What Colors the Steel Sky Blue

Late July, the weather is unbearable. Still, I am on the street, on the go because I can’t stand myself all cooped up in the apartment all alone. I frequently go to Tompkins Park in East Village these days, mostly because it is a rel strange mix of people. There's the base layer of homeless people speaking in the language of me, add to that the hippies of East Village having heated discussions about which color has more of the fire element in it, then in the shade sitting on a bench a celebrity with his girlfriend --pretending to shy away from the attention of others and of course others like me: the unemployment, multi-nationality marginalities of the lower-mid Manhattan.

In the green gray background of the Tompkins Park I suddenly noticed a spot of pure white, a color one does not come across often on Manhattan. As I followed the winding park path, the trees that were in the way first came closer into view to reveal that the white stains on the green were actually people, then the trees moved to the side as the path made a sharp left turn to reveal 5-6 people painted all white head to toe and wearing white clothes.

This was the kind of visual moment that stops you and forces you to re-evaluate your senses before you fully accept the anomaly. Although I double/triple checked my vision, the white people were not going away. They seemed to be some sort of a family on an afternoon's outing. They had a little baby and everything. There were other people interested and the white people did not mind at all posing for pictures. All this time none of them uttered a word to another.

I finally concluded that this was one of those wonderful moments in New York City when you experience something otherwise you would never experience anywhere. Here was a group of actors that were all dressed up for the part of a mime family but had thrown themselves onto the ever so gray, every gloomy and glaring scene of the East Village.

I followed them around while they made their rounds around the park for a while. Then I decided to leave before they dismantled and revealed their secret. I would rather leave them in mid-act and assume that they kept of living their ultra-white, ultra-calm, ultra-quiet life in a coop building colored none other than pure white.

Feeling is the beginning of hurting where what is felt solidifies at the tip of a tender leaf not letting go of the past and unwilling to accept the future and what it brings. It is at this crease in time in which I find myself balancing tens of apples on the sharp end of a large kitchen knife still wet from the diswasher. Then the sink screams, the microwave burps, the stereo in the living room sings an out of tune Turkish song, and it is time for my shower.

Clothes come off, one by one, perhaps even somewhat out of the ordinary order, the mirror stares on, the towels ready for my wet skin. I climb in and embrace the strings of water that seem to shoot through my conscience and clean all my regrets and pains. But the remedy is temporary because the memory of it all remains. "One slip and one ends up with a broken neck, how come no one ever thought of a shower insurance?" I ponder to myself.

Then that funny book comes to mind. I think its lines to myself, trying to remember every word. Somewhere in my mind a duo sings "you can not do it, you have failed again". But I tune them out like a radio station, like some old e mail print out I recycled, like a monitor I shut down even without shutting down the CPU cause I felt like living dangerously that day. Risking my equipment, risking my job, I unplugged the damn plastica electronica box out of that wall, because I had never done that before. To my despair, nothing went wrong, the monitor lived on.

I turn my head underneath the shower nozzle and my life is burdened by the experiences of others. I am constantly told to do this or that and to avoid all of the above that
involves thinking. My life is lived for me and then put into a package of four with one free at Wal-Mart.

I step out of the shower drops of water being licked by the A/C which is obviously turned down too low. I want to breathe and for that I take a pill. I knew it too, way before I had it coming. I got off the plane and they told me "you just wait, in four years, your allergies will drive you mad". It is almost like telling a child that he will support an unyielding erection in four years and not know what to do with the damn thing.

I climb into bed, one of the few good investments in my life; the pillow soaks my hair in, the comforter dances on my legs and I am in heaven, first row center. The A/C kicks in and crawls into my bed but he has a really restless sleep, I hear him leaving my bed several times during the night. All the better I think to myself his feet are too cold.

Mr Gardener come give me my fix
cause ma can no longer make cookies.

On that red day you began, I ended.
As yellow leaves fell on my forehead
I did not have a comb in hand.

The wild grass was long and soothing,
but soon green stains would be growing.

Everything rips, everything wrinkles
no wash can take away what I have seen.

What you and I hold here for less than a minute,
can only turn to grudges.

You said you knew the course of the sun,
I said I knew it's cooler in the shade.

You're always up for digging up the garden,
somehow I end up sleeping on my back all day.

The windows cave in, the ceiling weighs down
the fan beats that familiar beat.

Your callused hands stroke my winter shoulders,
as ice cubes shift in a glass of ice tea.

Mr Gardener, I can not say yes to all this.
Put that shovel down and let the wilting die free.

TJV
May 2002

I have been a coffee house addict since college. I am addicted to the buzz I get from the smell of stale coffee on concrete floors, smoke wafting over from the smoking section and the electrically charged air just like before a thunderstorm as strangers exchange glances between sips.

I spent a fair share of my days in spring 2002 in Starbucks at Astor place. No not that one on 3^rd Avenue, I am talking about the one on Lafayette. It was a few blocks from the Crunch Gym.

