Tag: New York

“Everything is hard in New York City” (Feb 5 2026)

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In which Our Hero prompts anger and ridicule. 

I’ve heard this said many times. Probably 3 times in the last 2 weeks, and many times before. And I… like… don’t believe it? 

Two days ago, my partner wanted to schedule a doctor’s appointment. She called the specific practice she desired, best in the country for the thing she cares about. They booked her for Thursday (9 days out). Then, she asked if they had a cancellation list she could be on to get anything sooner. The scheduler offered her the following day (yesterday) at 10am. She attended the appointment with great success. That doesn’t sound hard to me. AND, this is a medical function that NYC residents most say can be hard to get into. 

What do I think is actually happening? Options: 

  1. There is so much to do. The City is an endless treasure trove of possibilities. In a normal city, you might want to do 3 things aside from work on a given day. In New York, you might want to do 8. 
  2. Some things *do* take much longer. Yesterday, I moved a couch from a third-floor walkup. A third-floor walkup is not something that even exists in many parts of the country! Transporting the couch to my truck took ~50 minutes. Compare that to the ~15 minutes it took me to transport a much-heavier bedframe to that same truck. But the bedframe was in an elevator building. (Driving, too, can take forever. But most of the time, you won’t drive. And the subway is very speedy. (And most Americans are used to driving forever anyway.))
    1. Waiting in line can take forever. If you want to attend a specific show, you might have to get in line for tickets 3+ hours before the ticket purchase opens. 
  3. The people feel squeezed and stressed, so the difficulty of doing things becomes much more. When you work an intense 9-5 that really works you from 8-6:30 (or in some cases 7am – 8pm), you have brief evenings and weekends for both errands and all the life you want to squeeze out of New York. 
  4. Rent *is* really fucking expensive. Therefore, you are much more likely to feel squeezed. But that doesn’t make things themselves harder. It just makes you uniquely susceptible to 1) feeling like you can’t give up that 7am-8pm job, and 2) feeling like everything in your life is intense. 

Over the last week, these are things my partner or I have done with less than 12 hours from conception to completion: 

  1. Bought 4 slices of 4.5-star New York pizza for $5.99
  2. Scheduled and picked up for ~1/3rd of retail cost:
    1. A like-new minifridge 
    2. A robot vacuum & mop
  3. Scheduled and picked up for free:
    1. Bedframe with sidetable and drawers 
    2. Coffee table
    3. Desk
    4. Peloton shoes of exactly my partner’s size 
    5. Wheeled dolly 
    6. Vacuum
    7. Plates/cups/mugs/silverware
    8. Blender
    9. Microwave
    10. 2 large-size instantpots
    11. 3 plush chairs
    12. 1 plush comfy chair 
    13. 1 large L-shaped couch
    14. 1 desk chair
    15. 1 gaming chair

That doesn’t sound like it’s difficult to do things. That sounds like some things are difficult to do. (Getting into one of the elite public schools? Fuggaddabouttit!) And when the line at grocery checkout is 50 people long (as it sometimes is), you might think it’s hard to go grocery shopping. But there are 25 open checkout stations, so that line is really equivalent to only 2 people in front of you. 

So far, New York has been kind and hospitable. Yes, there was a threatening person in front of my building who followed me inside 2 days ago. But hey, isn’t that culture? 

Eugene (Feb 4, 2026)

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Talk about a superman!

Fifty dollars and a slice of pizza will earn you his life story.

We heated a slice from the night before, grabbed two twenties and two fives, and texted:

“Are you in the basement? Nikki and I have something for you.”

He said yes, so down we went.

Nikki handed him the pizza. I said, “Thanks for all your work so far, and we’re looking forward to living in your space.”

He’s the super, and the title is apt.

I asked what baked goods he likes.

“Everything.”

I asked what foods he grew up eating.

“Rice and beans.”

And then the treat:

His life story.

—

Born in the Dominican Republic, Eugene moved to America at seventeen. “He was a humanizer. No, I mean a womanizer.” He lived in the hundreds of Manhattan, ten people to a one- or two-bedroom apartment. The house was too full to study, so he dropped out of school against his mother’s wishes.

He got a job: $2 an hour.

He rented a room: $20 a week.

He married young. Today is his fourty-eighth anniversary. How young? Who’s to tell.

If you tell Eugene you moved here from France, he’ll tell you his favorite music is French. La Bohème. In that dusty, stone-filled basement, he hums along, and the wistfulness in his eyes makes it clear he’s always wanted to learn French.

Eugene’s father had thirty-one children and took care of none of them. More than anything, Eugene doesn’t want to be like him.

Like many retirees I know, Eugene retired at sixty-two—then came back to work six months later. He’d been working all his life.

Yesterday, he fixed my radiator.

Jennifer and the Fridge (Feb 2 2026)

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In which community helps carry the weight. 

The last time Nikki rode in the trunk of a car, we were hitchhiking through central Germany. This time, it’s to keep the fridge upright. 

We found Jennifer through facebook marketplace. She posted a mini fridge for $55. When we arrive, she explains: “I originally posted it for $90,” she says, “and there was a bidding war.” 

She says this as though it clarifies how we got here when in reality it only muddles my understanding. 

Jennifer asks for help carrying her trunk downstairs. Nikki obliges; I carry the fridge. When we get to the bottom, Jennifer offers to drive us to the subway instead. We heartily agree. 

