The whole routine of expecting a major layoff became a part of our daily lives after 9/11. The office was crawling with layoff banter. It was becoming harder and harder to be productive. I could not get any work done because just when I was able to bring myself together to concentrate on my project, another person from the 21st floor would come by to tell me all about their version of the news.
When I first started working, my coworkers took pride in the number of personal artifacts they had in their cubicles: toys, games, action figures, memorabilia, the list goes on. As the times changed from bad to worse, as our stock took a freefall dive down, and got kicked off the Fortune 500, the personal items started to decrease in number.
The personal toys were the first to go. Later the toys belonging to the office were hidden in a closet on the 20th floor. Soon we were all reduced to a bunch of people sitting at empty desks with our laptops.
In the good days, there was this fond term called the "beach" that is new economy's term for the "bench" as in not currently assigned to any projects. The beach used to be most sought after status for Sapient employees. Most employees worked 60-80 hour weeks during their project assignments. Therefore, several weeks spent on the beach were thought of as a rest time between projects.
As the company struggled, beach became the worst place any could be. No one wanted to be caught without a project assignment. Even those that were assigned to internal projects were at unease. All these people from other offices were calling our project managers almost begging for assignment to our project.
Being on a project felt like being in a lifeboat as Titanic sent. The sea was full of people struggling to keep afloat. If any of these people came close to our lifeboat they either tried to climb on or tried to turn it over so that they could get on it. It was THAT ugly at times.
The dress code changed also. Sapient employees were notorious for going to client meetings in raggy jeans and dirty t-shirts. Well, that was then and this was now --as our CEOs put it in a company wide e mail: the times and the economy was a lot more somber which meant that we were recommended/required to wear business casual now. This did not stand too well with the artistic branches of the company. But as we went from one layoff to the next, it became apparent, compliance with the dress code mattered.
Sapient had several core values. These core values were studied, elaborated on, and written about more than perhaps most of our client projects. Sapient was core value obsessed. One of our core values was "openness". This value meant that anyone at any level of the institution could speak freely about their observations on the company and would not be penalized for it.
Well, for one thing, this value is very hard to grasp for some; after all what is really the difference between "openness" and constant state of discontent and criticism of everything? Naturally, the distinction was easy to miss for many. Needless to say, these people were the first ones to go.
Sapient suffered from all the ailments and neuroses of any old corporation despite the fact that in its roots was the best of intentions: to become a non-traditional corporation, one that cared for its employees.
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Unlike most Americans, my TV and I have never been that good friends. I hated broadcast TV and was even less fond of cable. I always ended up watching a DVD. Truthfully most nights I just did not have time to sit for hours in front of the TV.
After 9/11, I now watch TV. I, the guy who never watched news, now watch news every morning religiously. If I do not see dead people, a bombing in an embassy, a fire in a nightclub, a failed election in a third world country my whole day is thrown off kilter. News media has bred the need for disaster into our souls so in this sense our perpetual state of catastrophe is a self-fulfilling one. It is not because the world is coming to an end, it is not because anything getting worse than it was before, it is just that our definition of being alive includes a healthy appetite for mishaps, losses, missed chances, and even the demise of others.
To this day whenever there is a documentary on 9/11, I can’t watch anything else. I have to see those towers come down one by one, one more time, as if I was not there; right there twenty blocks away, smelling the fumes, feelings the rush of air as they came down. As I cried for no apparent reason that day all through the event and the rest of the day, I tear up still today when I see images of the event.
When one experiences something this traumatic, the logical course of action would be to get away from the event, and all references to it. This is done for one's own sanity's sake and not because of disrespect to people who died. I could not do this. I reveled in the pain; a pain that really was not mine to be had. I knew no one from the towers, no one I knew really was harmed by the event. So why was I grieving the loss of something that had nothing to do with my life?
For several months after that day, I watched the TV non-stop. I watched the coverage of the event consume all daytime, nighttime, prime time, downtime TV time. I watched on as other shows started to return slowly claiming to be less humorous than before. I watched as comedians could once again make wisecrack jokes on TV, I watched as humor struggled, I watched as I tried to laugh. Then slowly the images of the towers started to disappear. They first disappeared slowly from TV broadcast. Then the signs around town started changing. Subway adds and billboards were the first to defect. Then magazines stopped printing glorious pictures of them. TV shows that even gave a glimpse of the towers were edited to surgically remove any reference to them. New films being released were delayed so that the twins' absence would not be reminded to unsuspecting New Yorkers.
What were we trying to forget? The towers? How great our life was when they were around? How miserable we are now in the aftermath of it all? Or how badly we were hit after all these years, after all these years we thought we were invincible? All of the above perhaps, perhaps none at all.
Like many people, I did not care for these two extremely ugly buildings until they were gone. Until that day, any midtown building could be the joy of my day and perhaps the love of my life. Any building that had a fancy crown, a gilded lobby, any building with a 306 million price tag could be the smile on my face.
I did not realize I liked the World Trade Center until it was gone; erased permanently from the spot it scarred with its footprint. Now in its absence, I craved its ugly existence --much like a kid missing an emotionally abusive mother once she's gone.
To this day whenever there is a documentary on 9/11, I can’t watch anything else. I have to see those towers come down one by one, one more time, as if I was not there; right there twenty blocks away, smelling the fumes, feelings the rush of air as they came down. As I cried for no apparent reason that day all through the event and the rest of the day, I tear up still today when I see images of the event.
When one experiences something this traumatic, the logical course of action would be to get away from the event, and all references to it. This is done for one's own sanity's sake and not because of disrespect to people who died. I could not do this. I reveled in the pain; a pain that really was not mine to be had. I knew no one from the towers, no one I knew really was harmed by the event. So why was I grieving the loss of something that had nothing to do with my life?
For several months after that day, I watched the TV non-stop. I watched the coverage of the event consume all daytime, nighttime, prime time, downtime TV time. I watched on as other shows started to return slowly claiming to be less humorous than before. I watched as comedians could once again make wisecrack jokes on TV, I watched as humor struggled, I watched as I tried to laugh. Then slowly the images of the towers started to disappear. They first disappeared slowly from TV broadcast. Then the signs around town started changing. Subway adds and billboards were the first to defect. Then magazines stopped printing glorious pictures of them. TV shows that even gave a glimpse of the towers were edited to surgically remove any reference to them. New films being released were delayed so that the twins' absence would not be reminded to unsuspecting New Yorkers.
What were we trying to forget? The towers? How great our life was when they were around? How miserable we are now in the aftermath of it all? Or how badly we were hit after all these years, after all these years we thought we were invincible? All of the above perhaps, perhaps none at all.
I did not realize I liked the World Trade Center until it was gone; erased permanently from the spot it scarred with its footprint. Now in its absence, I craved its ugly existence --much like a kid missing an emotionally abusive mother once she's gone.
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Deutsche Bank was the client of our current project at work. Within minutes all the critical systems of the bank went down and several systems remained down for several weeks. It turns out DB did not have any backup systems or they too were damaged during the attack. The scale of the event was apparent to all of us in New York City but looking at this incident from a German Bank's perspective, the lack of preparation could not be excused. Needless to say the big Bosses were quick to send a few of the administrators in NY to the firing squad pretty fast.
All of the bandwidth of DB NY was overnight redirected to bringing back the system. Of course no one cared about the training software Sapient was designing for them. Sapient team took three days off after 9/11 but then the next Monday we were back at work --with nothing to do. The client was scheduled to deliver us the content that would go into the training software and they were nowhere near ready. What was worse is they could not give us an ETA for the completion of the content. My team was sitting on their hands. At first it was a good thing after our hectic pace in the last few months. Then it got old and we started overanalyzing everything. I can not tell you how many redundant meetings I sat in during this time. We were all going through something and my cooperation was necessary so I played along.
During this three-week hiatus, I engaged in my own form of therapy. On one side I was building towers with the huge stash of LEGO blocks we had in the office, on the other I started writing some code to create automated templates for some of the presentations we were preparing. I was just coding away, I had no development plans and definitely no intentions to use this code in the client project.
I have a bad habit of showing my code to my producers often. This is a remnant of my childhood days; I have always been hungry for attention and approval. This little pet project was no different; I frequently showed it to my producer, Courtney. She was very impressed with it and encouraged me to keep working on it.
The more I worked on it, the more it seemed we could use this code to win some of the time lost once we receive the content. I do not blame any of us really but at some point we went insane and showed my work to the client. The client loved it, and said: "Yes, now you have delivered, this is the scalable solution we have been asking for since the beginning of this engagement."
While I thought to myself that this development was sure to bring me the kind of recognition I have been craving in this office, a storm was already brewing.
Once the client asked for this change, a quick meeting was held with them to renegotiate the price tag since we were now giving them more than we had originally promised. The client agreed to pay us $50k in addition to the original project bid for what we called the "Blackbox".
Blackbox, while sounding quite fancy, was actually a template implemented in Flash 4.0 that had within it a bunch of dynamic text fields and capability to load external graphics. It enabled relatively untrained users to create PowerPoint like presentations within the visual design Sapient had designed for Deutsche Bank's training presentations.
I went to work on the code, to make it more stable, and add the finishing touches to it. I thought I was pretty close to finishing it when without a warning a committee of directors from an unseen location within the company descended on our team and particularly on me. They called the whole process a "project review" and my bit of it a "code review". The idea sounded great except we were under extremely tight deadlines that had already been stretched to the limit.
The directors asked for all this documentation about the Blackbox, that as you guessed it, did not exist. I had to write the documentation in no time; luckily I got some serious help from a fellow coder.
Then I was asked to provide copies of my source code. The directors of technology looked at my code and made recommendations. As I said I am sure the intentions were well placed but these people had never programmed in Flash and did not know anything about it. During our review meetings, I had to answer a bunch of ridiculous questions.
When the dust settled, I finally understood what had just happened. Instead of being praised for spending my personal time in addition to office time to write a piece of code that literally saved a doomed project, I was blamed with a whole bunch of nonsense such as my code's inability to scale up and talk to databases in the future. The list of things I did wrong seemed to keep going and going. Perhaps some of this was my own fault, I was somewhat internalizing some of the angst that was around me. Maybe these people did not really blame me all that much, maybe they did. Sometimes one needs the equivalent of a Greek chorus to tell what the final verdict is because most of the time life never really does.
All I know is, I did not get a bonus that quarter and Sapient got its extra $50K from DB. The project was a success, and DB actually loved the Blackbox. This success story created a whole new set of demos and more work for us from DB.
Just when we thought we had a long trail of projects ahead of us, Sapient made a drastic move and laid off 40% of its New York Office. Times were sure changing, the invincible architects of the new economy were now out on the street, still tipsy from their large severances but when no one was looking fear laid in one corner of their eyes like a dusty old curtain.
I was laid off too, along with the other fifteen people Sapient moved from Austin to New York less than twelve months ago. The severance was nice but not nice enough considering I had eight months of unemployment to look forward to.
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It's been a couple of months since 9/11 and I still do not quite feel right. I don't know what the exact problem is. I feel exhausted, weak and unable to pull myself out of bed in the mornings. I am missing at least one day of the workweek and I feel real bad about it. What compounds my feelings of guilt is the fact that the people at work are not really saying much about it at all. If I did not know better I would conclude that no one notices that I am almost never at work on Thursdays and/or Fridays.
I have no substance abuse problems; I do not drink, I do not smoke, I have never used drugs recreationally, I don't binge eat; I don't go for days without sleep. I have a regular schedule, I get exercise, and I also watch what I eat. After this entire set of precautions, why then do I feel so horrible? I am 27 I feel 50. My energy levels keep fluctuating, some days I am crazy and bouncing off the walls, others I might as well die and be put underground. My migraines are hitting me almost every other day with increasing intensity. I have recently even started seeing colors during my migraines. I have been told that seeing visual artifacts is the sign of a severe migraine.
The strange thing is back in Austin I did not even have so much as a headache. Ever since I moved to NYC, migraines have greeted me like a welcome bandwagon and have never left my side to this day. After another Thursday away from work, I came in on Friday morning. I was on a mission. I was going to fix this migraine and fatigue thing once and for all. So I started searching the web. As usual there were the miracle cures, the unheard of diseases, and several questionnaires that conclude that you're bipolar even before you begin answering the questions. After a few hours of searching something caught my eye on our intranet page: An advertisement for nutritional counseling. The ad listed all of the symptoms I was suffering from and offered one free trial session. I felt I had nothing to lose; plus because this advertisement was on our company site, I thought my company was somewhat endorsing this person.
I sent an e-mail to the given address detailing some of my symptoms and what I am planning to get out of the consulting sessions. I received a prompt reply the next day. When I called the number in the e-mail, a very soft-spoken person answered. Her name was Sohyoung and although she did not have an official degree she was taking well-being counseling classes. The credentials were on the weak side but just like any other New Yorker I was lured by the free offerings --the free session. We agreed to meet that Saturday at her building on the Upper East Side.
I took the subway, the 4-5-6 (the JLo Line as my cousin and I called it) line up to Upper East Side. I took an express train that got me to her station within 3 stops. This is very convenient I thought to myself. I got off the train and when I exited the station it felt like I had been transported to a completely different part of the country. I assumed 14th street's unending buzzing action to be the norm for NYC. Whenever I traveled to these northern neighborhoods, the calm of the street always hit me when I climbed up the subway station steps. Sohyoung's neighborhood was beautiful, but not glitzy. This was where the normal people lived on the Upper East Side; it was a mix of tall high-rise building with 30-40 storey condos and shorter 4-5 storey buildings of old New York City.
Sohyoung greeted me at her building's entrance hall. They had a security desk with three attendants and everything. I don't want to sound like I have never seen a residential building with porters before but still this was more impressive than I expected.
She was an average height lady of Asian origin. I could not tell for sure which part of the world she was from. She was cute, and endearing; definitely one of those people you just warm up to right away although you know nothing about them. We went upstairs to this very nice lounge area at the top floor of her building. There was a gym next to the area we sat but there was no one there. I thought to myself, if I had 24-hour access to a nice gym like this I would be using it and it would not sit there empty.
The conversation mostly ranged from question answer to just darn right confessions of a new economy child. I gave her as much information as possible about my lifestyle, my eating, sleeping habits and my work situation. Although throughout this time she asked occasional questions and mostly listened, she was already doing a lot of good to me. I was finally getting a lot of things off of my chest. At the end of the hour, she wrapped up the conversation and offered me a seated massage.
While this was a very nice offering, as weird as I am about human touch from strangers, I did not quite know how to respond to the offer. It seemed at the time, it would be rude to say no, so I said yes. The massage was amazing, partially because I do not let anyone touch me for so long in the first place. I was getting warm and flushed, and I could feel underneath my clothes my skin was sweating like crazy in response to Sohyoung's massage. She definitely knew how to give a great massage.
I hate to say this but the massage was the final dealmaker for me. So I signed the dotted line for 6 months of sessions, 4 sessions per month totaling up to $600. I would pay her monthly but if we skipped a session, I would not lose it as long as I gave her advance notice.
So we began working through the rubble trying to patch my nutrition and my soul. The second work area came as a surprise to me. Sohyoung was not only counseling me on nutrition but she was more than willing if not more interested in hearing me talk about my life, my ordeals with my family, my relationship, my background. At times she would be so engrossed at my monologue that two hours would go by and we would still be sitting there. She was very helpful because she was a very good listener and that's what I needed at the time: someone who would listen to me and not judge me, at least not openly.
On the nutrition front, she added several leafy green vegetables to my diet, helped me increase my water intake, and banned all diet sodas out of my diet. Believe it or not, her recommendations seemed to be helping. My migraines were becoming weaker and far apart and I felt more energetic than usual. I am sure the tweaks in my nutrition were helpful but I cannot help but believe that I mostly benefited from the heart-to-heart conversations that helped me shed the bile that had been building inside me ever since I moved to NYC.
