The Balance

Andrew Kimball is fantastically in tune with the energy of NYC. I’ll never forget our first trip to the city together. It was a Wednesday night, after dinner and rest in the Upper East Side, we took the Subway to Times Square – no particular purpose intended, we merely wanted to see it, to hear it, to feel it, to absorb it. Whatever that “it” is. We drank it in, too, at the Perfect Pint, talked and laughed, shruggingly pretending a Pint (or two) in Times Square was just another Wednesday night.  

It carried us home. That zephyr; that kinetic energy, nearly tangible, however ephemeral, led us. So strongly, in fact, that we found ourselves walking the 50+ blocks back to Katie and Peter’s apartment, infamously so as in the middle of our journey we found ourselves lost in Central Park. At 11:30 pm.

I haven’t felt it this time. A disappointment I’ve kept to myself until now, I wonder where it is, where it’s gone. The buildings are still tall, the lights are still bright. I’m still peaking around corners, looking closer at things, really seeing things, trying to feel that zephyrous spark.

I know it hasn’t gone anywhere. Andrew surely feels it still. His presence brought certain brightness to us all. For Chris and Peter, a little more testosterone, another basketball buddy, a pleasant spirit. For Katie, a dear cousin, a guest to plan for and share with. For me, a beloved friend, a taste of home—someone whose eyes livening at the rush of it all prove that it’s still there.

“Can you believe it? I mean can you believe you live here?” Andrew says exuding excitement from his pores as the five of us walk back from “Dishes,” a culinary extravaganza on Madison and 45^th where we’ve just eaten lunch. They’re continuing on to the East Village to visit the Hi-Line, an abandoned train line now converted into a green space with charming vendors and gardens along the way (I've yet to go). I’m returning to work on the 32^nd floor. I sigh on the inside and say something about how it will probably feel more real once we have Gizmo, a place of our own, and are a little more settled. I think I wish I was as excited about it as him.

I have a similar conversation with my dad, who too is atuned to that zephyr. I sigh and say something about a loss of luster. I hang up and slow down, not so much because I have blisters that are about to burst, but because I’m still looking, still searching.

There are countless applicable axioms, starting with “the grass is always greener,” sure, but the truth of the matter is any transition takes time, and apparently, casualties.

No, New York City’s radiating energy has gone nowhere, it’s just hard too feel it through the tension in my temples, deltoids, and chest.

Back on the 32^nd floor of 1166 Avenue of the Americas, I email with Lu who responds with pointed wisdom to my subtle complaint. I’m sorry to say I don’t remember exactly what I wrote – perhaps something about feeling unsettled, homesick, or uncertain about my new job—nor do I remember what she wrote, I just remember her point: balance.

Balance is inevitable, however tenuous.

I’m meditating on yin and yan as I try to suppress a different kind of yawn during my three hour “Documentor” training, Documentor being a proprietary program (I don’t know what that means) developed by a Principal with Mercer Workforce Communication and Change  that runs in Microsoft Word and enables the user to create and edit multiple versions of a document from a single source (i.e. Summary Plan Descriptions for insurance plans that are basically the same but have minor changes across providers/plans).  This Principal, a Yale grad who did a stint off-off broadway before achieving business success (when he later learns I’m a Lit student with an undergrad minor in music, we plan to write a musical version of Emma). But I’m getting ahead of myself. At this point I know little more of this man than he is a superior, a Yale grad, and the “father of Documentor.” And he’s drinking Mello Yello from a Styrofoam cup. Mello yellow from a Styrofoam cup? He’s wearing cufflinks and a tie, leading a teleconference training on the software he developed, drinking Mello Yello from a Styrofoam cup and eating French fries without wiping the grease from his fingers before he touches his keyboard. Balance.

This man’s undershirt is clearly visible through his button down and all of a sudden I’m envisioning him in a t-shirt and jeans, playing with his kids. I remember Uncle Doug, who I know beer in hand, hat on head, steering a sailboat. Doug is a Senior Principal with Mercer Health and Benefits. I wonder what the young women who work with him see when they sit around a conference table as his subordinates.

I suppose that inside every computer programming businessman there’s a Mello Yello drinking dude that probably sings stupid songs in the shower. And inside every Senior Communication Consulting Analyst with blisters on her ankles there’s a free spirited young woman who’ll find her zephyr.

The Constants

I listened to my Ipod on the Subway today.

Battered (cerebrally) and cross-eyed (somewhat literally) I saunter to the Bryant Park Subway platform, still standing, due primarily to the ever-tranquil voice of my Daddy in my ear chatting about contacts for Chris and asking about my day as he breathes somewhat heavily and walks down West Madison Avenue, I imagine (West Madison Avenue, Athens, TN that is). I stroll down Sixth Avenue and pass The Bank of America Tower to my right, Grace Plaza on my left. Taxis screech and honk, trucks pummel by but I hear the stillness of a sleepy-small town, see Riddle and Wallace Drug Store to my right, a bicycle chained to a lamppost, and a courthouse bell-tower to my left.

