It was a city of immigrants, New York. Settled by immigrants, built by immigrants, tempered by immigrants. The slaves with chains still on their feet, the Jews with the smell of gas still on their clothes, the huddling masses, all had carved out a tiny piece of the Metropolis and poured their blood, sweat, and tears into making it their own. Though many of the city’s ethnic islands had long dispersed, traces of them, our ancestors, could still be found throughout the five boroughs. The Kosher delicatessens of the Lower East Side, the Italian restaurants on Mulberry, The Chinese herbal shops on Mott, The Polish bakeries in Greenpoint, the churches in Harlem.
But there was one enclave whose time was only now starting in the 21st century. It had no specific locale in the city– though a large showing in Williamsburg– and no definite ethnicity–though white, middle class was most prevalent. It came not from the foreign lands of other continents, but from foreign lands of this continent. It wasn’t running from tyranny, persecution, or poverty (far from it), but from the oppressive boredom and plainness of Minnesota, of Iowa, of South Dakota, from the small-mindedness (and occasional homophobia) of South Carolina, of Alabama, of Texas. This new immigrant, the suburban escapee, like so many before it, had tried to take over the city and ended up content to take it on.
They came to live their dreams, being members of a generation that had repeatedly been told they could; become rockstars, actors, auteurs, writers, models, politicians, geniuses. They came to forget how painful growing up had been, how badly school had treated them, how excruciating young love and young heartache had proven.
Some of the smarter ones figured out the reality quickly. They got entry level jobs at corporations and small production companies, being humiliated, manipulated, and treated like shit by older, bitter bosses and managers who long ago gave up their own aspirations. Some became bartenders and waiters. After a while they spoke of their dreams only at late dinners and at bars after a few happy-hour drinks. Some gave it all up and went home, where marriage and children awaited them. But the second group refused to see. They wouldn’t give in to the one enemy you always have to surrender to: the truth. They started bands, made ‘films’ on crappy video-cameras, wrote halves of stories and novels, made luke-warm attempts at activism. All of them were generously– and sometimes not so generously– supported temporarily by their parents back home in Minnesota etc.
This second group always ended up going home.
And so we meet two of them; a boy and girl. Long before they’ll ever realize their mistake. They stand at the corner of Lorimer St and Bedford Ave in Brooklyn. Around this defeated pair come the 9 to 5ers making their way home from normal ‘city jobs’, bothered after a long trip on the train and bothered that their sidewalk path was being half-obstructed by our couple.
His checks hadn’t come for weeks and occasional mornings at the coffee shop didn’t pay for living.
“I’m sorry about what happened.” he says, to the upset and hurt girl. “I didn’t want to be a dick, but I’m broke. That’s the only reason. I don’t have any money. I mean really broke (he said this to assure her his parents had abandoned him).”
“I understand” she says, and though sad, she does.
“I don’t even think I’m going to be able to pay my rent this month.” he replies honestly, but not nervously. It had become to real and certain for him to be nervous.
She pauses for a moment and then raises her head slowly and stares into his eyes. “I have a room. An extra room.” she says and shrugs her shoulders, offering him half a smile.
He smiles her back the other half and shrugs his shoulders too. They’ll be okay, for today. They walk away, leaving this crowded, noisy, confusing place together.
Truth is, between the two of them there wasn’t enough money to support one, much less both. It’s completely irresponsible for her to offer him her home and support and even more so for him to accept. But being irresponsible is a right of youth. Leave them be for one beautiful moment. The responsible among you, who’ve never even taken a shot at your dreams, have absolutely no right to criticize them.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
