This is the beginning of my story, When In New York. Chapter one, or however you may like to put it. As it is the beginning, I shan't provide you a description, for I'm sure you'd like (if you even have bothered to read this far) to unravel the story for yourself. Thank you so much, once again, and I hope (in sheer honestly I truly hope) that you enjoy this. ;
The pavement was a tad bit chilly.
My first observation of the great New York. Not the glimmering lights or the rushing taxis, not the celebrities looming in large crowds with those do I look hidden? expressions on their faces- no, it was the stupid cold floor.
I tapped my feet on the brittle ground, just idly at first. I began to pick up tempo, and then found myself making a song out of it. Soon enough, I was making my whole body an orchestra out of a simple beat that was dull and flat. I hummed, out of tune and terribly, probably looking insane to the bystanders that paced on the sidewalk. But I was content at the moment, content in this sad, lifeless little place they call New York. And damn it, I was entertained, something the sullen faces that these people wore lacked miserably.
I took a raspy breath, felt the tickle of freezing air swirl within my empty lungs, felt it come right back up and saw it sprout into a tiny puff of smoke, then disappear into the foggy sky. I was cold alright, just about shaking with sudden jolts that tested my balance seriously, even though my buttocks was plastered to the billboard chair underneath me, and all I could do for about another hour was stare at the building in front of me, maybe even keep up the stupid beat I had going on.
With a few more taps, I sighed again, taking in the nasty, rusty New York smell, and gave up. I killed it. No creativity, little Ms. Author?
Author. Right. Yes, my suitcase with the “beautiful” manuscript inside was slacked neatly across my shoulder. Yes, my thoughts sometimes went to places that a normal person wouldn’t, and maybe for the best part. But “talented”? Maybe they had phoned the wrong person or-
My thoughts were halted with a loud yell from across the street.
Oh, just a homeless man. In his scrunched up little cardboard box, he pleaded with frozen tears at the tips of his eyes, widening with each “no” that he took to the heart. His drapes, excuses for clothes, wrapped around him with a thinness that I could see- even from across the street. His burnt, exposed skin was peeking through the thin coat. I could see that he really was starved; his ribs were pressing against the skin. He had a heavy beard, uncared for and greasy, moving with each yelp and each movement of his little lips. His eyes were relatively large, but something about his shrunken, condensing figure made them small against the bridges of his cheekbones. They were high up and plainly visible, adding to the starved look on the poor man’s exterior. His nose looked like it was once pointed and sturdy, but now, as I stared with a sadness that I couldn’t put away, it was bent and old, along with the rest of him. As the selfish, angry people passed him and refused to give him a cent, the man relented, and crawled quietly back into his corner in between the apartment and the department store, disappearing into the utter blackness that seemed to lead to no where.
I felt so bad for him, so guilty that here I was, waiting to start my life and become somewhat successful, he was shrinking away to a street rat, his only hope of eating was to be reduced to begging.
I kept pondering on such a helpless creature, seriously considering getting up and following the man to offer him a couple bucks, when I noticed sudden movement in the apartment across the street from me.
There wasn’t much to see. It was a typical New York style apartment complex; withering and fading behind the local stores and new buildings around it. The paint was chipped and far from bold, the water stains and rust crusting the sides of the buildings with snake like creases. The stairs were rusty and old, creaking with a sudden rush of wintry air that seemed to be testing it’s strength, which didn’t seem like much at all. I would give it about another month, before the repair men would be grunting with effort to fix the age-old railings, just enough to be passed off as crappy stairs, but their work regarded for never the less. The window I thought I saw something out of was square, plainly white and dusty with a cheap lock dangling from the hinge. It was no different from the hundreds of surrounding ones, but I was positive I’d seen someone peak out that one, watch me for a few seconds, and retreat. I thought I’d seen it from the corner of my eye, but I could be imagining it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had.
So I kept still and never changed my composure of a 21 year old girl, out to see the world around her and begin her thriving new life in New York.
Maybe I should start that hopeless song again…
I was in the process of actually getting somewhere with my sad beat, when someone stood in front of me, either expecting me to move, watching me like the little stalker they are, or expecting me. Their figure was rigid, reacting to the teasing cold in the air.
I looked up slowly, stopping my progressing music, and stared at whoever stood in front of me.
“Are you Amy Miller? Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Scott Bryans, Dean of New York University. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Miller.” He held out his hand, with a polite smile expanding on his All-American face.
He was a good-looking guy. Nice smile, great body, and a pretty face. He had the rounded cheekbones that gave him about 10 years off his real age, the picture perfect Colgate smile, the beach blond hair to brighten the clear turquoise eyes and compliment the artificially tanned skin. His muscles flexed as his jaw set into the smile that would leer me in, his arms stiffened at my touch. The polo he was wearing hugged the athletic body he was sporting. I subtly ran my eyes down his body. He was something to look at alright, but something about him just screamed plastic. So no, I wasn’t going to think about him for the remainder of my stay.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bryans,” I said. I wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted or how in the world he knew my name, let alone know I was that individual, but years of experience taught me to get on everyone’s good side, no matter how much they freaked you out. He was, after all, the Dean of my dream school.
He cleared his throat as he dropped my hand. “Boy is it cold out here! Mind my asking, but what exactly have you been doing out here in the streets alone in this weather so long, Ms. Miller?,” he asked, with honest curiosity.
“I was waiting for the bus. I was going to see the sites before I started moving in and all. Got to see New York you know,” I mumbled, starting to feel a little uneasy with his curiosity. He seemed to find that intriguing, because he looked at me with concern, thought, and then smiled with a question already tickling his lips. “I could take you sight-seeing. I need to speak with you about the University anyway, so why don’t you tag along for lunch and we chat there, eh?,” he suggested.
The thought of going somewhere with him flipped my stomach and my immediate thought was “hell no”, but this was my education pending on the line. “That sounds wonderful,” I said with the lightest voice I could manage, extending a smile on my face. “Great, just let me get some stuff from my place and then we’ll go around town, okay?”
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