I plop down on the hard plastic of the burnt 70’s orange Subway seat of the 7 train. 1 stop to Grand Central, walk up the escalator past those who choose to ride and down the stairs to the “Uptown 4,5, and 6” trains just in time to miss the 6. To my right a tall man and his sassy woman bicker in a familiar banter, smiling through their squabble and a Latina woman to my left seems something like a kindred spirit (she has a shy smile and downcast eyes, the white flowers on her sandals match (closely enough) those adorning the collar of her white linen shirt). The train comes and, again, I plop down hard on the plastic (this train features a sea-foam green hue) seat. Exaggerated self-criticism, and underrated self-worth keep company with doubt and anxiety as I rub my temples, clench my teeth.

This moment is my breaking point. I put in my earbuds and turn on my Ipod.

"Distraction #74." The raw cry of the Avett Brothers’ polyphony sails above their simple strings. I haven’t heard this song since when, 2007, perhaps? It resonates a very particular heartstring and I smirk. I refrain from crooning along at the top of my lungs as my lips curl into a smile and it takes all the strength I have not to laugh out loud (not that I would attract much attention from such a display).  4 years is just short of a lifetime in your early twenties. Our goals and interests, fears and joys, our habits, our personas, they certainly do…evolve. I wonder how the 2007 Lauren Brown would react if she knew her 2011 counterpart would be commuting home on the 6 train from her office (cube) on the 32^nd floor of the New York office of the world’s number one ranked human resources consulting firm, for whom she is employed.

Yet, there is a certain unity across time and space.

Smiling at the Avett Brothers I see people leaving the Subway and, naturally, I follow. Stepping over the gap, I realize I’ve exited at 77^th street, two stops early. I shrug and lean against the dirty brick wall. Now, Marvin Gaye sings "Your Precious Love" and I want my momma. I see her though: arms stretched out to ecstasy, eyes bright blue and smiling, head bobbing, feet step-and-touching right, then left.

There are elements that unite us, moments to which we all belong.

Some detours are not obstacles. Sometimes detours provide perspective. The train will always come. I board the next Pelham Park bound local train and finish my commute—still smiling.

I climb the stairs to the SE corner of Lexington and 96^th street, round the corner into a welcome gush of cool air.

I dial my Daddy. He answers.  “Well, it takes you as long to ride the Subway as it does me to walk home. Small world, huh?”

The Rain

New Yorkers are plugged in people. Chris was the first to voice this observation and was sure to remind me not to forget my iPod as I collected the contents of my bag for my first day of work: “you gotta have that plugged in if you want to fit in.” My iPod (“Quattro” affectionately named so as it is my fourth) remained zipped in an inner pocket of my leather bag, along with my wallet, phone, Bert’s Bees, a packet of Emergence-C, and a few stray cough drops (an aside: I turned my ring so that my diamonds were protected by my fist) as I walked West on 96^th street towards Lexington Avenue to board the 6 train. The teeming train cars are an exercise in forced association, however sterile. There is less eye contact than physical contact. Few shared moments for so much shared space.

New Yorkers are plugged in and tuned out. The twenty-something fashionistas with their side-braids and their golden gladiator sandals, the middle-aged business men in their three piece suits, the frumpy moms and their thinning patience, the sloppy sons and their angst (“self expression”) and all that’s in between have their ears plugged up and their eyes averted (E-Books, real books, papers, magazines, finger nails, shoes). Are they desensitized as a general public to the brimful city in which they live?

I have a flashback to March 2009. Whitney, Katie, Matt, Andrew and I are taking the subway to Penn Station. Andrew is playing the part; in his navy pea-coat he leans against the subway pole with his effervescent charm, headphones in his ears. He looks like he belongs. It is a quintessentially human desire, to belong, perhaps even more so just to look as if we belong. I have been overly consumed with fashion this past week, used, as I am--if only in the little world of my imagination--to being considered relatively trendy and polished. In a city where 83% of the young women strolling down the street appear to have apparated from the pages of a women’s magazine, this girl feels plain, dare I say it, podunk. I’ve begun a mental checklist of the must-have items to purchase when I have some disposable income (which at this rate will be March of 2016) and Chris helps, “you need those shoes, everybody’s wearing those shoes, you don’t have those shoes.” Perhaps my physical belonging will be exponentially amplified if not solidified by the purchase of some gladiator sandals, but what of my belonging in the more abstract sense? How does one find her place amongst a people so detached?