After lunch I would check into Starbucks like a dutiful worker clocks in at their workplace. This was a very busy location so the first thing I would do after I passed through the double doors was to go to walk around and find the best spot. Certain tables were more desirable over others mostly because they were near electrical outlets and had better views. I needed the outlet for my laptop that ran out of juice faster than I did on most afternoons.

After I picked the table I would sit at, I would run over and get a cup of coffee. Through the years I lived in New York City I have learned to love the bitterness of Starbucks coffee. Starbucks coffee to me tastes like a coffee roasting accident --always bitter, always verging on burnt; there's something endearing about coffee that's seen more heat than it should. My coffee soon changed color with a deluge of cream and sugar. I would pause a couple of seconds and watch the clouds of cream do their dance in my coffee every now and then. It truly is one of those experiences we skip out on due to our busy schedules. Everyone should set a couple of minutes a day to watch the cream dissolve in their coffee. Take my word for it, like a good Broadway show, this little dance is delightful to watch each time.

I spent most of the summer working on my book of Turkish poems. The book is still not finished. After years of writing Turkish poetry I have come to realize that this whole poetry writing business is really a difficult and draining experience. I must have written only ten poems all summer.

My poetry writing process has evolved through the years to become what it is right now. I used to write pretty out there stuff that usually meant little or nothing to others. I have since moved away from all that obscurity to more familiar ground. I most write about things I have experienced in my life these days. Most of my current poems have strong roots in my childhood experiences. The writing itself is rewarding but I also have found that the process of writing actually helps one's memory stay in shape. Even the process of writing these New York stories has helped me remember, sort out, cope with the two years I spent in the city.

Starbucks usually got busier after lunch and then quieted down for a few hours only to get worse after five. The busy commuters usually poured into to get themselves fancy caffeine fixes before their long commute. The New York University students came here to study for their classes and work on their group projects. The group projects were always the most fun to listen to. I would sit there working on my laptop while eavesdropping on the academic drama unfolding at the table next to mine. People in college just like others are very good at arguing over the darnest things.

There were always a healthy dose of first dates in the house. I could always tell these people apart from the body language. If things were going well, the two of them would be leaning in towards the table; if things were going down the tubes, there was much nervous smiling, looking around at people in the coffee house.

Occasionally a guy would walk in get a drink and sit at a table directly across mine, and stare me down all the way to the bottom of his drink. Some days I would glance back, some days I would ignore them completely. Some days interest from other people can be so overwhelming --much like a burden. Strange how something good can become an annoyance given a certain set of circumstances. If I were single, if my spirits were higher, if my work situation was looking up I probably would have been delighted to see someone interested in me. But I was none of these things, I was busy trying to keep a relationship going while looking for a job in a beyond hope economy.

At this point, I had delved so deep and dwelled so long in the have-nots in my life that I was unable to look at anything positively. Most people complain about seeing the glass half-empty. My complaint was the complete absence of the glass.

Trapped in my head, I just think and re-think things to the point that I can not even think of a way out of it all. In a way, the problems become the maze, and I willingly and eagerly throw away the map and convince myself that the maze is my home, and my endless wanderings in it is my life.

This was the routine of my life in the spring of 2002. I hated the way it all felt but it surrounded me so gently, slightly squeezing me in its embrace. It felt warm, and heavy like a comforter and I must have feared the cold outside because I stayed wrapped in my misery for far too long.

After another calm day spent in my East Village, I walked home calmly. Summer was slowly fading away, the air was changing, I would have to soon dig out the thick comforter from my closet. Fall was on the way, and I was still unemployed and still undecided about what next step to take.

My head was a mess. I was two cappuccino's away from starting to talk to myself. Despite my mental state, I walked calmly, with trees and the noisy street to my right. Just to make my life a little more interesting, I decided to enter my building from the rear entrance on Avenue C. I usually used the entrance on the inner courtyard side off of Avenue B.

I entered the lobby, checked mail; a few advertisements, bills, more bills, and a postcard. I walked to the elevator calmly. There was an middle-aged man wearing sweatpants and a white t shirt waiting for the elevator. Pretty ordinary scene except for the fact that this man had this strange protrusion on his belly that stretched the t-shirt to the limit. He was overweight yes, but beyond the typical outline of a pot-belly, he had a further second teer of protrusion. It was bothersome. I did not want to even look at it --so I did what any other person would do --look down. Well on the way down to the floor, my eyes unfortunately caught yet another protrusion in the man's figure. I think he was not wearing any underwear or perhaps wearing boxers underneath his sweatpants. Anyhow, I could see his euphamism hanging down his leg like some alien creature was just in the process of exiting his body and running down his legs to its freedom in this brave new world.

Being a New Yorker in training, I assumed the best thing to do would be to just keep my eyes on the ground and pretend that I did not see anything. I had to remain calm. I did not want to offend him, and I did not want to have to talk to him because that would require me to look up which would make my pupils revisit the previously noted abnormalities.