Here I was becoming a true New Yorker, unable to find any dedicated friends who can listen to me babble for 3 hours about quite unsubstantial matters, I rented my own friend who would listen to me no matter what. Perhaps it was true, in NYC you could get anything you wanted / needed if you knew where to get it from and how much to pay for it.
Sohyoung and I met all spring, even after my layoff. After the layoff she proved to be an invaluable source of comfort and wisdom. As the summer months progressed, while I enjoyed our weekly conversations, I had started to feel a little strange about paying for them. So my pocketbook was finally catching up with my emotional side. I was not planning to renew our engagement once the first six months were over but our sessions had to stop before then.
She traveled to Korea in mid-summer and mysteriously never came back. She sent me a cryptic message about how she had discovered in Seoul that she had a medical problem and she intended to stay there until it was completely cured. We exchanged a few e-mails after that but I never heard from her again after I moved back to Austin Texas.
I have no substance abuse problems; I do not drink, I do not smoke, I have never used drugs recreationally, I don't binge eat; I don't go for days without sleep. I have a regular schedule, I get exercise, and I also watch what I eat. After this entire set of precautions, why then do I feel so horrible? I am 27 I feel 50. My energy levels keep fluctuating, some days I am crazy and bouncing off the walls, others I might as well die and be put underground. My migraines are hitting me almost every other day with increasing intensity. I have recently even started seeing colors during my migraines. I have been told that seeing visual artifacts is the sign of a severe migraine.
The strange thing is back in Austin I did not even have so much as a headache. Ever since I moved to NYC, migraines have greeted me like a welcome bandwagon and have never left my side to this day. After another Thursday away from work, I came in on Friday morning. I was on a mission. I was going to fix this migraine and fatigue thing once and for all. So I started searching the web. As usual there were the miracle cures, the unheard of diseases, and several questionnaires that conclude that you're bipolar even before you begin answering the questions. After a few hours of searching something caught my eye on our intranet page: An advertisement for nutritional counseling. The ad listed all of the symptoms I was suffering from and offered one free trial session. I felt I had nothing to lose; plus because this advertisement was on our company site, I thought my company was somewhat endorsing this person.
I sent an e-mail to the given address detailing some of my symptoms and what I am planning to get out of the consulting sessions. I received a prompt reply the next day. When I called the number in the e-mail, a very soft-spoken person answered. Her name was Sohyoung and although she did not have an official degree she was taking well-being counseling classes. The credentials were on the weak side but just like any other New Yorker I was lured by the free offerings --the free session. We agreed to meet that Saturday at her building on the Upper East Side.
I took the subway, the 4-5-6 (the JLo Line as my cousin and I called it) line up to Upper East Side. I took an express train that got me to her station within 3 stops. This is very convenient I thought to myself. I got off the train and when I exited the station it felt like I had been transported to a completely different part of the country. I assumed 14th street's unending buzzing action to be the norm for NYC. Whenever I traveled to these northern neighborhoods, the calm of the street always hit me when I climbed up the subway station steps. Sohyoung's neighborhood was beautiful, but not glitzy. This was where the normal people lived on the Upper East Side; it was a mix of tall high-rise building with 30-40 storey condos and shorter 4-5 storey buildings of old New York City.
Sohyoung greeted me at her building's entrance hall. They had a security desk with three attendants and everything. I don't want to sound like I have never seen a residential building with porters before but still this was more impressive than I expected.
She was an average height lady of Asian origin. I could not tell for sure which part of the world she was from. She was cute, and endearing; definitely one of those people you just warm up to right away although you know nothing about them. We went upstairs to this very nice lounge area at the top floor of her building. There was a gym next to the area we sat but there was no one there. I thought to myself, if I had 24-hour access to a nice gym like this I would be using it and it would not sit there empty.
The conversation mostly ranged from question answer to just darn right confessions of a new economy child. I gave her as much information as possible about my lifestyle, my eating, sleeping habits and my work situation. Although throughout this time she asked occasional questions and mostly listened, she was already doing a lot of good to me. I was finally getting a lot of things off of my chest. At the end of the hour, she wrapped up the conversation and offered me a seated massage.
While this was a very nice offering, as weird as I am about human touch from strangers, I did not quite know how to respond to the offer. It seemed at the time, it would be rude to say no, so I said yes. The massage was amazing, partially because I do not let anyone touch me for so long in the first place. I was getting warm and flushed, and I could feel underneath my clothes my skin was sweating like crazy in response to Sohyoung's massage. She definitely knew how to give a great massage.
I hate to say this but the massage was the final dealmaker for me. So I signed the dotted line for 6 months of sessions, 4 sessions per month totaling up to $600. I would pay her monthly but if we skipped a session, I would not lose it as long as I gave her advance notice.
So we began working through the rubble trying to patch my nutrition and my soul. The second work area came as a surprise to me. Sohyoung was not only counseling me on nutrition but she was more than willing if not more interested in hearing me talk about my life, my ordeals with my family, my relationship, my background. At times she would be so engrossed at my monologue that two hours would go by and we would still be sitting there. She was very helpful because she was a very good listener and that's what I needed at the time: someone who would listen to me and not judge me, at least not openly.
On the nutrition front, she added several leafy green vegetables to my diet, helped me increase my water intake, and banned all diet sodas out of my diet. Believe it or not, her recommendations seemed to be helping. My migraines were becoming weaker and far apart and I felt more energetic than usual. I am sure the tweaks in my nutrition were helpful but I cannot help but believe that I mostly benefited from the heart-to-heart conversations that helped me shed the bile that had been building inside me ever since I moved to NYC.
Here I was becoming a true New Yorker, unable to find any dedicated friends who can listen to me babble for 3 hours about quite unsubstantial matters, I rented my own friend who would listen to me no matter what. Perhaps it was true, in NYC you could get anything you wanted / needed if you knew where to get it from and how much to pay for it.
Sohyoung and I met all spring, even after my layoff. After the layoff she proved to be an invaluable source of comfort and wisdom. As the summer months progressed, while I enjoyed our weekly conversations, I had started to feel a little strange about paying for them. So my pocketbook was finally catching up with my emotional side. I was not planning to renew our engagement once the first six months were over but our sessions had to stop before then.
She traveled to Korea in mid-summer and mysteriously never came back. She sent me a cryptic message about how she had discovered in Seoul that she had a medical problem and she intended to stay there until it was completely cured. We exchanged a few e-mails after that but I never heard from her again after I moved back to Austin Texas.
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Here are some advertisements from 9/12. The meaning of these advertisements changes within a few hours on 9/11.
The advertisement reads: "Think New York's been cleaned up? You should see what we've done for vodka".
During my visit to New York City in August 2004, I noticed that this billboard was still in place but the tagline in it had mysteriously changed to "Distilled five times. Once for each Borough."
The advertisement reads:"Stella Artois: Sip from History Untarnished".
This is the makeshift memorial that was put together on 14th street and Avenue A. Someone literally painted the mural overnight. The next morning on 9/12, there were already flowers, candles, messages, and other items surrounding the mural. People visited this mural for weeks afterwards, each time bringing a candle, or some other item.
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I think the biggest cruelty of life is felt at times right after a traumatic event. Usually what hurts most is not the event itself. What hurts most is that the next day almost like clockwork, the sun rises, clouds drift calmly in the sky, even birds fly overhead singing completely inappropriately happy tunes.
The morning of 9/12 was no different. I woke up and I did not remember the events of the day before; it seemed that I could have had a bad dream from last night's dinner at Sushi Samba. I headed to the bathroom for my shower. In the shower, I accidentally knocked one of my shampoo bottles and it fell onto another one, and soon several of my shampoo bottles were tumbling down into the bathtub. Right at that moment a ZING went through my head; the events of the day before came rushing back and before I knew it I was crying.
That moment did not last long however, just like it came, it went. I had a calm breakfast in front of the TV while the network TV replayed the planes crashing into the towers and towers falling down sequences more times than one can count. Later in the morning, I called my parents on the phone. They were telling to jump on the first plane and return to Istanbul. They had a point but somehow in the back of my head, it seemed this would be admitting defeat completely. I was not ready to go anywhere yet, let alone all the way back to Turkey.
After lunch, this staying at home and watching the news thing got quite boring. I was craving to go outside. I finally pulled myself together and left the apartment. I soon found out that most of the streets going downtown were blocked by the police. I had a camera in my hand, just in case I saw anything worth capturing. At the same time, as soon as I left my building, having a camera in my hand felt inappropriate.
The streets were full of people walking around in a daze. Everyone was gravitating towards the downtown but we all could not go past South of Houston. I was not the only one with a camera. Overnight, Manhattanites all had morphed into photographer/news journalist. People were out with their camcorders, fancy digital cameras, and some with cameras like mine a 28-year-old Olympus. Perhaps it was easier to approach the situation as an event to be photographed, captured. Perhaps by playing the journalist, these people were able to avoid feeling like the victims. Perhaps these were a bunch of greedy people who at the wake of thousand others were trying to make a buck from the pain of others. Perhaps all of the above.
I must have walked up and down Houston several times that day. The street was closed to traffic, and there were no cars in sight. Instead, there were huge dump trucks, and other construction equipment lined up on both sides of the road. Every now and then a fire truck would rush on by screaming with its sirens. Everyone in the street would stop and start clapping and cheering for the firefighters. On one hand it seemed to be the right thing to do given our helplessness at the time, on the other it was just absurd to be applauding a bunch of a people going in to a disaster zone.
Other rescue workers were grouping around their vehicles and getting ready to go to the site now called "ground zero." These workers had overnight turned into instant celebrities. Every civilian on the street was clamoring for a good photo of the rescue workers. Getting a photo of a firefighter was even better.
New Yorkers who have always hated the tourists in New York had overnight turned into tourists in their own city. I soon noticed I was doing was many others were doing: Anytime I came by a street that was north south oriented, I was taking a picture. Each of these streets was closed with a barricade and several officers and national guard standing by screening people. Only people with identification that clearly showed and address in the barricaded area were allowed through.
Usually in these pictures there would be two large towers protruding behind the usual SoHo buildings. But today, there was a tower of smoke like a big rainstorm had exploded downtown releasing a large cloud of mist over the financial district.
The streets were crawling with people but there was silence in the air. It seemed like everyone was mourning. Several people still had tears in their eyes as they looked southward to where the towers used to be. The air smelled like someone had burned hundreds of computers, cables, industrial carpeting in one big fire. The wind no longer blew towards Brooklyn, it blew North towards uptown on 9/12. There was something else in this smell. Something I have never smelled before. It was very unpleasant and I did not even dare to think about what it could be.
Occasionally we would see a large dump truck filled with debris roll by. It was clear, the towers were gone. They were reduced to mangled steel, dust, and things that did not even have any recognizable shape or size to them anymore.
The morning of 9/12 was no different. I woke up and I did not remember the events of the day before; it seemed that I could have had a bad dream from last night's dinner at Sushi Samba. I headed to the bathroom for my shower. In the shower, I accidentally knocked one of my shampoo bottles and it fell onto another one, and soon several of my shampoo bottles were tumbling down into the bathtub. Right at that moment a ZING went through my head; the events of the day before came rushing back and before I knew it I was crying.
That moment did not last long however, just like it came, it went. I had a calm breakfast in front of the TV while the network TV replayed the planes crashing into the towers and towers falling down sequences more times than one can count. Later in the morning, I called my parents on the phone. They were telling to jump on the first plane and return to Istanbul. They had a point but somehow in the back of my head, it seemed this would be admitting defeat completely. I was not ready to go anywhere yet, let alone all the way back to Turkey.
After lunch, this staying at home and watching the news thing got quite boring. I was craving to go outside. I finally pulled myself together and left the apartment. I soon found out that most of the streets going downtown were blocked by the police. I had a camera in my hand, just in case I saw anything worth capturing. At the same time, as soon as I left my building, having a camera in my hand felt inappropriate.
The streets were full of people walking around in a daze. Everyone was gravitating towards the downtown but we all could not go past South of Houston. I was not the only one with a camera. Overnight, Manhattanites all had morphed into photographer/news journalist. People were out with their camcorders, fancy digital cameras, and some with cameras like mine a 28-year-old Olympus. Perhaps it was easier to approach the situation as an event to be photographed, captured. Perhaps by playing the journalist, these people were able to avoid feeling like the victims. Perhaps these were a bunch of greedy people who at the wake of thousand others were trying to make a buck from the pain of others. Perhaps all of the above.
I must have walked up and down Houston several times that day. The street was closed to traffic, and there were no cars in sight. Instead, there were huge dump trucks, and other construction equipment lined up on both sides of the road. Every now and then a fire truck would rush on by screaming with its sirens. Everyone in the street would stop and start clapping and cheering for the firefighters. On one hand it seemed to be the right thing to do given our helplessness at the time, on the other it was just absurd to be applauding a bunch of a people going in to a disaster zone.
Other rescue workers were grouping around their vehicles and getting ready to go to the site now called "ground zero." These workers had overnight turned into instant celebrities. Every civilian on the street was clamoring for a good photo of the rescue workers. Getting a photo of a firefighter was even better.
New Yorkers who have always hated the tourists in New York had overnight turned into tourists in their own city. I soon noticed I was doing was many others were doing: Anytime I came by a street that was north south oriented, I was taking a picture. Each of these streets was closed with a barricade and several officers and national guard standing by screening people. Only people with identification that clearly showed and address in the barricaded area were allowed through.
Usually in these pictures there would be two large towers protruding behind the usual SoHo buildings. But today, there was a tower of smoke like a big rainstorm had exploded downtown releasing a large cloud of mist over the financial district.
The streets were crawling with people but there was silence in the air. It seemed like everyone was mourning. Several people still had tears in their eyes as they looked southward to where the towers used to be. The air smelled like someone had burned hundreds of computers, cables, industrial carpeting in one big fire. The wind no longer blew towards Brooklyn, it blew North towards uptown on 9/12. There was something else in this smell. Something I have never smelled before. It was very unpleasant and I did not even dare to think about what it could be.
Occasionally we would see a large dump truck filled with debris roll by. It was clear, the towers were gone. They were reduced to mangled steel, dust, and things that did not even have any recognizable shape or size to them anymore.
My original unedited e mail message from that day:
9/12/2001 3:07 AM
Sorry for my general absence from e mail. I had a VERY close encounter with today's events. I am sending you all a CC of my account that I sent out to Friends and Family tonight:
Hi, I wanted to send out another message briefing you all on the new details and some corrections. First off, I am ok and unharmed by the World Trade Center Disaster.
My earlier message today: I was in a daze when I wrote the first message, I was not 30 blocks away, I was 10-20 blocks away on the hudson river side walking still towards the two towers when the South Tower collapsed. I was right around the Holland tunnel ventilation shafts.
The Experience:
I go through WTC everyday around 9 AM to transfer from NR subway trains to the Path trains that make me to my office in Exchange Place (NJ shore of Hudson river). I overslept this morning so I was running 30 mins late. I was rushing to work around 9 and I noticed smoke in the air blowing towards Brooklyn, but it did not occur to me that it could be WTC. I got onto my first subway train and then made it to my transfer station and got on the second train that takes me to WTC Path trains. There was something blaring on the intercom but there always is, so I did not think much of it. We made it to 8th street station and I finally got it, the Train was not going to make to WTC, something was up. I got out, somewhat angry that I was going to be late to work AGAIN! As I was walking towards the ferries on the hudson side I saw the two towers on fire. Apparently when I was going into the subway only one of them was on fire. By the time I got out and started walking, the second impact had occurred.
My own behavior did not make sense at the time. A group of people along with me were walking/running TOWARD the towers until one of them collapsed. When something like this happens you do not realize how serious it all is. I was still trying to go to work thinking, oh great now I have to take the ferry.