Forty-five minutes later we’re stuck in traffic behind school buses with Hebrew letters on the side, all doing their daily rounds despite it being Sunday. Jennifer tells us about her life and dreams: 

  • She always wanted to live in a loft apartment that doubles as an arts space. Today she moves her stuff out of someone else’s arts loft. She’s not making much art these days. 
  • She lived for a while in rural northern California, managing a “farm” and “driving hash around”. 
  • She raised her son by herself. He’s sixteen now and “I homeschooled him myself” for five years. When I ask for details, she says “More like unschooled. But hanging around me is a whole lot of learning”. 

As Jennifer drives us down [name] street in Bushwick, she points out all the Hassidic jews nearby. “That hat probably costs $3000,” she says, and “Don’t do business with people who say ‘more or less…’” 

“Good for you,” Jennifer says upon learning I’ve bought my own apartment. “Do ya mind if I ask what you do for work?” 

I pass this question to Nikki. 

“He’s a clown school dropout,” Nikki says. “And I am a bioweapons expert.” 

“Modern day hippies.” 

— 

We only end up carrying the fridge down two flights of stairs, up two flights of stairs, and down one avenue block (those are the long ones). We stop five times. Had Jennifer not driven us, the carrying itself would have taken us an hour. Instead, we received a tour of Bushwick. 

On the final stretch, Nikki pauses a few times for grip strength issues. Her strength itself is just fine: it’s a problem of her finger strength giving out. (Fun fact: grip strength is the most sexually dimorphic trait.) Two high school boys walk past us. They look for a bit too long, clearly demonstrating curiosity. After they pass, Nikki says “I’m thinking about asking someone for help carrying this to the light.” 

Six months ago, Nikki was lifting weights at a gym in Reno when she realized she couldn’t re-rack her weights (due not to a strength issue but their height). She flagged down some men in the gym, only realizing after asking that they were standing around chatting because they were firemen called in for something job-related. They ribbed each other about who was going to help her, then clearly enjoyed being useful. 

So far, we’ve lived in New York for 4 days. I look forward to the day when Nikki asks the passing teens immediately. I look forward to the day when I do too. Because we helped carry Jennifer’s trunk downstairs. That’s what New Yorkers do. 

Jennifer has always wanted to live in a loft apartment. And today she is moving out of her arts space. 

We found her through facebook marketplace. She posted a mini fridge for $55. When I messaged her, she said “First person to confirm they can pick it up at 3:30pm gets it!” I immediately texted back “Confirmed: I can do 3:30. Where is it?” 

En route, I tell her we’d love for the fridge to be at the ground floor. “You mentioned you could bring it down the stairs. I’d appreciate that.” She replied: “No. I mentioned i am strong enough to.  You will need to carry it down.” 

When we arrive, feelings are slightly tense, presumably because of the recent request-rejection. 

My partner wonders aloud whether people who feel compelled ot make art do so because they have something they need to communicate that can’t be easily communicated with language. 

I do think many of them feel unheard. 

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

Mugged in a Crowd

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On a muggy New York summer afternoon, only One Man is fool enough to wear a sweater. He’s attractive in a grungy, Brooklyn sort of way as He leans against a lamppost, cool and calm despite the summer heat. I’m walking south only a few blocks from Times Square when He locks eyes with me. He springs to attention. His opening line: “Give me money, Gypsy.”

There are twenty people within arm’s reach, yet I’m suddenly alone. I’ve never before been called a gypsy, and while I don’t know its associations I suspect it’s intended aggressively. I mutter something noncommittal. His face looms closer to mine: “Give me money for the holocaust, Gypsy.” His sentence betrays a lack of historical understanding, yet I suspect this fact irrelevant to our circumstance.

When I had first spotted Him leaning against the lamppost, I had clocked the precisely-styled single braid dangling beside His head as attractive. Now, I see it more like a distraction on the end of a spear.

I say something that equates to “leave me alone”. The words I choose are imprecise and confused. I only slept 30 minutes last night. But my words, like His, communicate mainly in tone and posture.

“Give me five dollars,” He elaborates. “Give me five dollars for the holocaust!”

I tell him I don’t carry cash.

He’s angry I wasted His time. His right arm pulls back, then shoots forward: a punch. I instinctively pull back my right side, meeting His force with less resistance.

A few New Yorkers turn and comment. It’s not every day you see violence in vivo. Yet no one does anything. Why? Maybe because there’s nothing to do. We could call the police and wait for them to arrest This Fellow, but what would that accomplish? The best argument I can imagine is akin to “it’s your civic duty to get someone like this off the street”. But if that’s true, then why am I the only person I ever see picking up litter as they pass it in Central Park?

Growing up, angry kids told me on at least three separate occasions that one day someone was gonna punch me in the face. I’m now 30 years old and this prediction has not come true. Somehow I think this altercation doesn’t count.

Five minutes later, I arrive to my afternoon date. I tell her this story. She says I was mugged. I agree: it was at least an attempted mugging.

His punch left a bruise, but I’m more struck by my nonchalance. Still now, a day later, I don’t feel afraid. At no point – not even now – was I concerned for my safety. Maybe I deeply understood This Guy. Maybe I knew I’d be fine. Maybe I knew this to be the cost of engaging. Most New Yorkers avoid eye contact with strangers; I’ll meet the eyes of anyone equally bold.