Nectarines and Nationalists

Why you should walk down Sixth Ave eating a Nectarine. 

People will think you’re crazy.  People will think you’re sloppy.  People will think you’re pretentious.  But in reality, people will think none of this and in fact, these are all just insecure thoughts you’ll be thinking until that shirtless ripped boy riding a grimy bicycle past you will speak to you in motion.  He’ll say he thinks that peach (it’s actually a nectarine little boy) looks delicious but also you look delicious.  And then all you’ll think is how much you needed that and despised it.  How come I needed that (don’t answer)?

New Yorkians (?) are better than you.  That’s a fact they want you to know, more than the cold exterior you feel your first day returning home because you’re a woman and you can’t be outside past sundown alone (you have lost all agency here).  They want you to know that it is possible to assimilate yourself into them.  Just believe that no, they are not better than you, but yes, everyone, including you, is better than the rest of America.  The point is, you can be one of them.  You can belong.  They’re actually all softies, humbled by their disappointment of being American.  New York Nationalists they call themselves.  We, Canadians, salute your bravery.

I’m sitting in a dark hotel lounge that is clearly striving for a status higher than the students who GPS’d their way in here.  Two women behind me are discussing fabrics, noting one in particular as used in a previous Vivienne Westwood design.  My interest is immediately peaked.  “Love the dolce skirt.  Ingrid’s going to agree this is a piece of shit.”  Is it possible to turn around and introduce myself?  To score a two-week internship, because I leave soon, just by mentioning my common obsession with Westwood and also my name?  My chair is tilted back on the hind legs and if my dad was here, well he wouldn’t really need to say anything because my chair would already be completely on the ground.  Do they know I’m eavesdropping?  Does everyone know I’m eavesdropping constantly, looking for the secret door into their lives, travelling with nothing but awe and ambition, can I steal your life, please?  But I leave soon, and the only thing I’m going to take back is a list of things I’ve done here in New York plus the words in Toronto.  See selected short stories read aloud by performers in Toronto.  Find a writer’s group in Toronto.  Read in a goddamn park in Toronto.  Maybe I have fresh eyes in my skull, maybe I’m looking forward to going home and taking everything I’ve learned here with me.  Or maybe I’m a coward and want to go back to dreaming, rather than failing.  Failing to try, let me clarify.

So, you’ve made it to New York, what do you do?  Well, your closest friends are awaiting hour-long facetime and memories recounting on your blog.  Your followers (sorry) are awaiting the photo dump you’ve promised just by having a constant social media presence.  Your family just wants more than a good day? Good day, the interaction you’ve littered out for the past week.  And you?  You’re waiting for something to actually happen, something that fulfills the dreams of the little girl goals you’ve saved on your notes app for years.  Too many years have gone to let her down now.  Too many aspirations to even contemplate trying to fulfill.  Okay, I’d rather stay in my room binging 30 Rock, seeing New York through Tina Fey’s meta SNL Rockefeller world. 

I said I’d have a screenplay done by May.  I don’t even have a concept.  I said I’d walk right into A24 productions headquarters.  I can’t wake up early enough.  I said I’d wait outside the elevator until the CEO walks in and I’d follow in, elevator pitching my way to the top.  I couldn’t find the confidence even if I had a map.  New York City, it’s true, is filled with empty promises, but it’s not even the city’s fault.  It’s mine.  It’s mine for believing that I could be that person who whispers these visions into my brain, alluding my persona into futuristic conspiracies that fool no one, my friends can’t believe me.  They say that’s amazing; they say do it, they know I won’t, can’t, shouldn’t, I believe I shouldn’t.   It’s not my place. Which all trickles down into insecurities but that’s not where I want it to lead.  The point is:

New York man.  What a place.  What a fire under my ass, this essay was the fire, not the city.  The city already has too many delusions to sign my ambition onto its resume. Gotta scour Eventbrite, gotta network in readings, gotta stop hiding in my room claiming the individualist life is my best option.  It’s not.  It’s simply the easiest. 

I leave in 15 days.  I will be a New York Nationalist by then.