Chapter 2
Relieved at last, I make my way to baggage claim.
It takes forever for me to finally spot my massive suitcase circling around the conveyor belt.
Jack Sparrow is standing a short distance away; turns out I guessed correctly that he’s super tall, based on how scrunched up he looked in his seat.
His dark hair sticks out above the crowd as he stares in the direction of the plastic flaps separating us from our luggage.
A moment later, he grabs an overnight bag from the carousel, then a worn-out guitar case covered in stickers.
He turns around and our eyes meet one last time.
Looking at me for a few beats, he gives his head an almost imperceptible shake in what seems like a final confirmation of his disapproval.
And then he walks toward the arrival hall, disappearing through the sliding doors.
Once the doors close behind him, I feel a sense of relief. That man, the witness to my deeply embarrassing conduct, is unlikely to ever cross my path again.
When my suitcase, covered in stickers of tulips and wooden clogs, finally glides by, I pull it from the carousel. The thing is so heavy that I had to pay an overweight baggage fee. That’s never happened to me before.
I spend what seems like two hours in line for customs. Once I’ve answered all the usual questions—What’s your name?
What’s the purpose of your visit? Have you ever stabbed someone while cocaine residue was still stuck to your nose?
—they let me through. I follow the green signs pointing toward the taxi stand.
As soon as I walk through the doors, a cool, late-summer breeze brushes through my blonde hair. A bunch of people are waiting for rides into the city. Many of them are clearly drained from their long flights and have draped themselves over the extended handles of their suitcases.
A man in a black vest is showing passengers to their taxis and I’m mildly disappointed.
A small part of me had wanted to hail a cab like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City.
And when no one stopped, I would have hiked my skirt up just a little, letting my leg sway sensually back and forth.
Of course, there would be a Manolo Blahnik delicately dangling from my toes to complete the picture.
Instead, I’m standing here in worn jeans and sneakers, waiting for this donut-munching man to wrangle a ride for me.
There’s pink icing at the corners of his mouth when he points me in the direction of a yellow taxi with a big ad banner on top. This one’s yours, ma’am! he shouts, mouth full of donut, before holding the car door open for me.
I thank him, then slide into the back seat. There’s a plastic partition between me and the driver, who turns to face me. Eyebrows and a bushy grey moustache are the only hair on his head.
Where to, ma’am? His voice hints at some seriously asphalted airways.
Um . . . I wriggle the piece of paper with the address out of my pocket and hand it over to him through a little window in the partition. This is where I’m going.
Ah, Greenwich Village, he approves. Any chance you’re a Friends fan? He hits the gas and drives off.
Not really, I reply. I’ve seen it pop up on TV, of course, but sitcoms aren’t really my thing. The laughter in the background makes it seem almost mandatory to find every line hilarious. So, I never really gave the show a chance.
That’s a bummer. You’ve been missing out! The show is set in Greenwich Village. It’s a nice area. Maybe a little too cool for me these days, with all the hipster places there. But definitely nice.
The taxi driver seems nice enough, but—unlike a few hours ago—I’m not exactly in the mood for small talk.
I’m tired. The glowing digits on the dashboard tell me it’s 8 p.m. That makes it 2 a.m. back home.
I feel my eyelids getting heavy, but when the famous New York skyline comes into view, I’m suddenly wide awake.
Was I really about to roll into the city that never sleeps with my eyes shut?
My face is nearly pressed up against the plastic that separates me from the windshield.
The new World Trade Center is taller than all the surrounding structures and they shrivel in comparison to this uncrowned king of office buildings.
I spot a bridge that I immediately recognize as the Brooklyn Bridge, connecting Brooklyn to Lower Manhattan.
Its colossal suspension cables make a curved line toward the stone arches, proudly topped with a waving American flag.
The metal framework that lines the road like an open cage, flashes by as we drive.
As we make our way through Lower Manhattan, we find ourselves surrounded by tall buildings. I’ve never been in a city before that made me feel quite so small. Rotterdam probably comes closest, but Rotterdam is tiny compared to this metropolis.
The New York City I’ve always imagined is a collage of all the New York-based movies I’ve watched in my life. It’s wild how much that image matches the real thing. The sounds, the buildings, people crossing the road in a hurry as they check their watches . . . Everything is exactly right.
We’re here, lady, I hear the driver say.
We’ve stopped in front of a tall brick building with high windows and a bunch of colourful graffiti on the walls.
The front is a zigzag of fire escapes and there’s a little bar next door with amazing music coming through the speakers.
On its facade is a big sign showcasing the name of the place: NIGHT LIGHTS.
There’s a man sitting on the sidewalk wearing a dingy coat.
He has socks on his hands with little eyes on them and he’s orchestrating an endless dialogue between the two grubby puppets.
Alarmed, I stare at him for a moment until I decide that socks really aren’t that big of a deal when he could just as easily have been holding guns instead.