As I got closer to the towers (the ferry stations are in that area too), it became evident that this was not a movie. Tons of paper were flying out of the North tower (it was a VERY windy day to start with). Half way through my walk something took over and I was sobbing for no reason. There is nothing comparable to seeing one of the world's largest buildings on fire. Once I saw the South tower collapsed, I woke up from my dazed walk towards the towers. Until then I was just unable to take my eyes off of the towers to realize that I was putting myself in jeopardy by approaching. Just around this time I met with the wave of hundreds of people walking away from the towers towards North. When the buildings fell, the smoke and debris in the air was UNBELIEVABLE. The force of the buildings falling down pulled down a whole bunch of air which let all of us at the scene see the skyline without the two towers. It looked like major after effects digital video editing work only it was real. I still can not believe the news that keeps saying that there were no bombs in the buildings. They fell down so elegantly, mostly caving into themselves like they have been imploded by an professional deconstruction company.
A lot of us started running uptown to beat the storm of dust coming our way. And hope was with us until the last moment, the second tower was still standing, it was ok, one tower was still better than none. Then the second one fell, and you should have heard us all on the streets. Crying, in anger, in tears, totally overwhelmed just by the visual impact of what was happening. I found myself saying "game over"... it was over, it really was. Thousands of people walked home today at noon, all transportation, all bridges, all subways, all path subways, all ferries were shut down.
I have seen several "mud people" walking to their homes in a state of absolute shock and disbelief. I was able to avoid the dust.
All streets are empty right now, and there are ambulances and emergency vehicles ferrying patients north to uptown hospitals. The downtown hospitals are only used for EXTREME cases. I have seen several people on the streets with scratched and scarred faces.
All restaurants, all stores are closed. I was out tonight to get dinner (yes some restaurants were open), everyone is talking about this and strange thing is, in a town where everyone is a stranger, no one is a stranger right now. You can really talk to anyone and they will discuss the details of today and where they were and what they felt, and what their theories are in detail at length.
One final thing that occurred to me tonight is that all theories I hear from the news is about foreign origination....but I think otherwise, what I saw today was MUCH similar to the ending scene of the famous film Fight Club from a couple of years back.
One positive thing is, the people who hit the towers do not know that those buildings really fill between 9 and 9:30. When the first impact happened at 8:45, everything leading to WTC was stopped. And the second tower was already being evacuated when it was hit by the second plane.
So thousands of people did not even make it to their office in WTC because the subway would not go past Canal. A lot of people like me were saved by the excellent response and sense of the city's officials. I applaud the city's organization and efforts in this really challenging and difficult time.
We are all in the state of shock and disbelief, I am just hoping that the survivor's guilt will not be too severe. I am going to try to go to my work place on the shore of Jersey city (exchange place) right across the WTC complex on the NJ side. I might have to take the ferry for a while. One of the major Path (transportation between NJ and NY) is located at the WTC. Needless to say this attack pretty much destroyed that station.
Working in NY will be very difficult for a couple of weeks. Our clients have been effected and we have no word on how many of them actually evacuated the towers and the adjoining buildings in the complex.
It feels like the news is not supplying enough information. Most of us in Ny are just as information starved as you all are, no one is allowed to go past the Canal Street downtown. Only emergency personnel is allowed.
Please spread the news that everyone that I know in Sapient seems to be fine. I think we were saved by out slightly late starting schedules. (Amazing argument for showing up to work at 10:30AM !)
So far I do not know of anyone that is not ok. The phones are still not behaving right if I can not be reached it does not mean I am not ok. I am taking good care of myself. I am unable to call all of you to tell you we're doing ok, I need your help to tell others that you know might be worried about us.
Thanks for all your messages.... I am glad you all are not here to see what I saw, because on TV what you see could not possibly represent what was felt by us all here. Thanks in advance for spreading the news, ES
9/12/2001 3:07 AM
Sorry for my general absence from e mail. I had a VERY close encounter with today's events. I am sending you all a CC of my account that I sent out to Friends and Family tonight:
Hi, I wanted to send out another message briefing you all on the new details and some corrections. First off, I am ok and unharmed by the World Trade Center Disaster.
My earlier message today: I was in a daze when I wrote the first message, I was not 30 blocks away, I was 10-20 blocks away on the hudson river side walking still towards the two towers when the South Tower collapsed. I was right around the Holland tunnel ventilation shafts.
The Experience:
I go through WTC everyday around 9 AM to transfer from NR subway trains to the Path trains that make me to my office in Exchange Place (NJ shore of Hudson river). I overslept this morning so I was running 30 mins late. I was rushing to work around 9 and I noticed smoke in the air blowing towards Brooklyn, but it did not occur to me that it could be WTC. I got onto my first subway train and then made it to my transfer station and got on the second train that takes me to WTC Path trains. There was something blaring on the intercom but there always is, so I did not think much of it. We made it to 8th street station and I finally got it, the Train was not going to make to WTC, something was up. I got out, somewhat angry that I was going to be late to work AGAIN! As I was walking towards the ferries on the hudson side I saw the two towers on fire. Apparently when I was going into the subway only one of them was on fire. By the time I got out and started walking, the second impact had occurred.
My own behavior did not make sense at the time. A group of people along with me were walking/running TOWARD the towers until one of them collapsed. When something like this happens you do not realize how serious it all is. I was still trying to go to work thinking, oh great now I have to take the ferry.
As I got closer to the towers (the ferry stations are in that area too), it became evident that this was not a movie. Tons of paper were flying out of the North tower (it was a VERY windy day to start with). Half way through my walk something took over and I was sobbing for no reason. There is nothing comparable to seeing one of the world's largest buildings on fire. Once I saw the South tower collapsed, I woke up from my dazed walk towards the towers. Until then I was just unable to take my eyes off of the towers to realize that I was putting myself in jeopardy by approaching. Just around this time I met with the wave of hundreds of people walking away from the towers towards North. When the buildings fell, the smoke and debris in the air was UNBELIEVABLE. The force of the buildings falling down pulled down a whole bunch of air which let all of us at the scene see the skyline without the two towers. It looked like major after effects digital video editing work only it was real. I still can not believe the news that keeps saying that there were no bombs in the buildings. They fell down so elegantly, mostly caving into themselves like they have been imploded by an professional deconstruction company.
A lot of us started running uptown to beat the storm of dust coming our way. And hope was with us until the last moment, the second tower was still standing, it was ok, one tower was still better than none. Then the second one fell, and you should have heard us all on the streets. Crying, in anger, in tears, totally overwhelmed just by the visual impact of what was happening. I found myself saying "game over"... it was over, it really was. Thousands of people walked home today at noon, all transportation, all bridges, all subways, all path subways, all ferries were shut down.
I have seen several "mud people" walking to their homes in a state of absolute shock and disbelief. I was able to avoid the dust.
All streets are empty right now, and there are ambulances and emergency vehicles ferrying patients north to uptown hospitals. The downtown hospitals are only used for EXTREME cases. I have seen several people on the streets with scratched and scarred faces.
All restaurants, all stores are closed. I was out tonight to get dinner (yes some restaurants were open), everyone is talking about this and strange thing is, in a town where everyone is a stranger, no one is a stranger right now. You can really talk to anyone and they will discuss the details of today and where they were and what they felt, and what their theories are in detail at length.
One final thing that occurred to me tonight is that all theories I hear from the news is about foreign origination....but I think otherwise, what I saw today was MUCH similar to the ending scene of the famous film Fight Club from a couple of years back.
One positive thing is, the people who hit the towers do not know that those buildings really fill between 9 and 9:30. When the first impact happened at 8:45, everything leading to WTC was stopped. And the second tower was already being evacuated when it was hit by the second plane.
So thousands of people did not even make it to their office in WTC because the subway would not go past Canal. A lot of people like me were saved by the excellent response and sense of the city's officials. I applaud the city's organization and efforts in this really challenging and difficult time.
We are all in the state of shock and disbelief, I am just hoping that the survivor's guilt will not be too severe. I am going to try to go to my work place on the shore of Jersey city (exchange place) right across the WTC complex on the NJ side. I might have to take the ferry for a while. One of the major Path (transportation between NJ and NY) is located at the WTC. Needless to say this attack pretty much destroyed that station.
Working in NY will be very difficult for a couple of weeks. Our clients have been effected and we have no word on how many of them actually evacuated the towers and the adjoining buildings in the complex.
It feels like the news is not supplying enough information. Most of us in Ny are just as information starved as you all are, no one is allowed to go past the Canal Street downtown. Only emergency personnel is allowed.
Please spread the news that everyone that I know in Sapient seems to be fine. I think we were saved by out slightly late starting schedules. (Amazing argument for showing up to work at 10:30AM !)
So far I do not know of anyone that is not ok. The phones are still not behaving right if I can not be reached it does not mean I am not ok. I am taking good care of myself. I am unable to call all of you to tell you we're doing ok, I need your help to tell others that you know might be worried about us.
Thanks for all your messages.... I am glad you all are not here to see what I saw, because on TV what you see could not possibly represent what was felt by us all here. Thanks in advance for spreading the news, ES
Category :
We take so much for granted; our bodies, our health, our sanity, and most of all our identity. We spend our days constantly trying to go from point A to point B only to realize that point B is the new point A. But beyond all of these thoughts, and the circle of life, which on most days feels a lot closer to a re-enactment of the myth of Sisyphus, we find that from day to day, from year to year, from one turmoil to the next; in the middle of all this change the only thing that stays constant is our presence.
They say that the loneliest places on Earth are the most crowded ones, and I felt this so strongly during my time in New York City. Six million people all stuffed several storey high onto the same old half mud, half bedrock, half water, half steel island. We were all so important, so primed and ready to hit it big any moment now. As I sat at my window and stared on to the brief green outside my building, I realized in more ways than one this was a deserted island. Nature in its true form had long fled this place, only remaining piece of it was tucked neatly at the center with right angles around it; almost a hostage the city was holding onto, in case the rest of nature came back to make claims. All these streets, all these buildings, these tunnels, all these dreams, they seemed all so empty, yet we stayed day after day; every day waking up with renewed hopes of stardom and wealth; every day digging the same old hole in the same old spot with no significant progress to show. We thought we were rowing on Hudson against the current and we knew we had it bad; but it was much worse than that; Hudson had eaten us alive and we did not know it yet.
As I walked in the September breeze, the streets were busy with people. Between 1st Avenue and Union Square I could run into two friends, hundreds of strangers and perhaps on any given day a few models and marginal celebrities. New York City was the ultimate Noah's Ark, we had two of everything; which made me wonder, where was my other half? Was he or she out here on this island too or was he the person I left behind in Texas?
Manhattan was a zoo; it was now mine, and I had my cage in it, labeled "100% genuine imported Turk". But really was I genuine anymore? After ten years in the US, what were the remains of my Turkish persona? Maybe it was the fact that I got upset so fast, that I expected things from people Americans do not; or perhaps it was my manners, my accent, my refusal to learn the proper names of trees and flowers. Perhaps just the simple fact that when I closed my eyes I still dreamt in Turkish. Or perhaps the fact that my family refused to give up their ways, and still called me up to two times a day.
Walking the streets, there were familiar faces on people I had never met. As they looked up from the pavement, our eyes would meet and right then and there we both knew it but no one dared to speak a word. It felt like I had checked myself in to a secret society and our secret handshake was avoiding eye contact at all cost.
I would frequently have these days where I would literally hide from acquaintances, friends. If I saw one from a distance I would quickly turn the corner and pick up the pace. In the US, this kind of behavior is classified as antisocial, perhaps abnormal. I have never considered it as such however. I see nothing wrong with wanting to be alone for a day. Seriously at what point did we lose our right to be by ourselves? In a city where everyone must mingle, everyone must work, everyone must fight and win, what if I was completely content with being alone and perhaps even willing to lose? Would that mean that I did not belong here? Should I have seen ahead before moving here that I was just not made of the right stuff for this city?
The storm was brewing, the September skies were clear blue. It was cold but without clouds or rain but something weighed down on my neck like a pair of heavy hands --comforting to some degree but a burden nevertheless. It hung over the city like a veil. It knew better and it was not going to tell anything.
Along the Hudson I walked with Hudson touching me every now and then in the breeze. I tried to learn the language of New York, I practiced every day, and I believed I could walk myself to being a true New Yorker. West Side Highway buzzed on to my left. My head was busy, my head was as crowded as this city; busy as a beehive with questions that have been asked many times before yet their enigma remained.
In the middle of my coming confused thirties crisis I was given the additional burden of knowing that there was nothing original or interesting about my suffering --but somehow this knowledge did not dull the pain nor did it justify its presence.
They say that the loneliest places on Earth are the most crowded ones, and I felt this so strongly during my time in New York City. Six million people all stuffed several storey high onto the same old half mud, half bedrock, half water, half steel island. We were all so important, so primed and ready to hit it big any moment now. As I sat at my window and stared on to the brief green outside my building, I realized in more ways than one this was a deserted island. Nature in its true form had long fled this place, only remaining piece of it was tucked neatly at the center with right angles around it; almost a hostage the city was holding onto, in case the rest of nature came back to make claims. All these streets, all these buildings, these tunnels, all these dreams, they seemed all so empty, yet we stayed day after day; every day waking up with renewed hopes of stardom and wealth; every day digging the same old hole in the same old spot with no significant progress to show. We thought we were rowing on Hudson against the current and we knew we had it bad; but it was much worse than that; Hudson had eaten us alive and we did not know it yet.
As I walked in the September breeze, the streets were busy with people. Between 1st Avenue and Union Square I could run into two friends, hundreds of strangers and perhaps on any given day a few models and marginal celebrities. New York City was the ultimate Noah's Ark, we had two of everything; which made me wonder, where was my other half? Was he or she out here on this island too or was he the person I left behind in Texas?
Manhattan was a zoo; it was now mine, and I had my cage in it, labeled "100% genuine imported Turk". But really was I genuine anymore? After ten years in the US, what were the remains of my Turkish persona? Maybe it was the fact that I got upset so fast, that I expected things from people Americans do not; or perhaps it was my manners, my accent, my refusal to learn the proper names of trees and flowers. Perhaps just the simple fact that when I closed my eyes I still dreamt in Turkish. Or perhaps the fact that my family refused to give up their ways, and still called me up to two times a day.
Walking the streets, there were familiar faces on people I had never met. As they looked up from the pavement, our eyes would meet and right then and there we both knew it but no one dared to speak a word. It felt like I had checked myself in to a secret society and our secret handshake was avoiding eye contact at all cost.
I would frequently have these days where I would literally hide from acquaintances, friends. If I saw one from a distance I would quickly turn the corner and pick up the pace. In the US, this kind of behavior is classified as antisocial, perhaps abnormal. I have never considered it as such however. I see nothing wrong with wanting to be alone for a day. Seriously at what point did we lose our right to be by ourselves? In a city where everyone must mingle, everyone must work, everyone must fight and win, what if I was completely content with being alone and perhaps even willing to lose? Would that mean that I did not belong here? Should I have seen ahead before moving here that I was just not made of the right stuff for this city?
The storm was brewing, the September skies were clear blue. It was cold but without clouds or rain but something weighed down on my neck like a pair of heavy hands --comforting to some degree but a burden nevertheless. It hung over the city like a veil. It knew better and it was not going to tell anything.
Along the Hudson I walked with Hudson touching me every now and then in the breeze. I tried to learn the language of New York, I practiced every day, and I believed I could walk myself to being a true New Yorker. West Side Highway buzzed on to my left. My head was busy, my head was as crowded as this city; busy as a beehive with questions that have been asked many times before yet their enigma remained.
In the middle of my coming confused thirties crisis I was given the additional burden of knowing that there was nothing original or interesting about my suffering --but somehow this knowledge did not dull the pain nor did it justify its presence.
Category :
If you've just moved to New York City and you think that this is the hottest shit of a place you've ever seen, you just wait, more than likely this summer you will be proven right. For when August rolls in, and the winds completely stop, the temperatures reach and jump over the higher nineties and even dare to climb onto the hundreds a horrid stench starts to rise from the city. It seems everything starts to heat, then melt, and then steam releasing an evil brew of asphalt, human breath, last week's trash, sewage and that hard to describe smell of the subway tunnels. Of all of these the most unfamiliar was the subway smell.
