Dispatches from New York
67 and rainy and nearly impossible to leave the apartment in. Jeff Mangum whines in my ears as I walk out the door and lower my umbrella into the wind like a damp Quixote. I am wearing a shirt with unrolled sleeves for the first time since arriving and on my face is the manic smile on that every transplant to a large city has while succeeding in convincing themselves that this was a great idea.
The definition of a commute is when the adage “life is a journey not a destination” is demonstrably false.
The cubicle was empty when I arrived about a month ago – some promotional materials and a little rotating carrel filled with paperclips, pens that had run dry, a highlighter, and an arcaic letter opener welcomed me. The drawers were empty. The top shelf was filled with the things my predescessor couldn’t find a use for, mostly papers and the like. I added to it a half empty Poland Spring water bottle that now has its own ecosystem.
There wasn’t enough espresso in the world earlier and there continues not to be enough now. There is a fire alarm test going on and a strobe light is flashing 20 feet away and 20 degrees above eye level. It’s presently the only thing keeping me awake.
During lunch the working pedestrians in the Financial District fight for sidewalk space with the edges of their umbrellas, gingerly clashing above while shoulder rub below. Not unlike fencing it’s a subtle dance – unlike fencing it’s massively awkward. The rain doesn’t stop the tourists from marveling at the bull’s balls or from getting in everyone’s way.
I go back to work but wish I was going back to bed.