The elevator, as usual, was taking forever to come down to the lobby. The minutes seemed like hours. In the meantime, the man was looking at me and breathing very heavily like he just came back from running five miles. I could not see how he could even run to the end of our block. By this time I was starting to figure out that he probably had a health condition of some sort. Something I just did not need to know about.

Then suddenly the double doors of the lobby flew open and a lady with her three year old in a stroller pulled in. They promptly checked their mail and then assumed their impatiently waiting for the elevator stance by the rest of us at the elevator door.

The silence was heavy, the silence was contagious, the silence at that moment was breathing down my neck and making all the hairs on my forearm stand up.

Then the silence was broken by the three year old: "Mom, I can see his cock." The mother bent down, saying "I can not hear you sweetie; what did you say??"

I could not accept the fact that a three year old would observe this and then report to his mother using the C word. Just when I was halfway in the process of persuading myself that I was utterly deaf and insane, the boy repeated the very same sentence one more time.

"I told you mom, I can see his cock."

This time the man started giggling to himself. The mother immediately turned the stroller around and went to the other end of the lobby and started whispering something to the boy. I figured they had much negotiating to do which meant I was going to be left alone with the man in the elevator. The elevator of course promptly arrived, the blue enamel door scrolled open and soon I was engulfed in the stale air of the elevator cabin filling up quickly with his stale breath as he continued on taking breaths like these next ten or twenty were his last.

Fourth floor, finally, I jumped out, literally. I no longer worried about offending anyone. I had to run. Silent hallway, with black linoleum tiles, walls painted green blue, my green door, apartment 4F. Unlocking the door, the door slams behind me and I am home. It is over.

I get a call from my mom one afternoon telling me that I had to call this number and make dinner arrangements with one of her good friends from Istanbul and her daughter. Even before I hung up the phone I knew that a trying evening was to follow but when you're laid off, and unemployed for month's on end, it becomes increasingly hard to come up with excuses for unwanted social engagements. It seemed I had used all the good excuses with my parents, and now I could not say no. I wrote down the number on a crowded piece of paper and hung up the phone.

I picked up the phone again and called the number right away; mostly because I knew if I hesitated I would find a perfectly reasonable activity to help me procrastinate. A familiar voice picked up on the other line. It was Mine Hanim, the mother, an opinionated but well-meaning lady in her late forties. Last time I saw her was when we had visited them at their hotel down in the south part of Turkey. I liked her, she did not seem to fear what other people thought. It seems that although everyone seems to be advocating free expression these days there are still relatively few people that have anything dramatic and worthy to say. Well she was interesting, unique, somewhat dramatic but overall a good host, and a caring wife. He was one of the most successful businessmen in Turkey but had recently lost his beloved first wife and found himself at the center of a void he alone could not fill. So against his own intuition and with the insistence of his friends he had agreed to meet and later go on dates with her. Apparently, they hit it off right away. Good for them I thought when I heard their story. They seemed to complement each other.

I was trying to focus on the positive. I liked Mine Hanim; spending a night with her and having dinner was hardly a burden really. It was more of my social inertia that was in the way. I have to ramp myself up to a certain level before I can comfortably interact with others. I know that many people have this issue, and most use alcohol for help; only in my case alcohol does not work. Drinks just make me tired and miserable.

She recognized my voice immediately. I guessed she had been waiting for my call a while. It made me feel bad, although I had not wasted any time before calling them. We made our plans quickly. She confirmed that Uftade, her daughter, was with her and she was going to come along to dinner with us.

I made reservations at VONG for a party of three, then jumped in the shower. I got ready in a hurry. It was almost dinner time. Soon I was on the street begging the taxi cab gods to grant me my wish. Finally a cab stopped in front of me and we headed our speed limit trying, nerves grinding, bumper scratching rush ride uptown. Vong is located at the corner of 54th street and Lexington.

I always found that it was easier to go uptown on the east side of Manhattan. West side always seemed to be such a mess; especially if you were planning switch from East to West side while also going uptown you were screwed. It was almost better to take the subway in that case.

The cab arrived at the restaurant within fifteen minutes and I was right on time. I stepped out of the vab to find Mine Hanim and Uftade waiting in front of the restaurant somewhat impatiently. This is the thing about Turkish women, even when you do things right, you are made to feel that you've done something wrong. I was on time but according to Turkish female central time I was fifteen minutes late.

Uftade, the daughter, took one look at me, and I could tell she was not at all impressed. The smile on her face dissolved into an expression that clearly said, ummm is this why I am not hanging out with my wild rocker boyfriend tonight??

Inside the restaurant, we were quickly seated and we were soon exploring the exotic menu while snacking on the special flat breads and the wonderful peanut butter based spread.