It was a like a strange sci-fi creature, half organic, half metallic, half machine, half current it was ever present but never seen. As the months went by, August suddenly came by. Everyone told I must dread August in New York City but I just could not believe that NYC was going to get all that hot. Well it did, and this year it seemed to be worse than others according to the locals. In the office I was fine, the A/C was always in high gear there. At home I was in good hands thanks to the two windows units I had. But on the street... On the street there was simply no escape from the heat. As I walked back from the 1st Avenue Subway station back to my apartment it felt like I was in an oven with both the grill and oven turned on at the same time. The pavement that had been absorbing the heat all day long now had reached its threshold and had no intention of keeping all of this heat to itself --so it released the heat, steadily and viciously. As I reached my apartment, my backpack's straps were beginning to leave sweat marks on the front of my shirt.
At first I thought, ah this will pass, it is a day or two of real hot weather, I can do this, no problem. Then as the weeks of August progresses what I thought would be the exception became the norm. A scolding hot day after another followed.
Waiting at the subway station for the train went from being a torture because of the irregular unreasonable schedules of the trains to one that just involved cooking in there until my turkey button popped out.
The interesting thing was, here was I in shorts and a thin white t-shirt sweating like a turkey before thanksgiving while the businessmen headed downtown seemed to be doing just fine in their three piece business suits. Perhaps the Wall Street bunch were indeed cold blooded. That's an unfair thought, I thought to myself as I smirked. The train arrived after pushing another piston full of stale subterranean air through the station. The doors opened, and the cool air rushed out; the torture was over. Well at least until I reach my destination.
It was a like a strange sci-fi creature, half organic, half metallic, half machine, half current it was ever present but never seen. As the months went by, August suddenly came by. Everyone told I must dread August in New York City but I just could not believe that NYC was going to get all that hot. Well it did, and this year it seemed to be worse than others according to the locals. In the office I was fine, the A/C was always in high gear there. At home I was in good hands thanks to the two windows units I had. But on the street... On the street there was simply no escape from the heat. As I walked back from the 1st Avenue Subway station back to my apartment it felt like I was in an oven with both the grill and oven turned on at the same time. The pavement that had been absorbing the heat all day long now had reached its threshold and had no intention of keeping all of this heat to itself --so it released the heat, steadily and viciously. As I reached my apartment, my backpack's straps were beginning to leave sweat marks on the front of my shirt.
At first I thought, ah this will pass, it is a day or two of real hot weather, I can do this, no problem. Then as the weeks of August progresses what I thought would be the exception became the norm. A scolding hot day after another followed.
Waiting at the subway station for the train went from being a torture because of the irregular unreasonable schedules of the trains to one that just involved cooking in there until my turkey button popped out.
The interesting thing was, here was I in shorts and a thin white t-shirt sweating like a turkey before thanksgiving while the businessmen headed downtown seemed to be doing just fine in their three piece business suits. Perhaps the Wall Street bunch were indeed cold blooded. That's an unfair thought, I thought to myself as I smirked. The train arrived after pushing another piston full of stale subterranean air through the station. The doors opened, and the cool air rushed out; the torture was over. Well at least until I reach my destination.
Category :
--A step by step guide into claiming your sanity, your life, your neighborhood back.
Meriam-Webster Definition:
1 : an act of crushing
2 : the quantity of material crushed
3 a : a crowding together (as of people) b : CROWD, MOB; especially : a crowd of people pressing against one another
4 : an intense and usually passing infatuation; also : the object of infatuation
Definition number four is the winner.
The strange thing about a crush is, he was there the same spot you saw him for the first time, perhaps yesterday, doing the same old things being the same all crushing person he is, perhaps for someone else. This is before you saw him and granted him the rights to crushing you indefinitely.
We're talking about someone who you run into regularly in a public setting and you never get to meet them. After a while they usually know that you're insane, and that you have this crush thing going which of course makes it all the more impossible to meet the person because they believe you're a freak.
So you see them day after day, week after week and never get to talk to them. You see them at the grocery store, at the westside highway running, or if you're gay at your local gym.
Then slowly a story emerges. First you make up a name for him. The red tanktop guy, the skinhead guy, the shoulders guy, the nike guy, the list goes on. You pick a certain physical aspect that makes this guy noticeable to you and make it their name. Then follows the rest of the story. You start inventing their character, perhaps after overhearing a conversation, or maybe observing what they're wearing, they're carrying.
Before you know, you're asking friends about him, pointing him out openly at the gym, trying to get to meet him, looking for him on friendster, looking for him in clubs that you do not want to go to....until...until you're a full-fledged stalker that's picking up receipts from the trash to find out his real name.
What started out as a fun game now has started to consume a significant part of your life. And it seems every time you actually find out something about the person instead of calming you down, it adds fuel to the fire.
Come here my friend, let me give you a hug. You have a crush, and if you do not stop and listen now, it will eventually crush you. That's why they call it that.
So here's a crush junkie's guide to ridding yourself off of nasty crushes and hopefully avoiding new ones:
Remedy #1:
Don't get a crush in the first place. What the hell am I talking about like you're going to be able to do this. Skip to step 2.
Remedy #2:
Go meet the damn guy. Yeah right, if you could do that you would not be reading this entry. But seriously, if at all possible go and meet him. You will find that the moment you meet him there will be an immediate crack appearing in the crush. Soon as you find out more about this person, you will realize that he has nothing to do with who you thought he was.
Remedy #3:
If at all possible, try to avoid going to the places you go to run into your crush. Now dont'cha start saying it's blind luck. Don't lie, I know you're going to the gym at 6:30pm to run into him although going there at that time requires you to brave two extremely crowded trains, the pouring rain, and perhaps a rough cab ride.
Change the time, change the location, mix your life up a little. The monotony of your life is the reason you got yourself a crush in the first place. Go on a vacation, give yourself a break. When you come back you will wonder what you were so obsessed about.
Remedy #4:
Unfortunately, after applying remedy #3, and feeling just fine afterwards, at least more than 50% of you will run into your crush and the whole thing will start all over. If you're in the other group, I take my hat off to you, you're what progress is made of.
So, here you are again, getting crushed, and not in a good way. you tried meeting him, it did not work, you tried avoiding him it did not work. Soon there are parts of the town you can not go to, certain restaurants you can not dine at, hell even shopping is not what it used to be. So it seems like you're a prisoner in your own city and you deserve better than that.
Well, go get yourself a boyfriend. Easier said than done, this if accomplished will rid you of 99% of most crushes. This is because you will focus on this new person you're dating and I hope this shift in focus will mean you will have less attention span for other people.
If the relationship does not last, go get yourself another one and another one, and another one. Be a serial monogamist and enjoy it. I would rather have you become a serial monogamist than a serially crushed person.
Remedy #5:
Use only if the dating thing does not work. Move to another town completely. Just pick up and go. The crush will not follow unless of course he has a crush on you too. Gosh people, why can't you be more normal??? *just kidding*
Final Remedy:
Well this one actually is a catch all. Feel free to use this before or after any of the above listed remedies.
Just listen to me. The person you're obsessed about is human. Beside being physically attractive to you, this is just an ordinary guy. As Rita Hayworth said about her troublesome love life: "they go to bed with Gilda, and they wake up with me". For those of you not familiar with her movies, Gilda is her temptress-gone-bad mix of Satine, the courtesan, and the film noir black widow.
Your crush is the same. If there was any chance you met your crush, and dated him, you would be highly dissapointed with him, with the relationship, with yourself, and perhaps with everything. This is because your expectations are unrealistic. You are attached to an unreal person you created in your head and then projected onto a walking breathing pile of meat.
Remember, when he opens his mouth, you know he is going to be all like "Ghurrll", then he will smile and you will see his ugly teeth, next he will take off his shirt, and he will have the biggest ugliest scar on his arm, then he will speak and all that he will be talking about will be his last trick, and how he has slept with all of Manhattan and half of Brooklyn and Jersey. He will be eating dinner with you in the restaurant, picking his teeth with his fingers, he will be spitting pieces and not closing his mouth while he is chewing, perhaps he will be burping, and even laughing about it. He will go to bed with you, the sex might totally suck, or worse yet after a great night of sex, he will turn around, release a largest fart you have ever heard and experienced in technicolor THX surround sound. In the mornin,g he will wake up with drool running down his cheek, and his face will look like hell, he will clip his toenails while still in bed, perhaps even leave the bathroom door open when he goes to do a number 2. Later after a few weeks of dating, while doing laundry you will get to marvel at his skid marks, you will find his dildos next, and the video tape he made with his previous lover, he probably will not stop talking about his exes, or maybe he will spend your money until you're broke, he might even ask you to buy things constantly, or cheat on you from day one.
I don't want to sound bitter and I do not want to make you bitter but the truth is we're all human. I assure you that one person alone will not have all of the shortcomings I listed above, but they all will have one or the other.
What you need to realize is, your guy on the big pedestal is not chiseled out of marble, he is just flesh and bones; what seems like a perfect complexion from 6 feet away sometimes turns out to be a skin covered with millions of dark freckles from over-tanning.
Keep these things on your mind; and above all else, love yourself. You're hotter, smarter, and more shaggable than you think. For once look at the mirror and see your real self. He's been there in the mirror waiting for you to see him all this time.
Meriam-Webster Definition:
1 : an act of crushing
2 : the quantity of material crushed
3 a : a crowding together (as of people) b : CROWD, MOB; especially : a crowd of people pressing against one another
4 : an intense and usually passing infatuation
Definition number four is the winner.
The strange thing about a crush is, he was there the same spot you saw him for the first time, perhaps yesterday, doing the same old things being the same all crushing person he is, perhaps for someone else. This is before you saw him and granted him the rights to crushing you indefinitely.
We're talking about someone who you run into regularly in a public setting and you never get to meet them. After a while they usually know that you're insane, and that you have this crush thing going which of course makes it all the more impossible to meet the person because they believe you're a freak.
So you see them day after day, week after week and never get to talk to them. You see them at the grocery store, at the westside highway running, or if you're gay at your local gym.
Then slowly a story emerges. First you make up a name for him. The red tanktop guy, the skinhead guy, the shoulders guy, the nike guy, the list goes on. You pick a certain physical aspect that makes this guy noticeable to you and make it their name. Then follows the rest of the story. You start inventing their character, perhaps after overhearing a conversation, or maybe observing what they're wearing, they're carrying.
Before you know, you're asking friends about him, pointing him out openly at the gym, trying to get to meet him, looking for him on friendster, looking for him in clubs that you do not want to go to....until...until you're a full-fledged stalker that's picking up receipts from the trash to find out his real name.
What started out as a fun game now has started to consume a significant part of your life. And it seems every time you actually find out something about the person instead of calming you down, it adds fuel to the fire.
Come here my friend, let me give you a hug. You have a crush, and if you do not stop and listen now, it will eventually crush you. That's why they call it that.
So here's a crush junkie's guide to ridding yourself off of nasty crushes and hopefully avoiding new ones:
Remedy #1:
Don't get a crush in the first place. What the hell am I talking about like you're going to be able to do this. Skip to step 2.
Remedy #2:
Go meet the damn guy. Yeah right, if you could do that you would not be reading this entry. But seriously, if at all possible go and meet him. You will find that the moment you meet him there will be an immediate crack appearing in the crush. Soon as you find out more about this person, you will realize that he has nothing to do with who you thought he was.
Remedy #3:
If at all possible, try to avoid going to the places you go to run into your crush. Now dont'cha start saying it's blind luck. Don't lie, I know you're going to the gym at 6:30pm to run into him although going there at that time requires you to brave two extremely crowded trains, the pouring rain, and perhaps a rough cab ride.
Change the time, change the location, mix your life up a little. The monotony of your life is the reason you got yourself a crush in the first place. Go on a vacation, give yourself a break. When you come back you will wonder what you were so obsessed about.
Remedy #4:
Unfortunately, after applying remedy #3, and feeling just fine afterwards, at least more than 50% of you will run into your crush and the whole thing will start all over. If you're in the other group, I take my hat off to you, you're what progress is made of.
So, here you are again, getting crushed, and not in a good way. you tried meeting him, it did not work, you tried avoiding him it did not work. Soon there are parts of the town you can not go to, certain restaurants you can not dine at, hell even shopping is not what it used to be. So it seems like you're a prisoner in your own city and you deserve better than that.
Well, go get yourself a boyfriend. Easier said than done, this if accomplished will rid you of 99% of most crushes. This is because you will focus on this new person you're dating and I hope this shift in focus will mean you will have less attention span for other people.
If the relationship does not last, go get yourself another one and another one, and another one. Be a serial monogamist and enjoy it. I would rather have you become a serial monogamist than a serially crushed person.
Remedy #5:
Use only if the dating thing does not work. Move to another town completely. Just pick up and go. The crush will not follow unless of course he has a crush on you too. Gosh people, why can't you be more normal??? *just kidding*
Final Remedy:
Well this one actually is a catch all. Feel free to use this before or after any of the above listed remedies.
Just listen to me. The person you're obsessed about is human. Beside being physically attractive to you, this is just an ordinary guy. As Rita Hayworth said about her troublesome love life: "they go to bed with Gilda, and they wake up with me". For those of you not familiar with her movies, Gilda is her temptress-gone-bad mix of Satine, the courtesan, and the film noir black widow.
Your crush is the same. If there was any chance you met your crush, and dated him, you would be highly dissapointed with him, with the relationship, with yourself, and perhaps with everything. This is because your expectations are unrealistic. You are attached to an unreal person you created in your head and then projected onto a walking breathing pile of meat.
Remember, when he opens his mouth, you know he is going to be all like "Ghurrll", then he will smile and you will see his ugly teeth, next he will take off his shirt, and he will have the biggest ugliest scar on his arm, then he will speak and all that he will be talking about will be his last trick, and how he has slept with all of Manhattan and half of Brooklyn and Jersey. He will be eating dinner with you in the restaurant, picking his teeth with his fingers, he will be spitting pieces and not closing his mouth while he is chewing, perhaps he will be burping, and even laughing about it. He will go to bed with you, the sex might totally suck, or worse yet after a great night of sex, he will turn around, release a largest fart you have ever heard and experienced in technicolor THX surround sound. In the mornin,g he will wake up with drool running down his cheek, and his face will look like hell, he will clip his toenails while still in bed, perhaps even leave the bathroom door open when he goes to do a number 2. Later after a few weeks of dating, while doing laundry you will get to marvel at his skid marks, you will find his dildos next, and the video tape he made with his previous lover, he probably will not stop talking about his exes, or maybe he will spend your money until you're broke, he might even ask you to buy things constantly, or cheat on you from day one.
I don't want to sound bitter and I do not want to make you bitter but the truth is we're all human. I assure you that one person alone will not have all of the shortcomings I listed above, but they all will have one or the other.
What you need to realize is, your guy on the big pedestal is not chiseled out of marble, he is just flesh and bones; what seems like a perfect complexion from 6 feet away sometimes turns out to be a skin covered with millions of dark freckles from over-tanning.
Keep these things on your mind; and above all else, love yourself. You're hotter, smarter, and more shaggable than you think. For once look at the mirror and see your real self. He's been there in the mirror waiting for you to see him all this time.
Category :
The air, the condition, and the conditioner
Getting a brand new apartment in the possibly the quietest part of town made me assume that I had the equivalent of a first row center seat in a Broadway theater. Well like any other theater seat this one had its own set of surprises. First of all everything seemed further than I thought. Union Square was blocks and blocks away, my gym was a good 30 minutes walk and getting to the nearest subway stop was at least 10 minutes. So far the seat is broken and I am wedged between a fat lady and a bodybuilder -- both are overflowing into my seat from the armrest up.
