Today, I struck a small child...

It was an accident, but nonetheless, it happened. The most disturbing part about this is I didn't feel badly about it. At all.

Let me start from the beginning:

A few weeks ago I received a package at work. It was bright red and shiny and contained about seven YA (young adult genre) galleys--for those of you not in the publishing biz, a galley is a sort of preview of a book before it's been completely proofed and published. They're usually sent out for the book's promotion and have a lot more typos than the final product, but reading them is basically the same as reading the final book.


Now, because I work as an assistant in book production rather than, say, book promotion, and I work on accounting and business titles as opposed to teen books, it makes next to no sense that someone sent these books to me in hopes of promoting them pre-pub date. Unless, of course, this person was aware of my wildly popular blog (ha...ha) and the off-chance that I'd name-drop some books in a post. Well. That person is damn good at her job. Let the name-dropping commence!


At first, I snubbed my nose at these titles. YA novels indeed! I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman and well beyond the angst and melodrama faced by high school teens, thank-you-very-much.


And then one day, I'd finished my current subway read and needed something to take on the commute home. I dug deep in my office drawer where I'd buried these books, never to see the light of day, and picked out Bloodthirsty a novel by Flynn Meaney about a teen boy who fakes being a vampire to impress girls. It was hilarious.


Next was The Duff (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) by Kody Keplinger about a girl who doesn't realize she's beautiful until she finds out that every girl in her high school has considered herself the DUFF at some point and, logically, they couldn't all be the DUFF, so it goes to follow that nobody is, really. Just heartwarming!


After finishing that and admitting to myself that YA novels were now my crack and I was totally hooked, I picked Immortal Beloved by Cate Tiernan, the book that I was thinking about today, the day I struck a child.

The premise of this book is that immortals roam the earth alongside regular humans, only the immortals are totally jaded by their own immortality. These people are literally forever young, totally bored, and borderline sociopaths. They've felt so much over so many years, seen so many deaths, lost so many regular human friends, husbands, children, that they've taught themselves how to not feel anything, a sort of defense mechanism.


Well, the main character is out partying in London with other immortal friends one night when scary shit goes down, one regular mortal gets really hurt, and Nastasya decides she doesn't want to be so awful anymore and runs away to some sort of immortal rehab in podunk, Massachusetts. There she learns the importance of being in the moment, of appreciating the little things like the feel of the soapy water while washing dishes, and the joy of kneading one's own bread. She also meets a Viking god and proceeds to fall madly and hopelessly in love with him despite the fact that he irritates the hell out of her and apparently the feeling is mutual...but that's not what I was thinking of before I struck the child.

I was thinking of the first part. The importance of being in the moment and appreciating the little things. That morning, I'd gotten up at a reasonable hour, eleven a.m. I made my own coffee and cooked breakfast, eggs, bacon, and toast. I'd savored this breakfast slowly and tried to enjoy every bite of bacon, every sip of coffee.

Afterward, I'd showered, put on a pair of cheap sunglasses, and headed out to Bryant Park. 

On Canal street outside of my apartment the tourists were everywhere. I couldn't move without my skin coming into contact with someone else's skin. I tried to focus on the fact that this was the nicest weather we'd had in a while, and even if that man's hairy arm had just grazed mine, the day was lovely.

I arrived at the subway platform literally two seconds too late to catch the first train, mostly because this asshole in front of me wouldn't hurry the hell... I mean, as I waited to catch my train, even though the subway station was unbearably hot and I could feel my recently applied makeup melting down my neck and onto my new white tank-top, I was very grateful for the fact that I was in New York at that moment, taking the subway, and that I got to do it everyday, because after all isn't that why so many tourists came here, for that experience? It was a privilege, really.


When I finally got to Bryant Park, I sat down at a table in the shade and it was lovely. Granted, within ten minutes the park maintenance people decided that right in front of my table would be the perfect place to start depositing bags of trash and I had to move to another section of the park and it took me another five minutes of walking around to find an open seat...but once I found that,  I could focus and can honestly say I started really enjoying the little things this Saturday. Until I had to pee.