On Saturday, Chris and I wandered down 2^nd Avenue in search of something to satisfy a nebulous craving. On one of twenty or so street corners we passed a homeless man and his four-legged companion--a red-eyed yellow lab prostrate on a pillow fabricated from garbage piled in a shopping cart. Observing his rule (always sympathetic to a desperate dog), Chris asked that we offer something were they still to be there on our way home. We enjoyed a slightly over-priced and wholly over-proportioned meal at Big Daddy’s Diner--purveyor of an eclectic menu and homage to all things 1980’s. Chris managed to inhale a majority of his breakfast sampler (eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes), while I ate a third of my grilled chicken Panini (admittedly, I did some damage to my tater tots). As we sauntered home with full bellies, hurrying as fast as our tired legs and digesting stomachs would allow us (the Cardinals were playing on MLB network) we did pass the aforementioned duo. They had since been joined by another concave man. I looked mostly at the dog but ventured to gaze into the mens’ eyes in turn as I offered seven dollars and half of a chicken Panini. That wide-eyed thank you from a destitute man represents the most human connection I’ve yet to share with a stranger in the city.

I did not listen to my iPod as I rode home from work today. Business people and general wanderers alike are packed like sardines into the squalid, sweaty, subway car. I make unreciprocated eye contact and listen not to a preferred playlist but the sounds of the train cutting through the air, the brakes screeching, the momentum slowing. I watch the facial expressions—exhaustion, anticipation, reticence, apathy, reverie—and the body language—contained and detached. As I climb the stairs to the NE corner of Lexington and 96^th a woman descends with alarming alacrity and without any regard for my physical presence in her path. A man hurries close behind. It’s raining.

I have no umbrella. Everyone opens theirs and bustles about on their way. I am momentarily crippled with concern for my genuine leather bag, a favorite birthday present from Chris. It would get wet.
(It dried.)

I watch my fellow sans-umbrella commuters scurry frantically toward dripping awnings. I laugh. When the street sign indicates my cross I skip across the intersection laughing and stop myself just short of standing on the corner with my mouth open wide. The rain is cool and fresh, each drop caresses my skin. Though my rayon/nylon slacks would have dissented had they been asked, I took my time walking.

Umbrellas are, in a way, like earphones. Perhaps they provide solace, shielding us from the elements--known and unknown--but perhaps they’re too restrictive, prohibiting us from our own experience.

As a dear friend of mine wisely observed quite recently, we too often build fences, dangerously confining ourselves.

So here’s to closed umbrellas and open eyes.

A bottle of red, a bottle of white. What, exactly, is that New York State of mind?

The Subway

A fashion show for the poor and the prosperous: festering air punctuated by screeching brakes and beseeching beggars, that is if you take the time to look up from your smart phone and listen through the tinny stereo sound of your earbuds. A microcosm of the city. Three and a half days in New York and I’m a cynic already.

Not totally, though. I’m still operating under the romantic notion that taking the subway to work is exciting. I visualize myself in a new suit, pantyhose, pumps, and heels. And I'm happy.

The Park

Central Park is sure to be the favored spot for these Tennessee transplants. Chris has already made that claim, in fact. Times Square, to him, did not compare to the natural oasis tucked between Central Park West and 5^th Avenue. Our first morning here we walked and walked and walked and walked, almost forgetting we were in hustling, bustling Manhattan. Our first discovery was the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir around which runs a counter-clockwise walker/runner path. We have returned twice since to watch the ducks dive, the birds swim in formation. I think I like the skyline best underscored by rustling trees and glistening water.

The Food

Seventy-seven  hours. Officially the longest I’ve been in NYC without consuming Italian food; unless you count the homemade pizza we made on Tuesday night. It was delicious. Peter made a garlic tomato sauce and Katie sautéed Italian sausage and tri-colored bell peppers. One pizza (I rolled the dough rather poorly for this pie) was topped with a blend of mozzarella and provolone and basil. The other--the one with the sausage and peppers--was better.

Monday night we walked from the Hertz on W 95^th to Brother Jimmy’s BBQ . The Carolina-themed BBQ joint allowed us to feel right at home—the menu boasted sweet tea and pulled pork. We picked up a light round of groceries at Gristedes, a grocery chain with a store in the bottom of Katie and Peter’s building. On our second trip of that evening I bought two sticks of butter and twelve beers for $38 and change.

On Tuesday we ended our morning ramble at Whole Foods on Columbus Avenue and W. 97^th. I’m a nerd for sure: I love grocery stores. Let me rephrase that: I love clean, green, organic grocery stores. As we rode the escalator down to the produce department I looked at Chris with what I’m sure was a goofy ass smile of exuberance. I’m so happy right now, I said, forgetting for a little bit that my ankle was throbbing. We filled our basket with what we thought would run as a tab upwards of $100 but left the store for under $60.