The apartment at least on the inside was amazing. Granite counters in the kitchen, all new appliances, newly stripped and finished floors, new fixtures, new bathroom tile, new new new, even new air-conditioning units. I was thrilled. Except after a few nights of unusually light sleep I was starting to wonder why this apartment of wonder was not the dream cradle I hoped it would be. I soon traced the problem to this strange humming slash rattling noise that was in my bedroom. The noise was coming from the really powerful GE brand air-conditioner window unit. The fan noise sounded normal but when the compressor kicked in it felt like I was sleeping in a factory instead of what I thought to be a quiet apartment in East Village.
So slowly and surely this incessant noise drove me insane. First I tried to sleep in the summer heat without any A/C only to wake up 4 hours later in soaking sheets and a real bad temper. Then I got into to the art of jiggling the A/C unit. It seemed that if you pushed it around in its frame a certain way, the noise would stop. But of course the noise eventually came back like a high school bully haunting me for the rest of my life. As overdramatic as this all sounds, believe me when you're sleep deprived and have to get up at 6:30 am to get to work at 9am, things seem a lot more depressing.
I felt so defeated. I felt betrayed. The A/C unit, my only support system in the humid heat of New York was also depriving me of the sleep I needed so bad. It fit the pattern. Even my relationship with my A/C unit was a dysfunctional one. Lovely, I thought.
After I gave up with wrestling with the A/C unit night after night for a week or two, I called the management office and told them my A/C needed service. Deep down I knew they would come out, check the unit out and tell me that the noise was normal but hey I had to do something. Surely enough, a crew was sent. First of all they did not even hear the noise I was talking about. It was almost magical, the noise seemed to appear only at night and only I seemed to hear it. Am I already going insane I thought?
Finally after two visits I was told that this unit is a little noisier than others out in the market but this unit is brand new and that they're not planning to change it. So I was told pretty much to shut up or move out. It had been just three weeks since I moved in, and the New York Gods were already screwing me.
A few days later I noticed something. The noise was not so bad when I was up and about during the day. This was either because I was not paying attention to it or something else was going on. It turned out, because my bed was putting my head closer to the corner opposite the one the A/C was on, somehow the noise was getting magnified in the particular spot I was trying to sleep at.
The solution however crass in terms of the feng shui of the room was a home run. I moved the bed to the opposite side of the room and the noise was almost completely gone. So that's the thing about life and life in New York City. Sometimes you run into problems you would rarely run anywhere else, and you try all of the tried and true solutions only to realize that the only way to bend the spoon is to well bend it with your own two hands.
So slowly and surely this incessant noise drove me insane. First I tried to sleep in the summer heat without any A/C only to wake up 4 hours later in soaking sheets and a real bad temper. Then I got into to the art of jiggling the A/C unit. It seemed that if you pushed it around in its frame a certain way, the noise would stop. But of course the noise eventually came back like a high school bully haunting me for the rest of my life. As overdramatic as this all sounds, believe me when you're sleep deprived and have to get up at 6:30 am to get to work at 9am, things seem a lot more depressing.
I felt so defeated. I felt betrayed. The A/C unit, my only support system in the humid heat of New York was also depriving me of the sleep I needed so bad. It fit the pattern. Even my relationship with my A/C unit was a dysfunctional one. Lovely, I thought.
After I gave up with wrestling with the A/C unit night after night for a week or two, I called the management office and told them my A/C needed service. Deep down I knew they would come out, check the unit out and tell me that the noise was normal but hey I had to do something. Surely enough, a crew was sent. First of all they did not even hear the noise I was talking about. It was almost magical, the noise seemed to appear only at night and only I seemed to hear it. Am I already going insane I thought?
Finally after two visits I was told that this unit is a little noisier than others out in the market but this unit is brand new and that they're not planning to change it. So I was told pretty much to shut up or move out. It had been just three weeks since I moved in, and the New York Gods were already screwing me.
A few days later I noticed something. The noise was not so bad when I was up and about during the day. This was either because I was not paying attention to it or something else was going on. It turned out, because my bed was putting my head closer to the corner opposite the one the A/C was on, somehow the noise was getting magnified in the particular spot I was trying to sleep at.
The solution however crass in terms of the feng shui of the room was a home run. I moved the bed to the opposite side of the room and the noise was almost completely gone. So that's the thing about life and life in New York City. Sometimes you run into problems you would rarely run anywhere else, and you try all of the tried and true solutions only to realize that the only way to bend the spoon is to well bend it with your own two hands.
Category :
Before I knew things were bad; before I knew two huge towers could come down so fast, it was a beautiful spring, my first one in New York City. It was June, and I had nothing to fear other than my checking account that always faired closer to the fewer zeros right side of the number universe. I had moments of optimism; and this for me is an anomaly in general. But still I had these moments. I believed that I was going to get a raise, I believed that my company was honestly going to get me a green card. I believed that I could transition my perfect relationship in Austin to the big apple and live the life of Sex and the City, my favorite TV show at the time.
After I spent another Saturday afternoon with my cousin Melih, taking one of our record length walks across Manhattan, we decided to join a schoolmate of ours from Turkey for drinks at the ever so trendy for its own good Hudson Hotel. Just like any other situation involving my cousin and I, there was the usual lack of planning and strategic errors on this day. We had left our apartments hours ago, and had for some reason skipped dinner. We were dehydrated, we were in shorts, and perhaps after such a long walk not as fresh as one should be going to a trendy Manhattan Hotel. This was not Austin TX, where you could walk in anywhere in almost any decent attire. This was Man-fucking-hattan and what you wore pretty much said it all in terms of your worth for an establishment.
Hudson Hotel is beautiful, ok I will admit it, it really is breath-taking at times and always full of surprises. The surprises are partly due to the fact that the whole hotel is on an perpetual dimmer effect and it is so very dark that it fells like all of one's past can fit into the dark corners of the long brick lined hallways. Perhaps this is what is so enigmatic about this hotel, I seem to relive the experiences past every time I go back.
So we show up at the hotel, Serra, our friend meets us at the lobby and we head towards the bar. She is more beautiful than I remember her. She was recently married and she exuded the confidence a normal teenager feels when they get their first full-fledged erection. Her life was together, she was married to this great guy, her career was on track, she was making lots of money and she was cool hip and a whole tall drink of water to wash it all down.
We walked over to the Library bar located inside the hotel. We were greeted by the Matre’D who perfectly fitting the Hudson tradition was yet another snooty employee waiting to make us feel bad about ourselves for not being worthy, for not being cool enough for this exclusive location. Serra did not even pick up on this, she walked right in while he went on about how we did not have reservation and that we can not stay because we did not have a reservation. She kept saying, we will stay until the people with the reservation show up. It was a good plan I must admit; I must also admit we probably would not have gotten as much of a protest from them if Melih and I looked a little more dressed up for the occasion. We looked like Americans in Paris, foreign, crude, and ever-so-underdressed.
Once we were settled into a corner that was so not ours to have, we sort of got into conversation frequently washed down with strong Cosmopolitans. Serra could have been a girl out of one of the episodes of Sex and the City. Melih and I were, well out of our element. Serra kept asking me all these very upfront-direct-somewhat inappropriate questions and I continued to answer them with cooperation only found in people who are unable to ask such questions to others.
She asked me questions about my work, my company, my living situation. It was not all bad, she was getting impatient with our social awkwardness and was trying to melt the ice. The martinis kept coming despite my protests. I usually set myself a ceiling of two martinis per outing.
By the time the night was coming to a close, I had already washed down four martinis. We had been kicked out of our seats by the people with the reservation, so we were camping out next to the tiny bar. You have to understand, this bar was named the library but it was just one square room with a real high ceiling. So naturally it did not even have a full bar with stools and everything. As the night progressed the room filled up and soon the hotel people had forgotten about us. We were sort of blending with the pickled semi-marginal celebrities of the Manhattan scene.
Of course all flood gates had been opened for me thanks to the martinis. By the end of the night I had already confessed to Serra that I was gay and how it was great to finally have that out. The three of us were trapped in our sick Manhattan-Turkish mix version of the "I love you man" banter.
Finally around 1 am we left the bar. I realized after having to walk a few feet that I was certainly not gonna make it home. Melih was also currently staying at the Hudson hotel because he was between apartments. So Melih and I decided to go up to his room and give me some time to sober up or possibly worst case scenario, spend the night there.
Well I do not remember how we got up to the room. Melih was being very nice to me considering I was stinky-damn-drunk. I laid on his bed and passed out for a while. Then I woke up with the sudden urge to throw up. I barely made it to the bathroom as I felt everything inside me turn into this bitter, hot, venomous mix of evil that obviously would not let me sleep until it was all out.
Out it all came, the light lunch, the dinner I did not eat and yes the martinis, every last shaken and not stirred drop of them. But it did not stop there, the contractions continued, I was trying to throw up things that did not even have a physical existence all the frustration, the bitterness of the move, the worsening situation with my parents, my stupid gay life that always seemed to mimic heterosexual norms with none the credit that goes with conformism, the lack of friends in New York, my frustration with my relationship, and all the other things that made me miserable in New York City.
After two hours of my head in the toilet, Melih was starting to get worried. Every time I came back from the bathroom I was getting worse. I soon started shivering, and feeling very very cold. I do not think I have felt that cold before not even in cold weather. I finally told Melih that we may have to go to ER to get things checked out. Then I passed out.
Next thing I know he woke me up and then walked me down to the lobby. The lobby that is usually quiet during the day had transitioned into a club with a disco ball and lights and semi-important Manhattanites everywhere. Leaving the hotel like that in my cousin's arm, almost limping in my daze was my sort of strange fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone in the lobby moved aside and opened a pathway for the two of us to exit through. I swear, it felt like the music even stopped but I am sure this scene was forgotten five minutes after we were gone. It felt like I was a celebrity on a binge, it felt like I was cool, it felt like I was the biggest loser on earth who could get alcohol poisoning from four martinis.
We called a cab and went to the nearest hospital. There was not a soul in the waiting room of the ER unit. But they kept making us wait. By this time I was truly out of it, snapping in and out of consciousness. In a final attempt to get us into the ER unit, my cousin started throwing them legal threats (he was attending Columbia Law School at the time.) Well that actually worked, we were taken into the unit in no time.
Soon a nurse came by and with a disapproving and put an IV to my arm. The IV made me feel better almost within minutes. We never got the final diagnosis but I spent about two hours sleeping in the ER unit and then woke up at 5 am feeling just fine, ready to go home. They reluctantly let us out, but I guess they did not feel too bad for me considering the guy behind the curtain next to me passed away due to cardiac arrest while I was sleeping away in my bed.
Melih put me into a cab and soon I was home and in bed. I must have slept most of the Sunday. Strangely, I did not have a hangover. Well not yet, the hangover arrived on Monday and it was rough shitty rough. I missed work that day and did not even have the guts to tell my boss I was missing work because I could not handle my booze. This would have been the cardinal sin in the city of perpetually pickled over-achievers.
I never saw Serra again. Neither Serra I had the guts to face each other after this embarrassing experience. I was worried about her judgement of my alcohol tolerance and I was more worried about how much of my confessions she remembered. She on the otherhand either was too busy for me, or felt a little guilty for getting me shitfaced and ER-bound faster than a ray of light.
So we show up at the hotel, Serra, our friend meets us at the lobby and we head towards the bar. She is more beautiful than I remember her. She was recently married and she exuded the confidence a normal teenager feels when they get their first full-fledged erection. Her life was together, she was married to this great guy, her career was on track, she was making lots of money and she was cool hip and a whole tall drink of water to wash it all down.
Once we were settled into a corner that was so not ours to have, we sort of got into conversation frequently washed down with strong Cosmopolitans. Serra could have been a girl out of one of the episodes of Sex and the City. Melih and I were, well out of our element. Serra kept asking me all these very upfront-direct-somewhat inappropriate questions and I continued to answer them with cooperation only found in people who are unable to ask such questions to others.
She asked me questions about my work, my company, my living situation. It was not all bad, she was getting impatient with our social awkwardness and was trying to melt the ice. The martinis kept coming despite my protests. I usually set myself a ceiling of two martinis per outing.
By the time the night was coming to a close, I had already washed down four martinis. We had been kicked out of our seats by the people with the reservation, so we were camping out next to the tiny bar. You have to understand, this bar was named the library but it was just one square room with a real high ceiling. So naturally it did not even have a full bar with stools and everything. As the night progressed the room filled up and soon the hotel people had forgotten about us. We were sort of blending with the pickled semi-marginal celebrities of the Manhattan scene.
Of course all flood gates had been opened for me thanks to the martinis. By the end of the night I had already confessed to Serra that I was gay and how it was great to finally have that out. The three of us were trapped in our sick Manhattan-Turkish mix version of the "I love you man" banter.
Finally around 1 am we left the bar. I realized after having to walk a few feet that I was certainly not gonna make it home. Melih was also currently staying at the Hudson hotel because he was between apartments. So Melih and I decided to go up to his room and give me some time to sober up or possibly worst case scenario, spend the night there.
Well I do not remember how we got up to the room. Melih was being very nice to me considering I was stinky-damn-drunk. I laid on his bed and passed out for a while. Then I woke up with the sudden urge to throw up. I barely made it to the bathroom as I felt everything inside me turn into this bitter, hot, venomous mix of evil that obviously would not let me sleep until it was all out.
Out it all came, the light lunch, the dinner I did not eat and yes the martinis, every last shaken and not stirred drop of them. But it did not stop there, the contractions continued, I was trying to throw up things that did not even have a physical existence all the frustration, the bitterness of the move, the worsening situation with my parents, my stupid gay life that always seemed to mimic heterosexual norms with none the credit that goes with conformism, the lack of friends in New York, my frustration with my relationship, and all the other things that made me miserable in New York City.
After two hours of my head in the toilet, Melih was starting to get worried. Every time I came back from the bathroom I was getting worse. I soon started shivering, and feeling very very cold. I do not think I have felt that cold before not even in cold weather. I finally told Melih that we may have to go to ER to get things checked out. Then I passed out.
Next thing I know he woke me up and then walked me down to the lobby. The lobby that is usually quiet during the day had transitioned into a club with a disco ball and lights and semi-important Manhattanites everywhere. Leaving the hotel like that in my cousin's arm, almost limping in my daze was my sort of strange fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone in the lobby moved aside and opened a pathway for the two of us to exit through. I swear, it felt like the music even stopped but I am sure this scene was forgotten five minutes after we were gone. It felt like I was a celebrity on a binge, it felt like I was cool, it felt like I was the biggest loser on earth who could get alcohol poisoning from four martinis.
We called a cab and went to the nearest hospital. There was not a soul in the waiting room of the ER unit. But they kept making us wait. By this time I was truly out of it, snapping in and out of consciousness. In a final attempt to get us into the ER unit, my cousin started throwing them legal threats (he was attending Columbia Law School at the time.) Well that actually worked, we were taken into the unit in no time.
Soon a nurse came by and with a disapproving and put an IV to my arm. The IV made me feel better almost within minutes. We never got the final diagnosis but I spent about two hours sleeping in the ER unit and then woke up at 5 am feeling just fine, ready to go home. They reluctantly let us out, but I guess they did not feel too bad for me considering the guy behind the curtain next to me passed away due to cardiac arrest while I was sleeping away in my bed.
Melih put me into a cab and soon I was home and in bed. I must have slept most of the Sunday. Strangely, I did not have a hangover. Well not yet, the hangover arrived on Monday and it was rough shitty rough. I missed work that day and did not even have the guts to tell my boss I was missing work because I could not handle my booze. This would have been the cardinal sin in the city of perpetually pickled over-achievers.
I never saw Serra again. Neither Serra I had the guts to face each other after this embarrassing experience. I was worried about her judgement of my alcohol tolerance and I was more worried about how much of my confessions she remembered. She on the otherhand either was too busy for me, or felt a little guilty for getting me shitfaced and ER-bound faster than a ray of light.