I would bet big money that Bryant Park has the nicest restroom facilities out of all of New York's public bathroom options. I think they've even won a few awards for the niceness. I'm pretty sure that the closest the other public restrooms have come to winning awards is just not being condemned and shut down...and several subway restrooms can't even say that.


So, I wasn't too irritated about being in the park and having to pee, except for the fact that I knew there would be a long line. There always is for those restrooms; their niceness has made them a sort of Mecca of restrooms. I'm convinced that some New Yorkers make pilgrimages to them from far away blocks simply because they have to go and they know the Byrant Park ones will a) be open and b) be bearable. I myself have been known to make such pilgrimages.

But when I got to the restroom, something was amiss. There was the usual line of women out the door and the just as usual (and always infuriating) lack of line in front of the men's restroom door, but there was a commotion. A woman was screaming in front of the restroom.


"Was that a rat?? That was a rat!"


"No, no," a man replied reassuringly, "that was a mouse. Smaller."


Goddammit.


At that point all I could think was eff the little things! Taking joy in the more simple pleasures  in life was impossible when the universe is obviously out to ruin this Saturday! To spite me! Because the universe was out to get me! Well, universe, it's on.


I stood in the line, which, as a testament to the determindedness of New York women who need to pee, had not shortened in the slightest as a result of the rat/mouse sighting. 

When it was finally my turn, I went to the restroom not even being a bit thankful for the no-touch flush, sink, and blowdryer, or the nearly-clean marble counter tops, or the floor which completely lacked paper towel debris, or the noticeable scent in the air of smells that were not urine and filth. Who cared? Even the nicest public restroom in all of New York City had rats. And for some reason that reality crushed a tiny corner of my soul.


 And that's why, when the inconsiderate mother of five boys under the age of seven (how dare she procreate at such velocity?!) allowed them to stand dumbly clustered in the doorway, and I said "Excuse me, excuse me. I'm trying to get by here" and they didn't even acknowledge that I had spoken words, I shoved my way through.


In doing so, my purse, which was large but not heavy, struck one of the things in the head.

Just so you know, I did apologize to the kid!...but my heart wasn't in it.

My brain recognized that I probably should feel some sense of remorse. I understand that it is morally abhorrent to strike a child and not feel some tinge of regret at having done so...but the only sentiment I could muster was one of vindication. Well, I thought to myself, maybe next time he'll know to get out of the  friggin' way!


And this is why I'm glad I'll never have to go to immortal rehab like Nastasya. I clearly couldn't hack it. New York has forever ruined me for achieving total zen and nirvana and perhaps even basic human decency...but at least when it comes to taking care of my business, I'll never let a silly thing like a rat-sighting get in the way.

From my window I see a Chinese flag, a satellite dish, and a carefully-tended, most likely illegal garden on my neighbor's fire escape.

Taking stock of the contents of my fridge this morning (a single can of Coors Light, a lone Corona, and eight jello-shots left over from Friday night’s festivities, alongside a half gallon of spoiled milk and a nearly-rotten head of lettuce) I decided it was about time to make another trip to my neighborhood grocery store: The Hong Kong Supermarket.

This was my third trip to HKSM, but the experience was as overwhelming and eye-opening as my first. Hard as I tried, I just couldn’t not stare at the guy in front of me buying nothing but chicken feet (yes, chicken feet!) and pickled vegetables. The same goes for the buckets of live frogs alongside the shrimp in the fresh fish section. Live. Frogs. Just hanging out in buckets.

I also can’t get over the crazy abundance of some things in relation to a lack of others… for example, two entire isles are devoted to various brands and types of soy sauce, but there is no vinegar anywhere in the entire two-story building. Believe me. I’ve checked everywhere. And there are double the number of preserved duck and quail eggs for sale than regular eggs. W. T. F. ?

