What Colors the Steel Sky Blue

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.