An Ode to New York City
Odi et Amo.
I hate and I love. The wise words of the famed poet Catullus. My understanding of that phrase reaches light years beyond what might be deemed comprehendible. The only disparity between his meaning and my interpretation would be that his refers back to a lover, while mine refers back to the follies I encounter each time I leave my apartment.
Odi et amo is a phrase that summarizes my feelings of being coughed on, mid-pandemic, as I leave my building to take the ACT exam. It can sum up the day I cried over my never-ending supplemental essays until I was interrupted by a homeless man across the street from my apartment setting fire to a pillow-constructed replica of Mt. Everest. It can even describe the time I kissed a boy in my living room, only to hear the squawk of grown women urinating on my building’s awning in direct sight from my window.
I won’t lie; more often than not, I lean towards ‘odi’. An example might be the time when my friend and I made our way to a cafe for an early breakfast and an elderly man standing on the street christened our mornings with a tasteful and debonair ‘Nice tits, nice ass’. Maybe my point might come across more clearly if I describe the day an unprompted man next to me skillfully whipped out a metal rod, as though he had been possessed by an alternative version of Luke Skywalker who dabbled with crack, and threatened to beat a nearby group of oncologists. Even the saying, the city that never sleeps, has its faults. I wish it slept, for if it had, then I would not have witnessed the world’s largest dookie emerge from a stranger’s butthole next to a park bench during a late-night car ride.
A few ‘nearby crime’ alerts I’ve received while sitting at outdoor restaurants this month:
Report of Armed Assault Involving Pots, Pans
Report of Man Armed With Sword Harassing Drivers
People Throwing Cheese At Cars
Group of Aggressive Squirrels Inside Apartment
Need I say more?
“Amo” certainly makes appearances, however. At times, my love for the city is physically too great to carry. Think: a man rollerblading in front of the Plaza Hotel with two live rats perched on each shoulder. I challenge you to imagine a more soul-nourishing scene than this. My love deepened the day I walked four miles downtown in a stress-and-tear-induced haze, only to stumble upon a cafe whose neon walls presented the question, ‘Did you nut today?’ My most carnal love for my city stems from the mere fact that no other than convicted murderer Robert Chambers lived in my building, post-prison sentence, and became laundry buddies with my mother. That ended soon enough, however, as he was later arrested for running a cocaine factory in his apartment (have I mentioned this was in my building). Fret not! He managed to call me pretty before he left for the slammer. Here, it seems as though one day of simply breathing can award you with enough stories to last a lifetime.
The parts of the city I love can transform into emetics in the blink of an eye. A perfect example is walking, as walking is a favorite pastime of mine. In New York City, you inevitably stumble upon ample opportunities for stories. However, walking can take a turn for the worst when it begins to pour and thunder and a speeding taxi challenges your strength by soaking you via rat-dirt-urine-poopy-new-strain-of-HPV-and-resurgence-of-leprosy puddle water. A more niche example for those in the know might be the time I dove into a freshly baked Joe and the Juice Tuna Avocado sandwich on the world’s most pleasant summer’s day. My boss awarded me with an extra long lunch break, and as I sat on a stoop enjoying the scenery, the birds chirped above me, children walked hand in hand with their parents, and it seemed that the clouds sang. I near expected a fantastical rainbow to emerge when I was suddenly slapped in the face by a woman whose hair was eerily reminiscent of Russel Brand. I somehow apologized to her before cowering behind a random mother pushing her helpless newborn infant in a stroller, proceeding to call my mommy in tears, and running back to work like the spineless victim I am. Don’t ask about the sandwich, for she is a mourned casuality of the chaos. I haven’t been able to look at a Joe since.
Sometimes, my love and hatred emerge simultaneously. Such a feeling could be found at a cafe when a waitress tells you that your gluten free bread, labeled gluten free on the packaging, is not gluten free. She then says that the restaurant does not serve iced tea, while you watch your table-neighbor carelessly sipping on a mint iced tea. She finally ends the meal by stating that the restaurant has physically run out of cash, despite another waiter seamlessly accepting your cash payment. I don’t care, I’m not still mad. I’m easygoing, which I even made clear in my letter of complaint in which I stated ‘this sounds like an SNL skit’. It’s times like these that I find life pathetically hilarious, further catalyzed by the fact that I had the gall to write a letter of complaint focused on gluten free bread.