Category :
These are your feet
that walk not in my direction.
This is your fleshy hand
that you do not put in mine.
These are your lips, so shy
they never smile to me.
This is your poem,
one of the two I meant to write.
All the lines above you read
they were not here before you came.
If I dropped out of school, got fired
would a single leaf move in your forest?
My body wraps itself around you,
it is a boa constrictor lost in manhattan.
I changed jobs, I changed towns and
I still see you in strangers' faces.
I went for months without knowing your name,
you lived for six months before you met me.
Later I realized I misheard your name
and you had forgotten mine.
Strange it may be,
it is only you that does not want me
that I want;
and you know what that says about me.
Troy James Vega
For the record, his name was Wade.
that walk not in my direction.
This is your fleshy hand
that you do not put in mine.
These are your lips, so shy
they never smile to me.
This is your poem,
one of the two I meant to write.
All the lines above you read
they were not here before you came.
If I dropped out of school, got fired
would a single leaf move in your forest?
My body wraps itself around you,
it is a boa constrictor lost in manhattan.
I changed jobs, I changed towns and
I still see you in strangers' faces.
I went for months without knowing your name,
you lived for six months before you met me.
Later I realized I misheard your name
and you had forgotten mine.
Strange it may be,
it is only you that does not want me
that I want;
and you know what that says about me.
Troy James Vega
For the record, his name was Wade.
Fence
I need a fence to hold me close
to feelings I cherish, and
to things I chose before I knew better.
I need a fence to hold my breath
pressing my face against the metal bars
perhaps my fears will suffocate.
So cold, so bare, yet the rust is inviting.
Between my fingers the chocolate bar melts,
and my hands coil like worms
still searching for that lasting hold.
I need a fence to make mine right now
bright red and green spikes at the top
like on the streets of London
barring the ordinary from the extraordinary.
Troy James Vega
I need a fence to hold me close
to feelings I cherish, and
to things I chose before I knew better.
I need a fence to hold my breath
pressing my face against the metal bars
perhaps my fears will suffocate.
So cold, so bare, yet the rust is inviting.
Between my fingers the chocolate bar melts,
and my hands coil like worms
still searching for that lasting hold.
I need a fence to make mine right now
bright red and green spikes at the top
like on the streets of London
barring the ordinary from the extraordinary.
Troy James Vega
Category :
A calm Saturday morning the phone rings. I should have know that it was going to be a strange Saturday right from the start. No one dares to call me on a Saturday, much less in the morning. Sleeping all weekend is one of the biggest indulgences for my otherwise plain and somewhat repetitive New York life.
I pick the phone and it's my college buddy Ed who lives a block down from my place. He finally has some time off from his crazy rotations and wants to go to a free concert in Central Park. I get out of bed trying to make my voice sound as awake as possible while he goes on about how famous this guy is and how big an event the concert is going to be. Somehow either because I have not seen him in a while or because I am too sleepy to say no, I say yes.
We take our sweet old time to get here and when we finally reach the site of the summer concert, the place is already packed and the gates are closed. We watch the hundreds of people still in line wondering what they're waiting for since it looks like no one is really going to leave the concert until it is over.
There are literally hundreds of people around the concert stage all on blankets, eating, chatting, drinking, getting a tan and being New York style fabulous and all. Maybe it is just me but taking a stroll in Central Park in the summer is like taking a trip over to the meat market, and a very depressing one at that. These people obviously were spending too much time between going to the gym and roasting on a regular basis in the solarium. There was also the remote yet viable possibility of these people belonging to another race, another species, perhaps another planet.
Anyhow, as we went through the crowd, Ed and I spotted one of those large volcanic rocks that have been scattered all over Central Park. It had all the characteristics of a strategic spot, good sound, lots of people walking by, yet providing isolation from the crowd's madness. In New York you can never really hope to the first person to find a good spot.
You learn this fast, and instead hope that you're not the last person to find the good spot. The rocks was already half covered with yuppies, students, and other strange New York types that I do not yet have names for. The concert started and Ed and I both listened to the bands and carried on a conversation about Ed's latest dating experiences. All seemed well.
Then without a warning, a saw a squirrel (aka tree rat) run towards our rock. At first I was a little puzzled yet I did not take full notice of the squirrel running like mad in our direction. Squirrels are neurotic animals, it is normal for them to freak out at the drop of a leaf so everything seemed typical so far. Soon the squirrel was climbing our rock and making its way to the left side of the rock where a bunch of incense burning, cool looking dudes and gals were rocking to the beat of the music. Let me tell ya, all those laid back and cool dudes jumped 3 feet up in the air when they saw the squirrel run towards them. What's worse is, the squirrel took much offense at this strong reaction and started to run in the opposite direction. It ran into another blanket full of people who strangely reacted to it like they have never seen a squirrel in their whole lives. So this continued much like a particle accelerator, until the squirrel was literally running all over the rock at the speed of light (ok so he was not about to engage in time travel but you know what I mean, it was no longer a squirrel running, it was blur). Next thing I know before I could move the squirrel was running towards us. I decided that my best best was to stay calm and statitionary since a moving object was more confusing to the squirrel which was in a mad rage by now. Strangely enough this turned out to be the worst choice because the squirrel kept running and running and rammed into my left ankle head first. I swear I felt his wet mouth on my leg. And then he turned and started running in another direction, the screams and people jumping in the air following his course of course.
I could see that it was about to turn back to direction (and possibly come and hit me again) so that was that. I got up and started to shout the following: "it is a god damn squirrel, calm the fuck down! you're freaking it out!!" Before my adrenaline wore off I realized that the whole rock was laughing at my statement, not because it was funny but I guess because it had been such a New York moment.
I could not see the squirrel anymore, it had ran to some obscure unseen direction by then. When I looked down I saw that my ankle was bleeding from three long scratches. Obviously the squirrel had decided to use my leg to pick up speed and in the meantime left me with my first physical and perhaps emotional scar from New York.
Ed and I got up and searched for an onsite medical team but there was none. The cops who were providing concert security told me that they could call me an ambulance but that did not seem right. Not for a simple bleeding scratch.
Because I was not sure whether the squirrel had bitten me or not we ended up going to an ER somewhere in Upper East Side. After waiting for an hour, a nurse took a look at my leg in triage and told me that there was no risk of rabies even if the squirrel bit me. My leg was cleaned and bandaged and I was out of there.
It took almost a whole week for the scratches to heal and there are three scars on my leg after three weeks.
This experience proved to me that even going to a free concert in New York has a price, in my case it was three scars in my left ankle and a damn good story to tell over drinks.
I pick the phone and it's my college buddy Ed who lives a block down from my place. He finally has some time off from his crazy rotations and wants to go to a free concert in Central Park. I get out of bed trying to make my voice sound as awake as possible while he goes on about how famous this guy is and how big an event the concert is going to be. Somehow either because I have not seen him in a while or because I am too sleepy to say no, I say yes.
We take our sweet old time to get here and when we finally reach the site of the summer concert, the place is already packed and the gates are closed. We watch the hundreds of people still in line wondering what they're waiting for since it looks like no one is really going to leave the concert until it is over.
There are literally hundreds of people around the concert stage all on blankets, eating, chatting, drinking, getting a tan and being New York style fabulous and all. Maybe it is just me but taking a stroll in Central Park in the summer is like taking a trip over to the meat market, and a very depressing one at that. These people obviously were spending too much time between going to the gym and roasting on a regular basis in the solarium. There was also the remote yet viable possibility of these people belonging to another race, another species, perhaps another planet.
Anyhow, as we went through the crowd, Ed and I spotted one of those large volcanic rocks that have been scattered all over Central Park. It had all the characteristics of a strategic spot, good sound, lots of people walking by, yet providing isolation from the crowd's madness. In New York you can never really hope to the first person to find a good spot.
You learn this fast, and instead hope that you're not the last person to find the good spot. The rocks was already half covered with yuppies, students, and other strange New York types that I do not yet have names for. The concert started and Ed and I both listened to the bands and carried on a conversation about Ed's latest dating experiences. All seemed well.
Then without a warning, a saw a squirrel (aka tree rat) run towards our rock. At first I was a little puzzled yet I did not take full notice of the squirrel running like mad in our direction. Squirrels are neurotic animals, it is normal for them to freak out at the drop of a leaf so everything seemed typical so far. Soon the squirrel was climbing our rock and making its way to the left side of the rock where a bunch of incense burning, cool looking dudes and gals were rocking to the beat of the music. Let me tell ya, all those laid back and cool dudes jumped 3 feet up in the air when they saw the squirrel run towards them. What's worse is, the squirrel took much offense at this strong reaction and started to run in the opposite direction. It ran into another blanket full of people who strangely reacted to it like they have never seen a squirrel in their whole lives. So this continued much like a particle accelerator, until the squirrel was literally running all over the rock at the speed of light (ok so he was not about to engage in time travel but you know what I mean, it was no longer a squirrel running, it was blur). Next thing I know before I could move the squirrel was running towards us. I decided that my best best was to stay calm and statitionary since a moving object was more confusing to the squirrel which was in a mad rage by now. Strangely enough this turned out to be the worst choice because the squirrel kept running and running and rammed into my left ankle head first. I swear I felt his wet mouth on my leg. And then he turned and started running in another direction, the screams and people jumping in the air following his course of course.
I could see that it was about to turn back to direction (and possibly come and hit me again) so that was that. I got up and started to shout the following: "it is a god damn squirrel, calm the fuck down! you're freaking it out!!" Before my adrenaline wore off I realized that the whole rock was laughing at my statement, not because it was funny but I guess because it had been such a New York moment.
I could not see the squirrel anymore, it had ran to some obscure unseen direction by then. When I looked down I saw that my ankle was bleeding from three long scratches. Obviously the squirrel had decided to use my leg to pick up speed and in the meantime left me with my first physical and perhaps emotional scar from New York.
Ed and I got up and searched for an onsite medical team but there was none. The cops who were providing concert security told me that they could call me an ambulance but that did not seem right. Not for a simple bleeding scratch.
Because I was not sure whether the squirrel had bitten me or not we ended up going to an ER somewhere in Upper East Side. After waiting for an hour, a nurse took a look at my leg in triage and told me that there was no risk of rabies even if the squirrel bit me. My leg was cleaned and bandaged and I was out of there.
It took almost a whole week for the scratches to heal and there are three scars on my leg after three weeks.
This experience proved to me that even going to a free concert in New York has a price, in my case it was three scars in my left ankle and a damn good story to tell over drinks.
Category :
Just the other day, I was trying to describe my NY commute to a friend of mine and I realized all the little details were already gone. So before it all runs away from me, I wanted to capture my commute.
I lived in East Village at the corner of 14th street and Avenue C (yes it was almostBrookyln.com). I had to first walk from Avenue C to 1st Avenue and enter the L subway station. If you do not know the L line (Loser as I used to call it.), this is a major line that runs pretty deep into Brookyln and then runs underneath the east river and emerges in Manhattan right at 14th street and 1st Avenue. I soon realized that unlike my apartment broker's version of the story, L was an infrequent, overcrowded, and poorly maintained line. The schedule never seemed to make sense to me. Some days 3 trains would arrive one after the other, or some mornings I would wait 30 minutes with no trains. And then there were the times the train would arrive and it would have everyone and their grandmother from Brookyln on it.
The thing with subways is they're the ultimate tool of democracy. There's nothing like public transport to bring everyone down to the same level of misery. So here we were, the Wall Street ingénues, the new economy turds, the clueless Turks, the school children with questionable clothing and the last but not the least the homeless ... all stuffed into the same steel container speeding underneath the city of sex and glamour. Strangely enough there was nothing sexy nor glamorous about my commute. On the L line, designated with a round gray emblem, there were no colors, we were all washed out, tired, upset, bored, too late to places we never thought we would rush to this early in the morning.
The L line on Manhattan does not go far; and for a good reason too. The L line goes from the East side of Manhattan to the West side in a straight line. If you know Manhattan you will realize it's in the shape a long turd so it does not take long to cut it from side to side. Anyhow, enough about turd, the stops on Manhattan are 1st Ave, 3rd Ave, Union Square, 6th Ave, and final stop at 8th Avenue.
During the first few months, I took L to 6th Avenue changed over to the red line: 1,2,3 and 9. These different trains are on the same line but two were express and two were local. The groups of two further had unique stops, destinations and quirks as soon as they left Manhattan. To tell you the truth, I do not remember all the small details about these lines because I never used them for anything other than going to work and going to my cousin's apartment on Upper West Side.
To switch between L and the red line stations, you have to walk down this really long, and sometimes depressing underground tunnel. The only time that tunnel was fun was when they had street performers down there. I remember, there was this very tall, thin black guy that used to sing and play his guitar with the widest smile on his face. He brightened my day anytime I ran into him. I always tipped him, always --anyone who can brighten up your day in that city needs to be tipped. Perhaps this is why we pay so much money to entertainers, to all these movies, and musicians. They make our unbearable lives bearable. So in a sense we take what we should be entitled to: good living, and turn it into this rare feast, an occasional decadence, a shot of our favorite drug of choice and compensate for it with entertainment be it chemical, mental, physical or all of the above. I don't know where I fit in all of this. I seem to be pointing a lot of things and shitting all over everything but I am just as guilty of as anyone else for buying into, and contributing to the mess.
From 6th Avenue Red line station, I would throw myself into an express train and that usually was a major feat. The express trains were always sardine packed with the Wall Street people. A group of people that never seemed to dress down even during the sweltering hot of the summer months. I do believe that they really must be cold-blooded --otherwise there is no way anyone can have three layers of clothes on in the subway in August and not break a sweat.
The express line took me to World Trade Center station within one hop. It was amazing. I would stand in the train looking outside and watching all these stations race past us in a mad rage, all the colors, the light, the dark, the sirens all blending, running into each other like a Van Gogh painting. And there was a strange hope, a strange thrill there, as in now that I was moving faster I was somehow making up for all the time wasted?
World Trade Center station was amazing. It was not the most beautiful mall I have seen but it was full of stylish stores, all these tunnels and exits, and finally the entrance to Path, the New Jersey trains.
You have to appreciate the strangeness of the situation. In the morning everyone from NJ is commuting to the World Trade Center with the Path trains and I am commuting out along with a handful group of crazy people. So I would literally have to swim against the current of people flowing out of the Path stations and go down to the trains. The Path trains were always cleaner and mostly on time. They actually had a schedule if you can believe.
Almost there. The path train would eventually fill up and the doors would close and the train would always do this strange loopey turney thing so that it could re-enter the NJ PATH tunnel. We would speed underneath Hudson, and soon enough I was finally at my final destination, Exchange Place New Jersey.
A couple of months into my employment in NY, a coworker of mine recommended a less stressful route. Instead of taking the red line she suggested I take the orange like, the N and the R. It really was less stressful but it sometimes did not seem fast enough. NR transverse the same distance and roughly the same number of stops as 1,2,3,9 but there were no express trains, well at least for the part of Manhattan I was traveling in.
My cousin affectionately had named the NR, the Never and the Rarely. And that name says it all really. These trains would disappear for 30 mins at a time and would keep you waiting at the scalding hot platforms for minutes on end. When you finally got onto one of these, the cars were usually old, the A/C broken. I must admit however the most colorful people were always on the NR.
NR also converged at the WTC station. In fact many of the lines that traveled down to lower Manhattan were connected to WTC in one way or another.
I did not like my commute. I did not like the first day I did it, I did not like it the last day I had to do it. I never cared for underground trains, especially the ones in the US. If I was in London on the Jubilee line maybe my story would have been different and I would be raving. But I have a hunch that you could put me on a golden subway line with free express service to any station, I still would manage to be unhappy on it.
Maybe it's not the cities, maybe it is not the subway, maybe it is not a job, maybe it is not my parents, maybe it is not anything at all, perhaps it is not even me.