Uftade did not speak a word for the longest time. It was already a very awkward meal and we had not even hit the first course yet. Mine Hanim was trying to compensate for the silence. She kept starting her sentences saying "Uftade here, thinks..... Uftade here has, Uftade here is doing.... etc." Uftade on the otherhand had this strange smirk on her face like a Halloween pumpkin and it went from annoying to down right rude towards the middle of the meal.

Luckily by that point both the mother and daughter were getting slightly tipsy from their wine so Uftade started opening up and finally saying a word or two. Then suddenly she decided to give me the Uftade coolness test that comprised of several questions about my habits and my wildest moments in life. I failed miserably, having lived most of my life as safely and as ordinary as possible.

The night continued and by the time we hit the dessert I was wishing she had not opened up in the first place. She had already told me that I was living in a crappy part of town and that my apartment was probably not all that good considering the neighborhood. She also told me that I was a way boring person for not going skiing ever. It was weird, she was raging a free for all insulting war on me hidden in the skin of ordinary conversation and I could not even care to respond back to all the stabs.

I somehow felt above it all, although it hurt me still that a complete stranger could be so rash with my feelings.

The night ended with Mine Hanim insisting on paying the tab and getting us all into a cab for a ride back to our apartments. They also stayed downtown so sharing a cab somewhat made sense except it prolonged the torture I was in, and it was a bit of a false economy considering we had probably parted with $300 for dinner.

I stepped out of the cab on 14th street and 3rd Avenue then exhaled; it was over.

It my personal belief that there is a certain place out in the vast landscape we call the internet, a certain destination where most resumes sent to employers go. Before I knew of the existence of this place, it was the spring of 2002. Still hung over from 9/11 and being laid off. I wandered the streets of West Village, having run out of all the streets on East Village.

It seems the appeal of New York was wearing thin for me. The dirty streets, the rude people, the pollution, the homeless, the horrible job market, and the prices oh the prices were all getting to me. Still I held onto that idea that I was supposed to make it big in this beehive of steel and concrete.

I attended two free workshops for people like me: recently laid off tech workers. The company was called Manchester and was located close to Midtown near the Grand Central Station. At the conclusion of the workshop, we were allocated six sessions with a counselor to help us through the rest of the job search process. I was assigned to Liz, a petite, very thin, elegant, well-dressed lady who seemed to have the savviness of a matreD and the kindness of a librarian. She was different; she did not seem to be your typical New Yorker. Liz listened and I could tell she paid attention. It felt like I was seeing a shrink, not a career counselor.

During the weeks following, meeting Liz was the highlight of my week. She and I usually talked at least for an hour and a half each time about my progress, about politics, about New York life. In return for listening to my endless banter about how hard it is to live in New York, I offered her a chance to get to know a little more about Turkey and Turkish people. So in a way, I was like foreign travel without the airfare -- a chance to escape Manhattan. In fact, she suggested that we keep meeting after the six complimentary sessions were all done. And that we did, we met weekly for the rest of the summer.

I would walk out of her office and head to the Grand Central Station, freshly pumped from all the good-feeling talk we had upstairs in her office. I would almost smirk at all the people looking so worn out as I stepped into Banana Republic at Grand Central. I still had my money, my high hopes, and I had the rest of the day free. So looking back, yes, I did have it better than most of those people at that point in time.

After browsing around in Banana Republic, I would get something to eat at an Au Bon Pain or sometimes take the subway back to East Village first and eat at home instead while I filled out job applications.

One time I was in the Grand Central, I remembered that my friend Hillary had told me about this Oyster Bar restaurant in the Grand Central. I looked around at the lower levels and finally found it strangely located in the middle of a ramp between two levels.

Oyster Bar at Grand Central is an experience every seafood-loving person cannot afford to miss. I recommend you go there during lunchtime, preferably on a weekday. I can see you saying: "why pick such a busy time to go get your oyster fix? Because, experiencing the crowd, and the madness it brings is a major part of the experience.

The Oyster bar is this huge high ceiling room with several sections. You enter the restaurant by descending down a flight of stairs. To your left is the first dining room with tables for small and large groups. If you are by yourself, you will be taken to your right to the section with the bar tables, The bar tables are U shaped tables that can seat 10-15 at a time while the employees serve food from within the U shape.

The servers at the Oyster Bar are used to the crowds. My order was taken quickly despite my lack of knowledge about oysters. The waitress was very courteous, she just also had this smirk that reminded me of my fifth grade teacher. After my order was placed, I glanced around the table. It was a mix of people, just like Manhattan: two office workers talking about a project, two French tourists, a lonely old man hunched over his clam chowder while he slurped from his spoon, an extremely beautiful girl that perhaps was a model eating with her boyfriend and finally a very nice old lady in her Chanel cut suit eating by herself right next to me.

When you go somewhere public by yourself, you should always have your protection handy. I am not talking about mace, guns, sharp objects, not even contraceptives; I am talking about taking your notebook and pen or perhaps one of the books you're working through these days. Even if you're going people watching you have to have something to hide your face into. I had my notepad with me. I made a couple of notes, and then did a sketch.