I pay my driver, then shift my attention from the unhoused gentleman on the sidewalk to the staircase leading up to a large, dark brown front door. The door is clearly past its prime: the paint has worn away, so the whole thing looks shabby, and the wood near the bottom has started to rot.
I fidget with the handle of my suitcase. I know New York is expensive, but I’m starting to wonder what kind of housing Make a Mark Events has pulled together for me. If first impressions are any indication of what to expect inside, I’ll have to be careful not to step on any used needles in there.
I trace my finger along the barely visible unit numbers on the intercom panel. I’m on the hunt for number 44, where Mary the superintendent lives. My only proof that I’m actually pressing the button for 44 right now, is that number 43 is listed right above it.
A few minutes later, I hear a scuffle behind the door, then see a skinny woman appear before me. Even though she’s quite obviously in her sixties, her hair is bright pink. Her glasses—in a matching hue—frame her kind brown eyes. Her gaze glides from my face to my bulky suitcase.
You must be Emma, she finally says in a gravelly voice, stretching out her hand. Mary Wright. Come on in.
Her high heels click a steady rhythm as she walks ahead of me, leading the way up the stairs.
The elevator’s broken, she lets me know. Someone decided to throw a rooftop party and his guests figured the elevator could handle ten people and a few kegs of beer. Wrong. I’m bracing myself for Halloween. There’s usually a party on the roof then, too.
Oh no, that’s a pain, I reply as I follow closely behind her, crossing my fingers that my apartment isn’t on the top floor.
Good thing you’re still young, she wheezes, when we reach the fifth set of stairs, and she uses her bony hands to hoist herself up by the railing.
And you don’t have any upstairs neighbours.
That’s always a perk in an old building like this one—Look out!
she shouts, as I’m about to put my foot down on the step she just skipped.
That one’s rotted. If you wanna keep your lovely ankles intact, I recommend skipping that one.
I stare at her, a little baffled. Uh . . . rotted? I ask in horror. Isn’t that super dangerous? When is it getting fixed?
Hmmm. About three years ago? Mary lets out a chortling smoker’s laugh when she picks up on my confusion. Our landlord isn’t big on maintenance. Actually, while we’re on that topic: a carbon monoxide detector would also be a good thing for you to look into.
I give her an anxious look. Carbon monoxide detector? Defective elevator and stairs? A front door that a burglar could kick in with zero effort? What kind of death trap is this place?
I’ve lived here for thirty years and I’m still alive, she reassures me with a wink. Oh, and here’s an expert tip for you: take your showers in the mornings. The hot water tends to crap out at night.
Great. Just what I needed. I sigh in frustration. And I can’t help but wonder whether Miranda might have known about the tuk-tuk incident after all.
Despite a stairwell that’s as run down as the outside of the building, I’m still hoping against hope that my apartment will be the exception to the rule here.
My arm is numb from dragging this heavy-as-lead suitcase up the stairs.
By the time we get to the top, sweat is gushing down my forehead and my armpits are making a swishing sound not unlike rolling waves.
Mary comes to a halt in front of a dark green door with the number 50 scrawled on it in permanent marker. All I can do is stare at it with the fiery hope that I’ll have access to some hot water tonight. There’s nothing I want more than to rinse this long journey off of my body.
Okay, Mary says, pulling a gigantic bunch of keys from her pocket. This is always the trickiest part. Let’s hope we can find your key pretty quickly.
She looks back over her shoulder with a chuckle and I try my hardest to give her my best impression of someone who isn’t a total wreck and absolutely isn’t desperate for her bed. It takes Mary fifteen minutes to find the right key, and even then she can barely get it to slide into the rusty lock.
Finally, I step into the apartment and it’s .
. . tiny. Really tiny. But it’s a relief to see that the space is pretty clean and in decent shape.
There’s a minuscule kitchen area next to the only window in the apartment, the living room has a two-person couch in front of a flat screen TV, and the little bedroom is just big enough for a double bed.
The bathroom is nothing more than a small shower stall and a toilet.
It isn’t much, but it’s enough. And while the building is far from ideal, the location is incredible.
The subway will get me to the office in a little under twenty minutes and I’m well aware of how lucky that makes me in a city like New York.
I’m putting your key on the counter! Mary’s voice rings out to me from the living room. There’s a laundry area downstairs. If you can get there early enough, the working machine is usually still available. You know where to find me if you have any more questions.
About thirty minutes later, I’m fully showered and tucked into bed—after all, it is 5 a.m. in the time zone where I started my day. All of a sudden, I hear music coming from the apartment next to mine. Someone’s playing a guitar and the sound of unfamiliar lyrics drifts my way.
I generally love music, but I’m not exactly thrilled that this particular musician decided to demonstrate their talent at five in the morning.
Correction: eleven at night. Despite the less offensive local time and the fact that it’s a Saturday night, can’t they keep it down even the teensiest little bit?
In response to my silent request, someone turns up the volume and adds a drum kit to the mix.
Shit.