I lived in East Village at the corner of 14th street and Avenue C (yes it was almostBrookyln.com). I had to first walk from Avenue C to 1st Avenue and enter the L subway station. If you do not know the L line (Loser as I used to call it.), this is a major line that runs pretty deep into Brookyln and then runs underneath the east river and emerges in Manhattan right at 14th street and 1st Avenue. I soon realized that unlike my apartment broker's version of the story, L was an infrequent, overcrowded, and poorly maintained line. The schedule never seemed to make sense to me. Some days 3 trains would arrive one after the other, or some mornings I would wait 30 minutes with no trains. And then there were the times the train would arrive and it would have everyone and their grandmother from Brookyln on it.
The thing with subways is they're the ultimate tool of democracy. There's nothing like public transport to bring everyone down to the same level of misery. So here we were, the Wall Street ingénues, the new economy turds, the clueless Turks, the school children with questionable clothing and the last but not the least the homeless ... all stuffed into the same steel container speeding underneath the city of sex and glamour. Strangely enough there was nothing sexy nor glamorous about my commute. On the L line, designated with a round gray emblem, there were no colors, we were all washed out, tired, upset, bored, too late to places we never thought we would rush to this early in the morning.
The L line on Manhattan does not go far; and for a good reason too. The L line goes from the East side of Manhattan to the West side in a straight line. If you know Manhattan you will realize it's in the shape a long turd so it does not take long to cut it from side to side. Anyhow, enough about turd, the stops on Manhattan are 1st Ave, 3rd Ave, Union Square, 6th Ave, and final stop at 8th Avenue.
During the first few months, I took L to 6th Avenue changed over to the red line: 1,2,3 and 9. These different trains are on the same line but two were express and two were local. The groups of two further had unique stops, destinations and quirks as soon as they left Manhattan. To tell you the truth, I do not remember all the small details about these lines because I never used them for anything other than going to work and going to my cousin's apartment on Upper West Side.
To switch between L and the red line stations, you have to walk down this really long, and sometimes depressing underground tunnel. The only time that tunnel was fun was when they had street performers down there. I remember, there was this very tall, thin black guy that used to sing and play his guitar with the widest smile on his face. He brightened my day anytime I ran into him. I always tipped him, always --anyone who can brighten up your day in that city needs to be tipped. Perhaps this is why we pay so much money to entertainers, to all these movies, and musicians. They make our unbearable lives bearable. So in a sense we take what we should be entitled to: good living, and turn it into this rare feast, an occasional decadence, a shot of our favorite drug of choice and compensate for it with entertainment be it chemical, mental, physical or all of the above. I don't know where I fit in all of this. I seem to be pointing a lot of things and shitting all over everything but I am just as guilty of as anyone else for buying into, and contributing to the mess.
From 6th Avenue Red line station, I would throw myself into an express train and that usually was a major feat. The express trains were always sardine packed with the Wall Street people. A group of people that never seemed to dress down even during the sweltering hot of the summer months. I do believe that they really must be cold-blooded --otherwise there is no way anyone can have three layers of clothes on in the subway in August and not break a sweat.
The express line took me to World Trade Center station within one hop. It was amazing. I would stand in the train looking outside and watching all these stations race past us in a mad rage, all the colors, the light, the dark, the sirens all blending, running into each other like a Van Gogh painting. And there was a strange hope, a strange thrill there, as in now that I was moving faster I was somehow making up for all the time wasted?
World Trade Center station was amazing. It was not the most beautiful mall I have seen but it was full of stylish stores, all these tunnels and exits, and finally the entrance to Path, the New Jersey trains.
You have to appreciate the strangeness of the situation. In the morning everyone from NJ is commuting to the World Trade Center with the Path trains and I am commuting out along with a handful group of crazy people. So I would literally have to swim against the current of people flowing out of the Path stations and go down to the trains. The Path trains were always cleaner and mostly on time. They actually had a schedule if you can believe.
Almost there. The path train would eventually fill up and the doors would close and the train would always do this strange loopey turney thing so that it could re-enter the NJ PATH tunnel. We would speed underneath Hudson, and soon enough I was finally at my final destination, Exchange Place New Jersey.
A couple of months into my employment in NY, a coworker of mine recommended a less stressful route. Instead of taking the red line she suggested I take the orange like, the N and the R. It really was less stressful but it sometimes did not seem fast enough. NR transverse the same distance and roughly the same number of stops as 1,2,3,9 but there were no express trains, well at least for the part of Manhattan I was traveling in.
My cousin affectionately had named the NR, the Never and the Rarely. And that name says it all really. These trains would disappear for 30 mins at a time and would keep you waiting at the scalding hot platforms for minutes on end. When you finally got onto one of these, the cars were usually old, the A/C broken. I must admit however the most colorful people were always on the NR.
NR also converged at the WTC station. In fact many of the lines that traveled down to lower Manhattan were connected to WTC in one way or another.
I did not like my commute. I did not like the first day I did it, I did not like it the last day I had to do it. I never cared for underground trains, especially the ones in the US. If I was in London on the Jubilee line maybe my story would have been different and I would be raving. But I have a hunch that you could put me on a golden subway line with free express service to any station, I still would manage to be unhappy on it.
Maybe it's not the cities, maybe it is not the subway, maybe it is not a job, maybe it is not my parents, maybe it is not anything at all, perhaps it is not even me.
Category :
It was spring 2001, a different time in a city that never stopped changing. Early May, the streets of New York crisp with still chilly winds but calmly warmed by the sun streaming through the dark clouds finally losing their seige of the skies.
What is it about extremely cold winters that makes them prone to being followed by amazingly beautiful springs? Perhaps all springs are pretty much the same. Perhaps all of this variance from season to season, from year to year is all in our heads.
I got into the habit of taking long walks in my neighborhood in an effort to get to know the area. After a few weeks of exploring I felt like the king of Stuyvesant town. I knew the 14th street and 1st Avenue area well, every store, every restaurant, every little detail.
East Village felt like this not quite dry canvas I was walking around on, I could almost feel my shoes smudging the fresh paint as I was walking around. There were homeless people in parks, people who walked the streets, smelly, drunk, lost, perhaps insane. There were people with jobs and a thousand places they needed to be at like 30 minutes ago, running, rushing, pushing, sweating, stressing. That's the thing with ugliness and stress; they are both kinda contagious. You can not live in the center of ugliness and not become ugly yourself. Same thing applies to stress. You can leave your apartment feeling like a million dollars and with a great love for everything and everyone and in New York City, within 2 blocks you can change your mind and hate the whole world with all your heart.
All it takes is running into one or two negative, angry, bitter New Yorkers on the street and you can ruin your entire day. With such dangers looming on the streets, Manhattan sometimes felt like a field of land mines. Take a wrong step and you could be blow to pieces.
What is it about extremely cold winters that makes them prone to being followed by amazingly beautiful springs? Perhaps all springs are pretty much the same. Perhaps all of this variance from season to season, from year to year is all in our heads.
I got into the habit of taking long walks in my neighborhood in an effort to get to know the area. After a few weeks of exploring I felt like the king of Stuyvesant town. I knew the 14th street and 1st Avenue area well, every store, every restaurant, every little detail.
East Village felt like this not quite dry canvas I was walking around on, I could almost feel my shoes smudging the fresh paint as I was walking around. There were homeless people in parks, people who walked the streets, smelly, drunk, lost, perhaps insane. There were people with jobs and a thousand places they needed to be at like 30 minutes ago, running, rushing, pushing, sweating, stressing. That's the thing with ugliness and stress; they are both kinda contagious. You can not live in the center of ugliness and not become ugly yourself. Same thing applies to stress. You can leave your apartment feeling like a million dollars and with a great love for everything and everyone and in New York City, within 2 blocks you can change your mind and hate the whole world with all your heart.
All it takes is running into one or two negative, angry, bitter New Yorkers on the street and you can ruin your entire day. With such dangers looming on the streets, Manhattan sometimes felt like a field of land mines. Take a wrong step and you could be blow to pieces.
Category :
On 14th Street across from Stuyvesant Town is this pizza joint called: Pete's-a-Place. It was the first thing that caught my eye when my broker and I visited the neighborhood during my apartment hunt. The moment I saw the "cheesy" sign of this little greasy pizza joint I knew I was going to somehow end up living in East Village, perhaps not too far from this place.
And that is almost exactly how it happened. As much as I hated the 14th street, I loved the Stuyvesant town and my beautiful one bedroom apartment in it. My apartment was located in the far south-eastern corner of the development and I barely if ever heard any traffic or street noise, and I loved loved loved that. If I wanted I could be in the middle of Manhattan hell in less than 5 minutes, but when I wanted some quiet, I could have endless hours of it at home. You have to understand that for most Manhattinites with my level of income this was a rare luxury.
It turns out I ate at Pete's-a-place only once. Their pizza was possibly the worst pizza I have tasted since Mr. Gatti's chain pizza. It was the kind of food that you eat real fast because you can not bear the fact that you're actually eating it. When you're hungry and you've spent your fair share of lunch money for the day, you kind of have to eat what you got. And if what you got is the pizza equivalent of a bucket of lard, you have two options, go hungry for that afternoon or you just gulp it down hoping that your body will be less discerning than your taste buds and your sense of smell. I chose the second option that day...
I must have walked by that joint every day for the remainder of my days in New York. Every time I walked by I swear they never would have customers inside. I am surprised that they actually stayed in business. Maybe, just maybe they were some sort of horrible mafia using the pizza joint as a front end to some unheard of way to make a quick buck.
And that is almost exactly how it happened. As much as I hated the 14th street, I loved the Stuyvesant town and my beautiful one bedroom apartment in it. My apartment was located in the far south-eastern corner of the development and I barely if ever heard any traffic or street noise, and I loved loved loved that. If I wanted I could be in the middle of Manhattan hell in less than 5 minutes, but when I wanted some quiet, I could have endless hours of it at home. You have to understand that for most Manhattinites with my level of income this was a rare luxury.
It turns out I ate at Pete's-a-place only once. Their pizza was possibly the worst pizza I have tasted since Mr. Gatti's chain pizza. It was the kind of food that you eat real fast because you can not bear the fact that you're actually eating it. When you're hungry and you've spent your fair share of lunch money for the day, you kind of have to eat what you got. And if what you got is the pizza equivalent of a bucket of lard, you have two options, go hungry for that afternoon or you just gulp it down hoping that your body will be less discerning than your taste buds and your sense of smell. I chose the second option that day...
I must have walked by that joint every day for the remainder of my days in New York. Every time I walked by I swear they never would have customers inside. I am surprised that they actually stayed in business. Maybe, just maybe they were some sort of horrible mafia using the pizza joint as a front end to some unheard of way to make a quick buck.
Category :
No one prepares and nothing for that matter can really prepare you for the ever so treacherous process of apartment hunting in New York City. There are so many things to consider and take into account. First of there is the money you can put out for rent, then where you work, where you party, where you would like to workout, where the subways are, who owns the property, the lease terms, your cool friends' expectations, your parents expectations, your pets, proximity to restaurants and parks etc. The list is endless. This is why it seemed so strange when my apartment hunt took less than half a day. I either had the best broker in town, or I was rushed into renting an apartment, or perhaps both.
New York is a city that has absolutely no patience for people who do not know what they want in life. This city clearly, openly, and shamelessly discriminates against these slow decision makers --their life eventually turns into a trail of poorly made decisions, unhappiness, and misery in the city --eventually they move away and bicker about what a horrible place New York is. I am one of those people. I think glaciers sometimes make decisions faster than I do.
I found my broker through one of my new office mates' recommendation. He and his company Manhattan apartments were helpful but they were not ready and/or willing to spend a week with me while I went through my motions for making a decision.
So one Tuesday morning, John the broker and I went on our apartment shopping spree. I think there is a certain formula these brokers follow every time, and it must work like a charm, cause it sure did work on me. They first show you your worst nightmare apartments, one perhaps at max two of these. Once your expectations are lowered to the point of actually considering Brooklyn as a viable option, they start showing you the good stuff. But beware, the good stuff comes with its own emotional baggage. Every time you pronounce an apartment as one you would consider suddenly all other Manhattannites line up to steal this apartment from you. So just like a good opportunity in life, you have to make the excruciating decision of whether you should jump on the apartment or you should keep looking and risk losing it.
Well I am chicken. Predictably when I saw my dream apartment, I did not even care where it was located: Smack in the center of East Focking Village. I thought hey, at least I was on Manhattan, I was close to the subway --or so I thought, the apartment was huuuuge, and it was brand new for a whopping rent of $2200 per month. Ouch city. I could not imagine what the rent was like uptown.
Once I had made the decision, I needed approval. So I gave my older cousin Memduh a ring and he was rushed to my new address to approve the choice. He seemed to be fond of it. He was actually surprised by how glitzy the interior of the apartment was with comparison to the exterior. The property was located on Stuyvesant Town, a former veterans families project recently acquired and currently run by MetLife. The lease however pricey was very flexible, allowing me to move out almost any time without any serious penalty fees. So if I thought if I absolutely hated it, I could get rid of the place and move on up to better apartments.
John switched to high gear as he took me to the bank, then to the leasing office. The application fee of $500 was put down, then the deposit which was two month's rent (ouch), $4400, then they required me to pay the first month's rent another $2200 and finally there was the broker's fee 17% of my yearly rent --bend me over the barrel, any time now. So within the course of a few hours I parted with close to $11,000. It felt very strange, it felt good. Already a week into my stay in NYC, I was enjoying putting more zeros after digits. This was not a good precedent. This town was going to slowly invite me to live more and more beyond my means -- a pattern that will eventually make my continued stay there financially impossible.
New York is a city that has absolutely no patience for people who do not know what they want in life. This city clearly, openly, and shamelessly discriminates against these slow decision makers --their life eventually turns into a trail of poorly made decisions, unhappiness, and misery in the city --eventually they move away and bicker about what a horrible place New York is. I am one of those people. I think glaciers sometimes make decisions faster than I do.
I found my broker through one of my new office mates' recommendation. He and his company Manhattan apartments were helpful but they were not ready and/or willing to spend a week with me while I went through my motions for making a decision.
So one Tuesday morning, John the broker and I went on our apartment shopping spree. I think there is a certain formula these brokers follow every time, and it must work like a charm, cause it sure did work on me. They first show you your worst nightmare apartments, one perhaps at max two of these. Once your expectations are lowered to the point of actually considering Brooklyn as a viable option, they start showing you the good stuff. But beware, the good stuff comes with its own emotional baggage. Every time you pronounce an apartment as one you would consider suddenly all other Manhattannites line up to steal this apartment from you. So just like a good opportunity in life, you have to make the excruciating decision of whether you should jump on the apartment or you should keep looking and risk losing it.
Well I am chicken. Predictably when I saw my dream apartment, I did not even care where it was located: Smack in the center of East Focking Village. I thought hey, at least I was on Manhattan, I was close to the subway --or so I thought, the apartment was huuuuge, and it was brand new for a whopping rent of $2200 per month. Ouch city. I could not imagine what the rent was like uptown.
Once I had made the decision, I needed approval. So I gave my older cousin Memduh a ring and he was rushed to my new address to approve the choice. He seemed to be fond of it. He was actually surprised by how glitzy the interior of the apartment was with comparison to the exterior. The property was located on Stuyvesant Town, a former veterans families project recently acquired and currently run by MetLife. The lease however pricey was very flexible, allowing me to move out almost any time without any serious penalty fees. So if I thought if I absolutely hated it, I could get rid of the place and move on up to better apartments.
John switched to high gear as he took me to the bank, then to the leasing office. The application fee of $500 was put down, then the deposit which was two month's rent (ouch), $4400, then they required me to pay the first month's rent another $2200 and finally there was the broker's fee 17% of my yearly rent --bend me over the barrel, any time now. So within the course of a few hours I parted with close to $11,000. It felt very strange, it felt good. Already a week into my stay in NYC, I was enjoying putting more zeros after digits. This was not a good precedent. This town was going to slowly invite me to live more and more beyond my means -- a pattern that will eventually make my continued stay there financially impossible.