Sitting at the table was a strange experience. I caught the old man across the table glaring at me several times while I ordered. Perhaps he was trying to figure out why I had the funny accent; maybe he just hated foreigners. The model was looking away from her boyfriend, and hiding her face in her long hair that draped down on both sides like black velvet curtains. I recognized this posture, my ex-girlfriend in Turkey spent many beautiful summer days in the exact same posture –-crying mostly because I had said or done something wrong again.

The soup soon arrived and I put my notepad aside. The soup was piping hot but absolutely delicious. Around this time the crowd slowly started to pair down. It was almost 1 pm when my oysters Rockefeller arrived. Because I am not a huge fan of oysters in general, I could not dare to get raw oysters. I feared that getting them raw might have pushed my taste buds over the edge. The oysters were great but for some reason they made me crave dessert.

I decided to give their key lime pie a try. This whole time, the waitress was silently watching me wolf down everything she brought with some sort of amusement. Most people that go to the Oyster Bar eat one or two servings and they're out of there. No one goes through a full three-course meal at lunch unless they have a nap appointment lined up in the afternoon. Well, it so happened that I had one scheduled for that afternoon.

By the time I paid the check and left, the place was almost empty. Grand Central was still buzzing with the activity of a thousand commuters. As thousands crawled within, the steel and marble structure remained calm, shiny with lights from the windows and chandeliers bouncing off of the marble walls.

I was by myself in the middle of hundreds of people with no one to talk to at that moment. Instead of what I would expect, I felt at ease, I was happy. I was really happy,

I do not know if it was me or if it was the New Yorkers but it had been several months since I had moved to the city and had not made any new friends outside of work. The ones at work were nice people but under what seemed to be a permeable layer of personality laid a very tough shell like the seed of a peach, it was impossible to break through. So the friendships at work remained limited and gave me as much satisfaction as miniature people on a bookshelf.

The streets, the gym, the clubs, the restaurants were no better. Unlike the people in Austin, New Yorkers took pride in having a wall around them. At first this seemed a little strange to me. As months went by I finally understood. The answer was simple, these people were rude to strangers for a good reason: most of the strangers in New York City were FREAKS! The scariest part of it is the fact that these freaks were perfectly capable of hiding their freakiness. Through years of trial and error a new species of freaks had evolved in this city; a complete new species that on any day you would meet, conduct business with, exchange a simple subway banter but never ever know what you're standing up against.

With so many freaks roaming the streets it would make sense that some people would have these freaks as friends or perhaps at least as acquintances. Strangely enough the people we knew were never freaks, they were weird friends, strange acquintances, dear childhood friends with obsessions, coworkers with addictions and habits that they just can not kick but never full-fledged freaks. It seemed that this city had made it an art of hiding the freak in us all. On any regular day, the battlefield commonly known to others as Manhattan was full of freaks in camouflage. The strangely kind water man, the old nasty neighbor lady, the couple that you ran into in the mornings, people walking their dogs, all were freaks in hiding.

You can only imagine my shock and delight when one day a particularly normal looking guy approached me at the gym and asked about the pair of shorts I had on. I was wearing the last surviving pair of Duke shorts from my college days. It turns out he too was an alumni and we hit it off right away.

I was soon to find out that unlike the Mid-West, people's schools mattered a whole lot more here on the island of brands and images that were applied and re-applied more frequently than Staten Island makeup. Entire friendships and relationships could be based on people's educational background here and I did not mind it. In the land of diploma elitism I had nothing to fear with my BA and MA degrees tucked under my arm.

The guy's name was Bob, and he was in advertising which meant that he was mentally pretty sharp. We soon started working out together and it was fun to be talking to someone at the gym for a change. I always looked forward to running into Bob at the gym because he always had lots of stories to make me laugh.

It was also a no-frills friendship. It was completely clear that I was taken and he also made it clear that he was too tired to date anyone anymore. He had been out there in the playing field and had suffered his share of injuries and disappointments. I think one should always watch out for these people in life; because just two moments after they announce that they have given up and admitted defeat, they turn around and do something really out of character and end up doing better than you are somehow.

Bob was no different. He disappeared for a week or two without a warning. It turns out he went on a gay cruise where he met the man of his dreams (surprise!) who happened to be living in Chicago. I was a little shaken by the fast pace of changes in Bob's life but nevertheless I was glad for him. Next thing I knew he was making plans for moving to Chicago and the full nine yards of kissing adolescent independence goodbye once and for all.

Bob was in what I call the marriage mode. A type of mental state when sentences almost always begin with "We" and mostly are about home furnishings, home improvement, babies, and financial plans for the future. It is most apparent in women but the convergence of gay towards mainstream has resulted in gay men also exhibiting the same type of codependent behavior. What's interesting to me as a foreigner is the word "codependent" almost always carries with it a negative connotation in the US. What is so bad about needing someone to hold onto, needing someone to talk to, needing someone to share an agenda with? I still do not know.

