Column III: Sexting The City
Media, throughout time, has tried to sell us a lie about arriving in New York City. We are promised a gentle movie like breeze, and perhaps meet a fashion obsessed tatted artist holding an iced, grassy, matcha latte. But the reality of the post semester migration is so not cinematic. The transition from the college bubble to the concrete jungle doesn't start with ambition; it starts with heavy lifting, bad driving, and dirty sweat.
It was time to wrap-up.
Please be tf out by 5pm. The text message dinged out on my phone but it annoyed me because a bitch wanted to be out by 5am. Nothing could've had me running faster than the foul scents of October still in May. The school had ended their 3-day strike of trying to get as many donations as it can from graduates, graduates' parents, and horny alumni.
"Do y'all want to share a blunt with me? Or maybe y’all want some wine?" my old roommate asked.
"Babe, we're literally leaving now. I can't drive that big ass truck faded or drunk at 8am…." I snapped. I wasn't for the shit no more! Our "lease" ended two days ago and the school was begging us to get the fuck out.
Blossom, my best of best, who gives no kindness to disrespect, chimed in. "Yeah that was kinda dumb for you to ask that..." Throughout the week, leading up to today, me and Blossom packed and cleaned, scrubbed and dove, picked and dumped so by the time Sunday came we could be away from the bullshit. While our two other roommates, five years older than us, left all their cleaning and packing for today.
Leaving upstate New York, a land of patriots, queers, and hillbillies, I struggled to drive down the 9 and G9, flying past Hyde Park. I was constantly honked at through Poughkeepsie, after I almost crashed into the Empire State Express. Then, I stormed that heavy ass U-Haul down Taconic State Parkway South.
More aggressive honks and in addition to "bitch", "dumbass", and "idiot" took place while Blossom, Blossom's friend, and I journeyed to the Grand Apple. It didn't register to all three of us licensed drivers that I was riding 20mph in the fast lane and not the truck one.
Without faith, definitely tons of yelling, we made it to NYC. Entering through the untamed Bronx, I drove past the energetic murals of Harlem, frightened by the towering sights of the narcissist Manhattan. I kept my grip so tight on the shaky wheel until we arrived in Brooklyn; the streets were still crazy busy. Green ave, like most streets in the city, were as narrow as columns. We spent 10 minutes finding a park, 30 minutes to be let into the apartment, and 2 hours to bring up ALL of Blossom's belongings to the third floor on an 85 degree day, with already wet backs from earlier.
There was no time to rest after unpacking on Green ave. I went back to driving the u-haul from Green ave to Myrtle ave, fighting on skinny concrete.
"Hey mom, I'm about to be pulling up to my apartment now," I told her on the phone. "Be safe and call me when you're done." I jumped in my seat while making a sharp turn on Myrtle Ave, eager for the first time today.
"Is this the place?" Blossom's friend said with her eyebrow raised.
In the center of Myrtle, an old leaning building was the main attraction. Coffee and dirt strained the rims of the outside walls. I'll only be here for the summer, I sighed to myself, feeling more disappointment walking on the extremely cracked sidewalks. Walking through the house, already winded by the three story climb, I hated the intense smell of cat piss and hot frozen meat. Reaching for my phone, I realized nothing was in my gray packet.
"Oh fuck, my phone!" I ran downstairs, wet from the non air-conditioned apartment building. Blossom and their friend laid on the concrete dipping while searching for water.
For five minutes the three of us searched up and down the apartment, around the sidewalks, but there was no phone to be found. I broke down in front of my new summer vacation home, screaming and kicking my feet on the ground like a toddler. And then I realized, this summer might soon become a fever dream.
The Preservation Instinct is an independent archive. If this column resonated with you, support the continuation of the work [here]