Chris has decided that we will eventually travel to Williamsburg, Brooklyn in order to compete in the spicy six wings challenge at Buffalo Cantina (as seen on Man v. Food). In order to prepare, Peter suggested we get wings at Manny’s, a Sports Bar in our neighborhood. Katie, Peter, Chris, and I made it there just in time for Happy Hour on Wednesday and shared a bucket of 50 wings--honey barbecue and buffalo sauce. We only managed to eat 43, but I learned how to eat wings. Somehow I’ve managed to survive 24 years on earth, and 2+ years with Chris Shepherd, without refining that skill. Apparently the wet-hand dry-hand method just won’t cut it.  You just have to jump in with both hands, wing it, and get a little dirty.

Tonight, Thursday, Peter made turkey burgers stuffed with  yummy things (spinach, green pepper, feta, garlic) and mango margaritas—fresh and delish. I bought the mangoes (4) and the limes (10) from the produce shop on the street below us.

“You want bananas?” “No.” The vendor puts four in my bag. “Three dollar.” “I don’t want bananas, I have bananas at home.”

I try to suppress my characteristic smile. “Okay, okay,” He smiles, “Seven fifty.”

The Driving

The GPS in our clean, white, new smelling 2011 Chevy Impala kept her word and we were “NeverLost.”  Navigational concerns were, therefore, one strain of little urgency on our drive. There were tolls, and the (insert your own creative combination of expletive modifying expletive here) all over the road, and bridges, and this is all before we made it to the city. Lucky me, the passenger. My hardest job was dolling out coins and dollars from my ever-thinning wallet and trying to take advantage of natural light, not shooting on automatic.

Approximately 90 miles outside of the city I noticed Chris’s driving posture had changed. He was sitting upright and rigid, jaw firmly set, eyes locked straight ahead, left hand clenched at ten o clock, right hand in a white-knuckled fist resting against four o clock. Chris is an excellent driver (something tells me the fist manifested an anxiety of a different sort) and he did a commendable job. On our way to the West Side to return our rental, Katie said he was driving very well for a guy who’s been in New York for less than twenty minutes in his whole life. There were some complications in our cross-town trip. Several wrong way, one way attempts and many minutes driving in squares later, we said goodbye to vehicular transportation and hello to our walking shoes.

Boy, do our legs hurt. Man, do I love it.

The Journey

We arrived in New York City around 4 p.m. after charitably donating thirty four of our taxi cab dollars to the D.C., Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, and New York transportation departments. Granted there are no toll roads (to my knowledge) in Tennessee, our failure to account for toll fees was one of several naïveté’s exposed in our journey. Car rentals, for instance, are subject to hidden fees, taxes, and the like. And, no--one cannot rent a large vehicle for under $300 for a four –day, one-way trip.

As a student of literature and a writer with transient poetic tendencies, I well know the magnitude of a story’s beginning. The respectable raconteur extracts a moment, the moment: a distillation of the story’s theme from which her story unfolds. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” Is the first sentence that has always had particular resonance to me. Charlotte Bronte introduces her heroine enfolding the reader with Jane Eyre in crimson curtains of repression.

With what words would you begin a tale of your journey? Bronte’s champion--beside the fact that she is a fictional incarnation--has the narratological advantage of hindsight. It is much easier, I offer, to begin a story artistically when one knows how her story will end.

Gizmo. We’ll start there. Ever-perceptive to our actions and emotions, our seventy-pound boxer suffers from spells of anxiety when we begin to pack. He’ll plant himself on his hind legs, stern, and hard-eyed, a wholly different dog than the floppy-tongued butt wiggler we all know and love. Don’t forget me, his eyes say. Don’t you leave me, they insist. On previous moves we’ve laughed and ruffled his ears promising to never leave him behind. This time, however, his anxiety was not unwarranted. We backed out of Chris’s parents driveway and could not not look at our bestest buddy as he hesitantly peered through the glass door, knowing, I think, that we wouldn’t be back any time soon.

I didn’t cry because Chris did (though he’d say he just had tears in his eyes) and suggested, instead, that we list all the reasons why it was the right decision to leave our dog behind for a few months (a list to which we’re still adding). On Sunday during our stop-over in Sterling, VA, we looked at pictures of Gizmo on Facebook. Everytime I see a dog, which is not infrequently as NYC is one dog-friendly city, I want to cry.

I want to cry, yes, because Gizmo has been a hefty presence in my life for over two years and each day seems not as good without my little Sir Lix-a-lot. Yes, this journey is about a new beginning, but our story includes what we’ve left behind. It is not as easy to discuss the loss felt from the lack of other daily presences: laughter, comfort, guidance, and, above all, love. This is not to say that we aren’t laughing and loving, this act’s just missing a few title characters. So, don’t be too jealous of our grand adventure—you’re in our minds and close to our hearts, always.