Every brick of every building, the pavement beneath my feet and all the people around me friends or not seemed to be silently whispering "independence, go for independence" when I was not looking. Independence; sounds great. Sign me up but then what happens next?

Codependence, independence, multi-dependence, anti-socialism all become no different than long distance carriers that each have individual benefits and caveats leaving us wishing there was one plan to put all the good stuff together and leave out the bad. So far no such luck so we carry on with our choices...and still get frequent tele-marketer calls from the other carriers.

It bugged me. No it disturbed me that Bob, my independent, never gonna date again, "I will be alone and fabulous for the rest of my life" friend had gone four weddings and a funeral on me overnight.

To cap things off, Bob was having a huge birthday party in a week or two. I was not really looking forward to it but he kept harassing me until I had to say yes. Most people love birthday parties for some reason. I guess it is because they only have fond memories of birthday parties past. What I remember from my birthdays in the past is, I would invite all my classmates and only 5 girls out of 25 people would show up every time. So after primary school I just gave up on the idea of trying to make friends. Something about me was annoying people, I was too young to know exactly what but I knew even then a crowded loneliness waited for me in the future.

Unfortunately before I had time to get ready for it, the big day arrived. Bob had informed me that the party was at a restaurant in East Village. I thought to myself, good at least I do not have to venture to another part of Manhattan.

I am in love and have always been in love with having the option of bailing out when I need to. It is just this noncommittal part of me that needs to know I can hit a panic button and I will be taken out of the current situation with the fewest number of scratches and scars possible. And this restaurants location fit my exit criteria perfectly.

So I get dressed and show up at the party with a little happy birthday card mostly because I did not know what to get him. I was hoping for a party of ten to fifteen people. I was mentally prepared for ten to fifteen people. When I arrived on time at the restaurant there was no one. No sight of Bob, nor his entourage.

It was a little hole in the wall restaurant that specialized in French Armenian cuisine. I still do not know what kind of food that ends up being: very spicy, delicious and very little food that's beautifully arranged on a plate? The food was delicious but the quantity was simply not enough. Oh did I mention more than thirty people showed up. Our birthday party quickly filled the entire restaurant.

Bob arrived and everyone was on him like he was fresh meat in a shark tank. I must have exchanged two sentences with him the whole night.

Bob's best friends were sitting next to me. This super cool Manhattan couple, I bet they thought their dodo did not stink. I was mortified by the size of the crowd but I was making a concerted effort to engage in conversation and maybe get to know some people. Well I chatted with Bob's best friends for a while. The guy was a major player in some startup multimedia company. I told him about my job and my company, and did not forget to put a little Sape plug in there. The moment the words "maybe your company and mine can do some collaboration together" left my lips he snapped at me "I know your company, there is no reason for us to do any work with you all. I was talking to you because we're trying to get more talent like you." This was strike two for me because this couple had previously offered me a joint in the middle of a conversation and it seemed very incoherent and out of place to me at the time.

So I turned to my right, and noticed that what seemed like a random seating of individuals was almost dead on in terms of separating the GAYS into one corner and the straight people to the other. I was dead in the middle and it was appropriate in some ways. I was gay after all but most people did not figure it out until I started making frequent unnecessary references to musicals and movies.

The "gay" crowd was gracious and nice to me. So I pretty much remained turned to my right the rest of the night and had a blast with people I would never see again. I don't think people in Turkey do not have this experience when they entertain in public. Usually when you see a group of people in Turkey having a blast, you can be guaranteed these people have known each other for more than one night; or at the very least I can guarantee you these people will see each other again. I never saw these people ever again for the remainder of my stay in the city.

There was a lot of food, a lot of drinking, and it seemed like I was trapped in what seemed to be a re-enactment of the last days of Rome. When I felt that I could take it no more, I got up to leave and one of Bob's friends grabbed me by the arm on my way to the door.

She said: "did you pay Bob for the party?"
I said: "excuse me? pay for a party this size?".
She said: "Yeah we all have to pitch in to pay for the party and you owe $70."

I have never been the kind of guy that winces at the sound of a price tag or restaurant bill but this one bothered me. It bothered me that I was almost the only non-drinking guy there and I was paying for all the booze these people were washing the Armenian koftes with. I had $40 with me so I gave her that and told her I had to get more money. So I left and came back and gave her the rest. In the meantime her husband in his drunken stupor looks at me with recognition and says: "ah the douche bag is back to pay .... great". I was speechless, I really was but anger was brewing inside me and I had to get out of there before I got into some situation.

By this time Bob had also joined his friends in the land of drunken messy faced stupor. I felt like I had been transported to this alien planet and I had to go back, get out of this place before it claimed me.

