West Village Jag

After Football Sunday I walked Banana halfway home, but left her at Perry Street so I could head down to pick up mail for a former boss of mine who took a sudden gig out of state. I'd agreed to do it because I like him and wanted to be nice. I knew his place was in the West Village, totally out of my way, but he offered to throw me a couple bucks for my trouble, so no problem.

I walked over, passing a group of fashionable women who were younger than me and sneered at my pigtails. Whatever. I passed a few nice places where well-dressed and finely-heeled people were hanging out outside in the warm remnants of summer air. I heard them laughing and clinking their glasses. I suddenly felt fat and plebeian in my thin t-shirt and my hand-me-down bellbottom jeans hemmed with safety pins. When I got to Boss's door it was like heaven when I turned the key in the lock. It was like vindication as the snobby girls passed behind me. As I slipped through the vestibule door and approached the mailboxes I tried to pretend for a blissful moment that it was my building, but then I realized I didn't know which mailbox I was seeking.

I figured it out, grabbed the mail hurriedly and turned on my heel, leaving as quickly as I had come in. As I walked back toward the subway a fancy car honked at me while I was crossing the street. A gaggle of well-dressed people from some fashionable bar stopped laughing with each other and looked over, their faces disapproving if nothing else. I rushed past them, trying to look nondescript despite sticking out like a sore thumb in bright pink and pigtails and silly-looking sneakers. I nearly tripped on the leash of some tiny, fashionable dog and its owner kindly apologized, but his gentle tone only made me feel more out of place, like these people were somehow better than me.

The image of the street became fuzzy behind my tears. I've been doing really well, and it's been a while since I've cried about anything at all, but point blank, this place and the people in it made me feel poor and worthless.

I thought about the $2500 I need to pay the lawyer to get rid of my house. I thought about the $2000 I still have in credit card debt, my glasses that need fixing and that I have to move next July. I remembered that I need to have my teeth cleaned and looked at by a dentist. I thought about the health insurance I can't afford and the pain that starts in my knees whenever I run more than five miles. I thought about how one of those fashionable outfits could pay for a much-needed trip to see my mom and sister, and how I can't possibly afford to leave anyway because I have to be here in case there is even one day of work for me. Worst of all I thought about how I can't afford a therapist to help me feel less like I never had a chance. Well...I could, but not one that can see me during hours that fit in my bizarro work schedule.

I resented those people. I know they all make sacrifices to get where they are, but I also know that many of them just happened to have more to sacrifice than I did. I know it's a cheap, easy shot, but I couldn't help thinking that at least most of them must have dads, and I resented that too.

As I walked up Seventh Avenue I felt quite positive that the New York those people enjoyed and loved, the New York I wish so badly I could have, is not within my grasp in any forseeable future. I have made my sacrifices. I chose integrity and romanticism. And now I live in an apartment I am ashamed of with two roommates I love but don't want to live with in a neighborhood I hate, and I cannot begin to imagine how I am going to get myself out.

kyle the girl
(on iPhone, because my laptop is in the computer hospital)