New York City is a social experiment for character development. Throughout my 18 years of life, I’ve seen more people get arrested on the street than is probably recommended by psychiatrists worldwide. I live in the only city where you can wake up, eat cricket ice cream, swing on the flying trapeze, and get mugged on the city bus all in a day’s work (an unfortunate but true tale). While I am thankful to live in a city that has left me well-rounded and unfazed, maybe slightly mentally scarred and definitely with some symptoms of PTSD, I received an alert mid-writing this very essay that a fight has broken out directly in front of my building, and I am reminded of why I hate and I love it here.
Under Attack
This summer, I had a brief encounter with the face of Terror, brought on by a soaring pigeon’s decision to relieve himself on my right shoulder. Writing this, four months later, the stench is still suffocating.
The weather was similar to the hot days New Yorkers are accustomed to, made more frequent by global warming. The sun felt heavy on my skin, and the humidity left my arms and neck similar to the conditions of a slip and slide. I walked through Hell’s Kitchen with my friend, Jackie, prepared to embark on a day’s journey down the West Side Highway.
A cold and damp weight fell upon my shoulder, and for a brief moment, felt like a refreshing god-sent kiss. Seconds later came a twinge of fear. With trepidation, I cocked my head and peered at my shoulder, yet saw nothing. I didn’t need to see anything, for the smell held all of the answers. Like a landfill of used toilets or a chest of diapers, the hot scent of bird diarrhea climbed its way through my nostrils and hijacked my mind. I tried to scream, but no sound could be heard - I was paralyzed with fear. The pigeon laughed above, contemplating a round-two while circling overhead. He puffed out his chest in pride as he watched Jackie christen the feces with photos as I breathed through my mouth.
No cafe in sight, I marched hand-in-hand with Jackie for seven blocks, frantically looking for a safe haven with tissues. Jackie used her free hand to clamp her nostrils shut and ignored her suffering as she led me through the streets. The pigeon followed above, sending telepathic messages to the store-owners, forcing them with threats and blackmail to deny our entries. A nearby Chipotle was spotted, yet she turned us away with her locked doors and unsympathetic cashier. Smushed faces lubricated by sweat and tears slid down her glass windows as we rapidly lost hope and electrolytes. Subway claimed to be out of napkins, and, we believed her, despite the unlikely mid-morning napkin demand at the height of a pandemic. Just as we had begun to lose hope, a literal sign from heaven appeared in the form of half-lit neon lights, reading ‘Skyline Gourmet Deli’.
We dodged oncoming traffic as we sprinted across the street (witnesses describe a green cloud leaking from my shoulder). The bird dung swam through sweat streams towards the great North Neck and the bustling Southern Arm. The uncharitable deli refused to offer their napkins without a purchase. With that, I bought an extra-large bottle of hand sanitizer - my equivalent of holy water - and sage to burn, in hopes of cleansing my impure right shoulder.
In exchange for the few crumpled dollars I could scrounge up from the bottom of my decrepit bag, I received the ever-glorious napkin - three sheets worth. We stepped foot outside to commence the long-awaited ceremony. Etta James’ At Last played from a divine surround sound system and doves soared through the sky, scaring away my pigeon nemesis, and it began to rain flowers. Upon first wipe, dopamine flooded my system and sent my anterior lobe into overdrive. Jackie, my knight in shining armor, gently wiped the partially-crusted glob off my shoulder. She scrubbed me drown, trying to pick off the eggshell-like shards of dried pigeon stool, assessing the consequences of her martyrdom: at worst, asphyxiation by vomit; at best, anosmia. Before she had the chance to suffer further mental and physical damage, I offered my hand at eradicating the scent. Jackie documented me Steve Irwin style from a smell-proof distance as I marinated my napkin in sanitizer and power washed my arm.
Despite our noble attempts, no amount of hopes, prayers, hand sanitizers, and sage could erase the stench that wafted within a six foot radius of me for the rest of the day - and possibly the rest of my life. But, as Billy Joel once said (though in a less literal sense) “It’s fine with me ‘cause I’ve let it slide,” and slide it did. Out of sight and out of mind, I have compartmentalized this ordeal until now. Triggered by the sight of dog-owners cleaning up after their pets and any reference to a zoo, I am a shell of who I once was. Nevertheless, I have moved on for the best; Terror has introduced me to a new friend, Perfume.