So I turned around, and told her that I can not believe her husband has the balls to call me names at a friend's party. She was apologizing for him when I said: "that's all I have to say to you". I turned around, I could hear her still gabbing in the background but I kept my steady pace towards the door. Soon I was out, and what seemed like hell was behind the door, nicely contained in the East Village night.

I walked home silently in disbelief, and anger; anger for myself for going to a birthday party for someone I did not even know that well. I called up my cousin later to vent and he could not believe the story, he was convinced I was making it up or exaggerating the details but I was not.

I never saw Bob again, and never heard back from him again. I figured he had moved to Chicago to get married to his dream date and possibly if nature permitted squirt several kids out promptly so that he can commence his life as a soccer mom in the burbs of Chicago.

Bob called me almost a year later, two weeks before I left New York City. He left a message on my machine telling me he was sorry he did not have time to talk to me before he left for Chicago. He and his hubby were going to Turkey the next day so he had called me for tips and pointers for things to do in Turkey. I never called him back.

It seems that if you're a gym addict, your whole life can fall apart but you still can not miss a workout. At these times of stress, the opposite happens, you actually find yourself going to the gym more often than usual, and spending more time there.

My addiction to the gym is no different than most New Yorkers' affinity to endless number of coctails after work. My poison involves "lifting heavy things and putting them back down". Needless to say, as an unemployed, semi-illegal alien that was having issues with his immigration status, welfare, partner and his own family, my addiction to working out was stronger than ever. I frequented the Crunch Gym on Lafayette near Astor place.

The Crunch gym was not the most expensive gym in town; in fact I would call it a midrange gym. It was prominently located but never too clean and usually lagged on the amenities: locker room, showers, towels etc. Still I liked the layout of the gym floor and it was the closest one to where I lived, Stuyvesant Town. Closest, being at least ten blocks away! It usually took me a good 15-20 minute walk to get to the gym. I did not need much cardio after that.

When I say Crunch was a midrange gym. Midrange classification also applies to its clientele. They were also midrange Manhattanites; not too rich, not too poor; not too successful, not a complete failure. But if you asked them each of them was a VP of something; usually you could not immediately tell what function they served.

Here was a group of people that saw each other religiously every day and still managed not to even exchange an occasional nod. There was this strange invisible and somewhat cyclical pecking order in the gym. What seemed to be at the top of the food chain were the incredible pretty people with extremely fit bodies. These were the gods, they ignored everyone, and socialized with only their kind, other gods. Then the second teer was the really good-looking people that were in way or another flawed; either unemployed currently, or a big spot on their forehead, bad haircut, or a torn muscle. Then came the normal looking people; the people you would walk by on the street and probably not pay much attention to. These were the most mellow of the bunch; don't get me wrong, we're still in Manhattan, so even their mellow is nothing like yours. Then below this midrange was the semi-ugly people; overweight, or too much bodyhair, not enough hair on their head, scars, bad tattoos, crooked noses, or just old --funny how age can put even the hottest person into this category. Then came the ugliest people; these people were so ugly, they were hot. What I have observed is, the ugliest people are also usually extremely fit and to make matters more complex they get to ignore even the gods, the most beautiful of the gym.

So the pecking order continued up and down and around the food chain; a whole gym full of superficial people, 90% of whom were gay and thought that NYC would not be the same city without their own sad original story to tell. What makes all of this funnier is the tagline of the Crunch Gyms: "No Judgements."

Some days I felt very at ease with this crowd of antisocial judgemental bodies and some days I broke a sweat just walking into the gym. I really can not tell you where I exactly fit in this mad world of muscle and fitness; perhaps in the middle somewhere.

I tried to make friends for the longest time at the gym with little success. Most people I attempted to talk to either ignored me or treated me like your everyday stalker. Along the way I met one or two friendly people of course. After all the good people are bound to be out there. I even regularly worked out with one or two. It was good to have gym buddies.

The gym was the modern day version of Cheers, the sitcom; "a place where everybody knows your name". Well not really they did not know your proper name, they knew your gym name. The gym name can be anything that identifies the person uniquely, with the exception of their real name. If you need to refer to someone in conversation and don't know their name, you have the gym name to fall back onto.

A gym name is usually connected with a physical attribute or certain behavior that belongs to the person being named:

• A guy that frequently wore a pair of "Harvard University" shorts could be named the "harvard guy".



• Someone who spends half his life in the tanning salon may be the "alligator".



• The biker guy who at some point in his life completely misplaced the distinction between having a little scent to his body and smelling like a homeless guy working out may be named the "Stink".



• A writer of children's books who has really long red wavey hair may be called "Samson".



• His snooty boyfriend that asked you your age, as the second question after asking your name, and then proceeded onto not talking to you when he found out you were not available for "fun" could be "Delilah".



• The actor who played the waterboard employee in Erin Brokovich, who also can be seen all over East Village on his rollerblades perhaps could be called "Mr. Wheels".



• ...

--This is of course a completely fictional list, provided here for illustration purposes. Any resemblance to real life characters is just a mere coincidence and perhaps one of the little mind games Manhattan plays on the unsuspecting.