Category :
My plane landed in NYC on May 3 2001. It was the JFK airport, late in the afternoon. I still had a long ride to New Jersey ahead of me. My company had reserved some lame corporate apartment for me in Jersey City NJ. Here I was moving to NY and I was already knocked off the island on the first night.
I had two large suitcases with me and my backpack. I walked out of terminal one and found the yellow cabs. When I told the guy that I was going to Jersey, he was kind of confused. Apparently the sensible thing to do usually is to fly to Newark airport in Jersey. The ride I was asking for was way more than a cab driver expects when they pull into the airport cab line. He was both confused and happy while trying to figure out how much he wanted to rip me off. I think he had a non-New York moment and told me the truth. He told me the best thing to do was to turn on the meter and then compare it to the fixed fees listed on his sheet. The fees were totaling up to something like 100 dollars and I was worried. I was not even sure I had enough cash.
So I jumped in, the suitcases were thrown in the trunk and we started a long ride through the unfamiliar highways of Brooklyn. We went through Williamsburg bridge and then through Manhattan and then through Holland Tunnel to get to Jersey City. I am not sure it was the shortest path possible. It was getting late, and I did not care anymore. This was to become a pattern in my life in New York. This is a city that puts you in such situations in such urgency, or in such exhaustion that you make the dumbest decisions or most of the time you let the decisions make themselves. At least this was the effect this city would have on me.
Finally I was in front of the corporate apartment and $80 short. I got into my apartment and immediately noticed that I was assigned to a two bedroom apartment with another coworker. I was mortified. Being an only child I have never gotten used to living with others. Something I should probably work on but I never had to --well except for my freshman year in college where they put me up with this guy that was twice my size, ate like a hog and never cleaned his side of the room.
Anyhow, I did not care, I was there, I was tired, I had to sleep and I just jumped into my bed. Next morning I called the office. They were being very laid back about things. "Oh yeah, hi, great that you're here. Oh don't worry about showing up to work, look for an apartment first." I was confused. I thought they would want me in the office pronto. One of my coworkers told me that she lived in the free corporate apartment for a month before finding her own place. She was telling me this as an accomplishment on her part -- it sounded more like a nightmare to me. I needed a place of my own urgently.
So the next day I started calling up apartment broker services. One of my new coworkers had worked with this broker, and highly recommended him. So I gave him a call and made an appointment sometime later in the week. In the meantime I was showing up to the office, trying to get my ducks in a row --find a desk, get to meet the team, get my phone, computer etc working. It was all taking a long time. They could not locate my computer that was shipped from Austin for a day or two and then it magically appeared.
My team was another story. It was strange; something was strange. They were acting a little weird around me, or so I felt. Our supervisor was this thin thin almost emaciated tall guy that scared me. He seemed to be dissaproving everything I was doing, everything I was saying. I kept telling myself it was all in my head and I am sure to some point it was. Later I found out this group of people would never really accept me as one of them.
I had two large suitcases with me and my backpack. I walked out of terminal one and found the yellow cabs. When I told the guy that I was going to Jersey, he was kind of confused. Apparently the sensible thing to do usually is to fly to Newark airport in Jersey. The ride I was asking for was way more than a cab driver expects when they pull into the airport cab line. He was both confused and happy while trying to figure out how much he wanted to rip me off. I think he had a non-New York moment and told me the truth. He told me the best thing to do was to turn on the meter and then compare it to the fixed fees listed on his sheet. The fees were totaling up to something like 100 dollars and I was worried. I was not even sure I had enough cash.
So I jumped in, the suitcases were thrown in the trunk and we started a long ride through the unfamiliar highways of Brooklyn. We went through Williamsburg bridge and then through Manhattan and then through Holland Tunnel to get to Jersey City. I am not sure it was the shortest path possible. It was getting late, and I did not care anymore. This was to become a pattern in my life in New York. This is a city that puts you in such situations in such urgency, or in such exhaustion that you make the dumbest decisions or most of the time you let the decisions make themselves. At least this was the effect this city would have on me.
Finally I was in front of the corporate apartment and $80 short. I got into my apartment and immediately noticed that I was assigned to a two bedroom apartment with another coworker. I was mortified. Being an only child I have never gotten used to living with others. Something I should probably work on but I never had to --well except for my freshman year in college where they put me up with this guy that was twice my size, ate like a hog and never cleaned his side of the room.
Anyhow, I did not care, I was there, I was tired, I had to sleep and I just jumped into my bed. Next morning I called the office. They were being very laid back about things. "Oh yeah, hi, great that you're here. Oh don't worry about showing up to work, look for an apartment first." I was confused. I thought they would want me in the office pronto. One of my coworkers told me that she lived in the free corporate apartment for a month before finding her own place. She was telling me this as an accomplishment on her part -- it sounded more like a nightmare to me. I needed a place of my own urgently.
So the next day I started calling up apartment broker services. One of my new coworkers had worked with this broker, and highly recommended him. So I gave him a call and made an appointment sometime later in the week. In the meantime I was showing up to the office, trying to get my ducks in a row --find a desk, get to meet the team, get my phone, computer etc working. It was all taking a long time. They could not locate my computer that was shipped from Austin for a day or two and then it magically appeared.
My team was another story. It was strange; something was strange. They were acting a little weird around me, or so I felt. Our supervisor was this thin thin almost emaciated tall guy that scared me. He seemed to be dissaproving everything I was doing, everything I was saying. I kept telling myself it was all in my head and I am sure to some point it was. Later I found out this group of people would never really accept me as one of them.
Category :
It is amazing how once a difficult decision is made, it seems to execute by itself. It felt the same with the New York City move. Next thing I know I was called a "sodder" in the office which was affectionately coined office terminology for the likes me that were going to New York. Yes it was true, affectionate or not, I was sodding off, getting the hell out of the horrible project that was draining the life out of me.
There were 15 of us total and I was the last one to move because of my late decision and many project transitioning tasks.
The movers were scheduled, tickets were bought, items were packed, things were given away and soon all traces of my life in the US evaporated from sight right before my eyes. Now I was a nomad, no longer owning a place to call home in Austin and not yet found a new one in New York.
I was intimidated, I was shaken, I was bothered. For me having my own place is the most important thing in the world. Being without one felt like being a slug without a shell, I had nowhere to hide, and I felt exposed, very exposed.
My parents LOVED the move to New York. They hated the long flights they had to take to get to Texas. They figured with me being in New York, we would see each other more often and perhaps get a chance to mend some of the relationship issues that had run amuck in the past couple of years.
Now you're thinking all of this is happening too fast or perhaps you want me to get to the New York bit already. There is so much I need to relate to you before we get to the New York part. I would like to relate this information in a way that does not interfere with the flow of events. So here is a bit of detail we could just glaze over but I think it is important for your understanding of what's going on in my head currently.
As you know I am from Turkey, and being a male Turkish citizen I am required to do mandatory military service some time after graduation from a highschool. The usual duration of the military service is 18 months. You can be assigned to any of the camps in Turkey which means you can get stuck in the worst parts of Turkey in the coldest months of the year. Military service within these parameters is quite difficult and taxing. It really is what makes a man, a man in Turkey. I have never seen anyone come back from military service quite the same.
If a Turkish citizen attends a college be it in Turkey or outside, the military service requirement is postponed until their graduation. Getting a higher ed degree also has it perks in terms of the military service. Citizens with higher ed degrees qualify to do their service in either 8 months as grunt or 18 months as an officer --better living quarters, less hardship, more responsibility, and possibly better treatment. These are great but my generation in my family is a bunch of wussies. We were brought up in quite nice accomodations and we never lacked the basic amenities. Some of us never even camped once. So you can imagine the horror in our minds when we think of ourselves in military service.
Luckily for us, there is a further clause in the law. It applies to Turkish citizens who have been and are currently working abroad. It requires at least three years of continuous employment and a payment of $5000.00 and the service lasts only 4 weeks. As you can guess I started planning for this long time ago.
At the time the New York move came up, I had already accrued both the employment time and the cash to participate in this special kind of militart service. So I decided to pack up in Austin, fly to Turkey, do my service and then fly right back to New York. It was one of the best plans I made.
Military service was not what I expected, or I was tougher than I thought. Most guys in the service were a bunch of whiners and it was suprising to find myself supporting other people. I never thought I would be the strong and calm kind but here I was doing it.
There were 15 of us total and I was the last one to move because of my late decision and many project transitioning tasks.
The movers were scheduled, tickets were bought, items were packed, things were given away and soon all traces of my life in the US evaporated from sight right before my eyes. Now I was a nomad, no longer owning a place to call home in Austin and not yet found a new one in New York.
I was intimidated, I was shaken, I was bothered. For me having my own place is the most important thing in the world. Being without one felt like being a slug without a shell, I had nowhere to hide, and I felt exposed, very exposed.
My parents LOVED the move to New York. They hated the long flights they had to take to get to Texas. They figured with me being in New York, we would see each other more often and perhaps get a chance to mend some of the relationship issues that had run amuck in the past couple of years.
Now you're thinking all of this is happening too fast or perhaps you want me to get to the New York bit already. There is so much I need to relate to you before we get to the New York part. I would like to relate this information in a way that does not interfere with the flow of events. So here is a bit of detail we could just glaze over but I think it is important for your understanding of what's going on in my head currently.
As you know I am from Turkey, and being a male Turkish citizen I am required to do mandatory military service some time after graduation from a highschool. The usual duration of the military service is 18 months. You can be assigned to any of the camps in Turkey which means you can get stuck in the worst parts of Turkey in the coldest months of the year. Military service within these parameters is quite difficult and taxing. It really is what makes a man, a man in Turkey. I have never seen anyone come back from military service quite the same.
If a Turkish citizen attends a college be it in Turkey or outside, the military service requirement is postponed until their graduation. Getting a higher ed degree also has it perks in terms of the military service. Citizens with higher ed degrees qualify to do their service in either 8 months as grunt or 18 months as an officer --better living quarters, less hardship, more responsibility, and possibly better treatment. These are great but my generation in my family is a bunch of wussies. We were brought up in quite nice accomodations and we never lacked the basic amenities. Some of us never even camped once. So you can imagine the horror in our minds when we think of ourselves in military service.
Luckily for us, there is a further clause in the law. It applies to Turkish citizens who have been and are currently working abroad. It requires at least three years of continuous employment and a payment of $5000.00 and the service lasts only 4 weeks. As you can guess I started planning for this long time ago.
At the time the New York move came up, I had already accrued both the employment time and the cash to participate in this special kind of militart service. So I decided to pack up in Austin, fly to Turkey, do my service and then fly right back to New York. It was one of the best plans I made.
Military service was not what I expected, or I was tougher than I thought. Most guys in the service were a bunch of whiners and it was suprising to find myself supporting other people. I never thought I would be the strong and calm kind but here I was doing it.
Category :
My life seemed perfect during the summer of 2000. I had a great job, a great relationship, I was painting, I was selling paintings, I was writing. Life was good. I think we all go through these good times without knowing. I too did not know, how good I had it.
After the acquisitions, the crazy NY client project with the crazy unruly HC team, I could not see past all this noise to realize how good I had it all this time.
One day my technical lead walks into my cubicle and asks me to come to his room. Go figure, as the project manager I did not have a room to myself but my tech lead did. Also strange was the fact that my tech lead was my manager because I was a senior engineer in the SAPE corporation and he was the head of the tech team but I also was the project manager so I was supposed to be his boss too. Are you getting a headache yet? No wonder SC fucked up so bad eventually, how can a company be run with these circular hierarchies??
Anyhow, I get asked into his room and he starts to tell me about this new initiative SAPE has kicked off. They are planning to take several HC employees from the Austin office and relocate them to New York City offices. This was being done in an effort to transfer the rich media expertise we had in such abundance to the New York City offices that were in need of these capabilities. It all sounded great but I failed to see the connection between all this and myself. My life was already consumed by my ever-so-slowly tanking project, I could not see past it or think that there could be something else for me to do other than run this project.
And sooner than you know, it is taken away from you; the innocence is lost. With that one sentence he said to me, it was taken away from me, even before I agreed to it openly. He said that it did not matter if I was currently assigned to a project as a project manager, I still could be relocated to NY and also get to do what I liked doing --technology.
It seemed tempting, it seemed like the right thing to do, it also frightened me. I have never been the one to take plunges into major changes in my life. So to some point I was completely terrified and partially in a state of denial. Over the course of the next two weeks after much consideration, a prolonged over-analysis, and consultations with my partner, my parents, my best friends the writing was on the wall. I had to go; it really was not much of a choice.
The Austin office was being sized down, it was obviously we all could be laid off any minute now. The pressure of the possible future layoffs, the tanking morale was taking its toll and working at the Austin offices was becoming a pain. In the middle of all of this corporate drama, I was a foreigner who was on a H1-B visa which means I am allowed by the INS to work for a company for a specific period of time.
An H-1B worker can not work for anyone else other than the approved sponsor company. He can not have any others sources of income in the US. He also is approved for employment for a maximum of 6 years of employment in the US after which he has to leave for a complete year and stay out of the US for this period of time. After this leave of absence, he may return to the US for another six years of the same type of visa. Complete bullshit if you ask me. It never made sense to me, and I think it never will.
So the NY office presented the chance to stay longer with SC and created a chance that they might get me a green card eventually.
So the choice was made. I was moving to New York City...
After the acquisitions, the crazy NY client project with the crazy unruly HC team, I could not see past all this noise to realize how good I had it all this time.
One day my technical lead walks into my cubicle and asks me to come to his room. Go figure, as the project manager I did not have a room to myself but my tech lead did. Also strange was the fact that my tech lead was my manager because I was a senior engineer in the SAPE corporation and he was the head of the tech team but I also was the project manager so I was supposed to be his boss too. Are you getting a headache yet? No wonder SC fucked up so bad eventually, how can a company be run with these circular hierarchies??
Anyhow, I get asked into his room and he starts to tell me about this new initiative SAPE has kicked off. They are planning to take several HC employees from the Austin office and relocate them to New York City offices. This was being done in an effort to transfer the rich media expertise we had in such abundance to the New York City offices that were in need of these capabilities. It all sounded great but I failed to see the connection between all this and myself. My life was already consumed by my ever-so-slowly tanking project, I could not see past it or think that there could be something else for me to do other than run this project.
And sooner than you know, it is taken away from you; the innocence is lost. With that one sentence he said to me, it was taken away from me, even before I agreed to it openly. He said that it did not matter if I was currently assigned to a project as a project manager, I still could be relocated to NY and also get to do what I liked doing --technology.
It seemed tempting, it seemed like the right thing to do, it also frightened me. I have never been the one to take plunges into major changes in my life. So to some point I was completely terrified and partially in a state of denial. Over the course of the next two weeks after much consideration, a prolonged over-analysis, and consultations with my partner, my parents, my best friends the writing was on the wall. I had to go; it really was not much of a choice.
The Austin office was being sized down, it was obviously we all could be laid off any minute now. The pressure of the possible future layoffs, the tanking morale was taking its toll and working at the Austin offices was becoming a pain. In the middle of all of this corporate drama, I was a foreigner who was on a H1-B visa which means I am allowed by the INS to work for a company for a specific period of time.
An H-1B worker can not work for anyone else other than the approved sponsor company. He can not have any others sources of income in the US. He also is approved for employment for a maximum of 6 years of employment in the US after which he has to leave for a complete year and stay out of the US for this period of time. After this leave of absence, he may return to the US for another six years of the same type of visa. Complete bullshit if you ask me. It never made sense to me, and I think it never will.
So the NY office presented the chance to stay longer with SC and created a chance that they might get me a green card eventually.
So the choice was made. I was moving to New York City...
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