City People

I look for Drew Barrymore on the train.

^underdeveloped film of my friend Valentine on the metro-north from one of the literal best days of my life

You will be shocked by them. How kind they are, how coarse they are, how fast they are, how they can open their hands and catch enough money to continue to afford living there. You will be enamored by them. 

There are four women, over one month, who respectively taught me the most important aspects of the New York City subway system, the Metro-North, and the Long Island Railroad. One of them walked me end-to-end through Bushwick. She said “You’re at the wrong station. You’re in the wrong borough. You look like my niece. Let me carry one of your bags.” I was not afraid, and I was early to my destination– she walked back through Bushwick and was likely late to hers. I think of her often. Now I only take the train when I can jump the guardrail, but that’s mostly because I’m poor.

The chain cafe near my workplace has only two employees, two men who look like different versions of each other, though they have sworn they’re not related. When the older one is at the counter I order coffee. When the younger one is at the counter I order matcha and he doesn’t make me pay. I’ve learned not to trust either of them with the opposite order. Sometimes I imagine there will be a day where I am on my lunch break and they’ll be there together– they’ll ask in tandem: “Your usual:...?” and then look so puzzled when the other says something different. I’ve decided that’s the day I change my name to Kaitlyn and order tea. 

There is a beautiful woman who lives across from my building, always folding over on herself. Arrested, let out, re-arrested. She sleeps fitfully. I look at her and think that I could rupture. I wonder if she looks at me and thinks anything at all. Sometimes I hear her ask strangers for train fare. I only take the train when I can jump the guardrail.

But on my first night in the city, before I knew to do that, I glimpsed Drew Barrymore on the L and stared until she lowered her sunglasses. When not done up for tv, she looks like my mom. I decided to stay quiet, but we grinned at each other for a second. Now I look for Drew Barrymore on every train, just in case. 

My boss is cool. My publicist is hot. My supervisor is a cunt. 

The woman fenty folding outside of my building is arrested again. 

The woman fenty folding outside of my building is back.

The men in the two corner offices have the same first name and premature balding, but they have been seen in the same room before. One likes to accept manuscripts, one likes to deny them. The acquisition editors sit at the opposite head of the table, jumpy. I only ever see them in meetings and the kitchen, pouring coffee. They leave twenty minutes early every day and say it’s “for the train.” The train is right across the street. I tell them to look for Drew Barrymore on the train, and I walk home.

I only take the train when I can jump the guardrail.

My upstairs neighbor has dreads and the kind of Doc Martens you can feel, even from below. I don’t need to set alarms past 8:45. Construction workers hang onto wire lines outside; their boots tap on my tenth floor window. I open my window each morning and they wave and stick their tongues out and wink. I wink back. 

I get the same few cashiers every time I go to Trader Joe’s. We talk about the news and old sitcoms. They say It’s been a while. I say Yeah. That’s mostly because I’m poor. 

The woman fenty folding outside of my building is arrested again. The officer winks at me as he leads her to the car. I do not wink back. To deny someone, you have to have seen them in at least some context.

I accept every date I am asked on, even when they’re far too audacious, even though I’m possibly gay. Travontae takes me to the nicest restaurant in Manhattan. I start bleeding all over him while he fucks me in the basement bathroom of a dirty dive near Times Square. I’m sorry, I say, flushing red. I thought the cherry thing was a myth. 

Oche wants to take me to Starbucks at 3pm, three days later. I’m still bleeding, but I mainly cancel because 3pm is supremely unsexy. Neither man contacts me again, but there are always others. The woman fenty folding outside of my building is back.

To accept someone, you must keep them on a leash. The corner office Erics whisper about contracts. “The goddamn editors are off schedule again.” “The author took the advance and went ghost.” “We need to start denying more.” “More books or better books?” I don’t know what I think.

The woman fenty folding outside of my building is arrested again. I jump the guardrail and look for Drew Barrymore on the train.

The two other interns are dating, but in my mind I see them as the twins. The twins live together and wear coordinating colors every day and you can tell they have for a while– their physical appearances have merged into one. The twins have one hairless cat and one cat that’s so fluffy you can’t even find its eyes. The twins take an early lunch. They invite me to dinners and Shakespeare in the Park and long meanders through the Cloisters. I invite them to a rave and they look at each other timidly. 

I like the twins. I like to talk to them in the office. I like to make eye contact with them across the room as the acquisition editors ramble on.

We race to finish spreadsheets. We race to contact everyone on the PR lists. We race to sit across from our publicist during pitch meetings and sign up to walk the packages to the post office. 

I call my friends while I walk home from work. They hear me yell at the traffic. They say Just take the train. I say, I only take the train when I can jump the guardrail. Whenever I jump the guardrail, our connection cuts out.

I flirt with a woman on the train. She says she’ll take me out until she learns I’m eleven years younger, and then just says “I’m sorry, babe.” She never contacts me again.

I look for Drew Barrymore on the train. 

I walk through Union whenever I can, even if it adds time to my commute. Students sell art; sometimes I do too. Women sell fruit and fake labubus. I do not understood the hype. I stop for dollar mangoes on the last stand before 15th. 

If anyone ever talks to you on the street, keep your eyes wherever they were before. You should have a healthy dose of fear, which I still lack. You should probably take the train at night if you can instead of walking, but I only take the train when I can jump the guardrail; I’ve only sold two paintings this summer.

The woman fenty folding outside of my building is back.

You, look for Drew Barrymore on the train. 

Everything gets sent in a bubble mailer: contracts, rejections, reviewer galleys, press releases. I walk the box of them across the street and think about how right now might be the only time all of these authors are connected. The man at the UPS on 14th gives me extra envelopes for free, so I can send out my art. The man at the UPS on Bleecker glares at me and tells me I’m slower each time I come in. I wonder how he reacts to the twins.

Life’s capstone is either learning or routine and living here turns into a life, without me realizing when. Two different baristas I see every week and they never spell my name right. There are doormen I can talk to and doormen I can’t. I do not know most of my neighbors and I don’t know any of their names, but I know the faces that reside on every corner.

Shock dwindles. Walking fast becomes a habit. The woman fenty folding outside of my building is arrested again. The woman fenty folding outside of my building is back. When I’m an insomniac, I jump the guardrail whether an officer is there or not and ride all the way to Queens.

I look for Drew Barrymore on the train.