At first it is great, with my severance in my bank account, and all the time I could not have before while I had a real job, I was in heaven.

Typical days consisted of waking up at 10 am if I felt like being more productive thay day. I do not know what it is about the morning hours; it seems if anythingt is going to get done in a day, they seem to get done in the morning hours --perhaps mostly because we are to sleepy to realize that we're supposed to be putting off these tasks in the first place.

I would wake up and have my breakfast in front of the TV. One egg yolk, 4 egg whites, two pieces of toast, glass of green tea and a small glass of orange juice stood on the dark brown coffee table like an odd group of cattle preparing to jump off for their freedom.

One by one they would dissapear from the plates, then the plates would clank as they turned into a stack in the living room. Some people get sloppy when they're unemployed. The opposite seems to happen to me. I become the anal king of the world. The dishes soon found their places in the dishwasher --like passengers pouring into an early morning ferry to Manhattan. Soon the diswasher would be on, humming its rhythmic swish that might one day inspire a dance named the dishwasher. As water whirled around my dirty dishes like the whirling dervishes, I sat down at my only couch to fill out the job applications for that day.

Each morning, I would re-run all my job searches and check to see if any new positions became available since 4 am last night. There would be several per day and they kept me busy for 1-2 hours every morning.

This was your typical mix of job postings: positions I am way too qualified for, others that are so right for me that it's wrong, and finally those I am way underqualified for. For every acronym I knew, there seemed to be three more I needed to know. For every year of experience I had in one thing, I was required a certificate in another. To paraphrase Barbie, "Job hunting was HARD!"

At first I was mass-applying to everything, sending thirty to sixty resumes a day to jobs all over the place. After I attended the job hunting workshop I slowed down a little and I focused on quality applications sent for positions that I have a very good chance of getting. This approach worked better for me. I got some calls but still I was not getting interviews, I was not getting offers. It just was not happening for me.

In an effort to preserve my sanity, I assumed my backup job title for the rest of my time in New York City, a painter. I started to introduce myself as a painter to people. You would be surprised what a big difference it makes to switch from calling yourself an internet consultant to a painter. Suddenly there was more attention paid to me. Being a painter meant, I was creative, strange, and perhaps dangerous.

It was all fine and well but I also was not very good at marketing myself as a painter. I visited galleries all over town, introducing myself, showing my portfolio, meeting gallery owners, their minions and their lovers. Still the responses I was getting were less than enthusiastic.

At a time when I managed to fail at everything I attempted, it suddenly dawned on me that I was probably half-responsible for the miserable outcomes. All my life, when I am not watching, this other side of me has been secretly sabotaging everything. It is almost as if I introduce myself to people and immediately move onto making a fool of myself with this stand up act routine that only comes across as self-effacing. Well maybe, if I was in Istanbul, that act might elicit some form of recognition and perhaps in time even gather quite a group of fans. But here? in New York City? This was the worst place to get my self-effacing mask on -- and it was glued to my face during the unemployment months.

The morning would wrap up with the applications sent to that one way trip to nowhere. Many like passengers departing on a condemned ship never returned and were never heard of. Most days I had lunch at home: chicken breast, rice and vegetables. Some days I felt the need to get out earlier, so I left around noon to have lunch at a restaurant near by.

I frequented the Lemon Leaf on 3rd Avenue, St. Marx Cafe on St Mark's, Telephone Bar on 3rd Avenue, and countless pizza joints on 1st and 3rd Avenues.

Most days I lunched alone. I guess I could have called a friend or two but I feel so much more at ease when I am by myself. I would sit there waiting for my lunch in that raw Manhattan Spring with its brisk breeze and burning sun doodling away in my notepad like a crazy artist I wasn't.

Afternoon usually was spent browsing the stores and going back forth between absolutely indulgent purchases and others not made because of guilt. I think I still managed to part with 20-50 dollars a day at the very least because of these mini sprees. I returned home late in the afternoon with all the killings of the day. There was however little time to enjoy these trophies. I had to change into my gym clothes and rush off to the gym to make it to the 7 pm showing of the "lifting heavy things and putting them back down." The crew at the gym changed by the hour. I like the 7 pm crowd, they were easier on the eyes, and they had lives, and still they were nice people.

After the gym came the dinner and perhaps watched a DVD. Then I chatted on the computer for a while. During this period, I became completely addicted to Yahoo Messenger and spent endless hours talking to strangers all over the US on just about anything ranging from dating to weight training to politics to foreign travel. The greatest thing about online chat is it allows a person to socialize without going through the angst of being there with the real people. So in this sense, chat is the sterilized, pausterized, and homogenized version of daily social life. No wonder there's so much comfort in it.

Extended exposure to chat life however has been proven to create allergic reactions to daily social situations --so one must always exercise moderation when engaging in an online life. Yeah right, like that will happen.