Also rice and noodles vs. loaves of bread—there are more varieties of rice and noodles available at this place than there are grains of filthy sand on the beach at Coney Island; but regular ol’ bread? Let’s just say I purchased potato bread today, not because I prefer potato bread to wheat or white, but because it was the only type left in their meager bread section, aside from raisin bread, which I was fairly certain would not be ideal for pairing with the turkey and cheese slices I’d selected for sandwiches. Why no wheat or white bread today? They keep so little in stock; all of the “regular” bread had sold out.

Finally, the cherry on the sundae (not that I could find candied cherries at this place…) is the “appliance” section downstairs. I was really excited the first time I came upon this section. I thought it was random, but convenient, and considering I’d been living the past month without a microwave I couldn’t wait to purchase one there and enjoy cooking Ramen the regular way. I’d lately been resorting to using my coffee maker to do the job; though the Ramen comes out just as delicious, it’s admittedly pretty weird and I was ready to give up this practice.  

But, there were no microwaves to be found in the appliance section. Just rice cookers. As far as the eye could see, rice cookers. The isle may as well as been called “rice cooker” isle—appliance isle was NOT the right word. And so my Ramen and coffee maker relationship continues…

I may sound like I’m bashing the HKSM, but the truth is I’m fascinated by it. Every trip there has been both an adventure and a challenge. Things I could previously recognize easily by their shape and labels—soup, for example—are now heavily disguised beneath Chinese characters and in little pouches beside different mixes and seasoning.

Figuring it all out has been pretty fun. And with groceries in the fridge, the apartment feels more like a home somehow.

It doesn’t hurt that Tyler’s dad came in town last weekend and performed what can only be described as the most miraculous of miracles here, hanging up pictures and putting together furniture like nobody’s business until our space actually looked like a place where humans could potentially live rather than the extremely cramped storage unit it barely passed for prior.

A month into moving here, it’s all finally coming together. Had a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and sliced oranges foraged from the wilds of The Hong Kong Supermarket—so, it’s safe to say that right this moment, life is looking pretty good :)

Down in Chinatown

It has been weeks since my last blog post and don't think I haven't been racked with guilt over my lack of postage...(can I use that word in this sense? I don't think so, but I kind of like it and I'm going to anyway...)

All I can say is, moving in New York City is a hell I wouldn't wish on my least favorite of people and I've been a bit busy surviving the most stressful and strenuous (both mentally and physically) weeks of my twenty-two years on this earth. So please have some patience. 

But, things are different now. I feel like my world may have finally stopped spinning and I can foresee a future where weekly blog posts are again a part of my reality. And that future is bright.  

And now, a little story:


One Thursday night about three weeks ago, Tyler, a good friend of mine from SMU mentioned in a previous blog post, flew in from Colorado, suitcase in hand, his pockets, of course, proverbially full-of-dreams. 

He'd tentatively planned on moving here last semester and through some combination of unicorn dust and a show-stopping resume, he actually landed a job here prior to graduation, sealing his fate to be my new (and hopefully long-term) roommate!


So Thursday June 3 he shows up and we officially have the weekend to find our new digs, or else. His first day of work is Monday; my lease is up the fifteenth--time, to say the least, is of the essence, and we didn't waste a minute. 

The next day Tyler scoured the entire borough of Manhattan while I emailed him craigslist postings from work. He saw ten different apartments, God bless him. Most listings were in the upper upper East and West sides, aka, lower Harlem.

Harlem's supposedly very up-and-coming these days though and Tyler was very impressed with some of the places, one in particular. He sent me a text describing a tree-lined street and "HUGE" livingroom windows. The place even had a washer/dryer, which, in any other city in the country would definitely not be a major selling point, but let me tell you, in Manhattan you're lucky if you have a common washer/dryer in your entire building. Wanting one in your own apartment is a dream.

Up until about 3 p.m. I was pretty sure we were getting this Harlem place, and actually very excited about it without even having seen it. I very much trusted Tyler's judgement though and if he loved it, I was sure I would, too.

That's when I got the call.


