will have little victories—you will learn how to sew a button or get a dentist here you remember to go to or you will start getting haircuts on a regular basis. You will do something good for yourself.
I have become a presence in this place. A slight one, maybe, and one who will only grow as I learn to do New York things like wear a lot of black and check behind me when I am walking home late at night, but somebody who is somewhere in a big place that she has narrowed down enough to call her own.
Here I am, New York, I will stop saying. I am here, I will say instead.
I hope you find your “here,” someday.
I hope you know you’re already there.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Tumblr, the blogging platform that gave me more love and attention than I deserve. I appreciate you all for following me, reading me, and letting me know that I am not alone in my odd endeavors to eat all the chips and drink all the whiskey. You have constantly made me strive to be better, which is something I’m not prone to do without incentive. For the ladies I have met via the Internet, giving me hope for the future—I think you are beautiful.
A special thanks go out to my friends: Grace, Natalie, Greg, Shane, Danielle, Sarah, Sandy, Lucy, Steve, Scott, Ian, Kelly, and Adam have listened all too much to my incessant whining about how much work it takes to write a book about how it’s funny when I drink. To Amanda for giving me truffle salt and a good ear; to Brittanie because she gave me poetry and gave me teeth. To Grey Blake for making my Web site look nice; to Griff O’Brien for inspiring me, and to Evan for being my first follower on my stupid blog. Your support and drinks and love have not gone unnoticed. To the boy I suspect will still be around when this is published—thanks for letting me dance around in your basketball shorts to Rihanna. To three-dollar bottles of Charles Shaw. To cheese. To Emerson
College and certain English teachers and Jimmy’s Traveling All-Stars and yes, RAD!—without you I wouldn’t have learned how much I loved to be funny, and without you nobody would have told me I should get better at it. To all of my buds for being there, here is the proof that I wrote a book entirely about myself. That’s kind of weird, right?
To Kate Napolitano: your endless patience and occasional sandwiches have made you an angel to me. I couldn’t have anticipated an editor I wanted to be my friend, and I can’t thank you enough for fixing my grammar and my bad spelling and for still being encouraging even though I refused to meet deadlines. I hope we have many more books together.
To Andrew and Alyssa at Paradigm, and everybody at Penguin and Plume Books for thinking I deserve this book even though I’m a young shithead—what an appreciated gamble you took on a four-eyes like me.
To my family—Yaya for giving me her spunk, Nana for giving me her love of beer and her lack of height, Aunt Linda and Aunt Peggy and Fred and Titi Vicky for laughing at my jokes as I spill potatoes all over the floor on Thanksgiving. For my mother for a million reasons. For my genius father for letting me be a forever daddy’s girl and trying to teach me algebra and also for letting me drink cold red wine while watching movies with you. For my brother for being my best pal and greatest protector and biggest role model. I am so lucky to have all of you.
And also for whoever is reading this—you’re making my silly little dreams come true. Thank you, all, and I hope I haven’t let you down. I’m glad you read.