I was at work, but I answered my cell anyway. It's not everyday you're remote-apartment-hunting and I felt that if Tyler chose to call rather than text, it must be important. I was right.


"I found this great place!" he told me.


"Yeah? East or West?" up to this point those were the only places we'd been looking...


"Chinatown."


Pause.


"You're joking."


He wasn't. I promised him I'd take a look at the place even though I was sure I would hate it. (I kept that last part to myself...)


We went out that night in both neighborhoods to get a feel for how safe I'd be walking home late at night. Turns out a coworker of mine lives in Chinatown; we met him for drinks in the area and he told us about how his kid goes to daycare in Chinatown and now speaks English and Mandarin and a little Hebrew (apparently it's a Chinatown daycare owned and managed by Jewish people. Oh, New York....)


Walking around in Chinatown elevenish at night with Tyler, I felt completely fine. Okay, so maybe I had to pee badly and nothing was open so Tyler and I pretended like we were staying at the Best Western until it turned out there were no Joneses registered for that night (really? no Joneses??) and then we had to leave (but not before I got to use their restroom!) but, the area felt very safe and was surprisingly busy considering most stores there close fairly early and the only places open were a smattering of bars. I even had Tyler walk ahead of me ten paces so I could feel what it would be like to be all alone on the street...and it was really ok.


Then we took the 6 train to the upper-upper East....Harlem.


I do not care what the New York Times says about it; Harlem past midnight was no place to be. Tyler offered to walk his ten paces ahead of me to simulate this whole being alone thing. I told him he'd better not.

It felt less safe for a number of reasons: The streets seemed absolutely deserted except for your standard homeless nappers and beggars; there were no cops making standard patrols as in Chinatown, probably because Harlem isn't your biggest tourist hot spot and NYC throws its money where the money is; finally, about a street down from our would-be washer-dryer-equipped apartment, there was what can only be described as a block party going down, only this block party was unlike any you've ever seen. One a.m. on a Friday, it included a number of baby strollers manned (and wommanned) by young-looking parents using their free hands to hold glass beer bottles or lit cigarettes, or both. I wanted to stop and tell these people "Go home. Put your kids to bed. You are a mom/dad--Seriously...give me a break!"

And because after passing these people enough nights I was sure that at one point I would speak my mind and have to deal with the consequences of such actions, it was probably for the best that Tyler and I turned around at that point and decided we couldn't take the Harlem apartment.


I was also pretty convinced that despite my positive experience in Chinatown by night, we were still not getting that place, either. In fact, I was pretty sure we would be scrapping the whole crappy experience and starting from scratch the next day in search of more mythical laundryrooms, but then something surprising happened: I really liked the C-town place.


Ok, granted, it's small--only two bedrooms,  no living room (same as in my old place, the converted one-bedroom to three-bedroom...This place was probably actually a studio at one point and they threw up some pressurized walls and called it a two-bedroom. Again, Oh, New York...)


But, it has hardwood floors and granite tiling and countertops in the kitchen. And there's rooftop access, which is awesome. Tyler and I are on the lookout for folding chairs; we already rescued a folding table propped beside a Chinatown garbage can and got it "foh fwee!" as we've started saying. Now we're looking for chairs and I'm envisioning many a rooftop wine-night in our futures.

And we each have our own window A/C unit in our rooms, which I know doesn't sound great by regular living standards but... you guys have to believe me, it's good. I know a couple who moved into an apartment in Manhattan with no A/C units and they're having to buy and install them themselves. Ridiculous.


Anyway, this post is getting long, but I just wanted to update and soon I'll probably post again to tell the epic tale of my Dad's trip to NYC and how I roped him into helping me move into this fifth-floor-walk-up using only our own brute human strength and the kindness of one brave Taxi driver.


And then another about my first trip to my new grocery store, the Hong Kong Supermarket, and my newfound love for garlic-flavored peanuts.


Post again soon. Please message or leave comments. Miss everyone from home and would love to hear from you!


<3 Leigh