It’s February 1998. You are a 19-year-old undergrad student in England. The building society that holds your money becomes a PLC. You receive a £3,500 payout. A friend you made a year ago receives one, too. You decide to visit New York together. Why not?
You go for dinner with your girlfriend the night before your flight. She lives just around the corner from your friend. So, after spending some quality time together, you leave her bed and walk the two hundred yards to your friend’s house.
Your taxi is booked for 4 am. You decide there’s no point in going to bed. Don’t want to sleep in and miss your flight, so you both wrap small amounts of amphetamine sulphate inside Rizla cigarette papers and swallow them. These “speed bombs” will keep you awake until you land on American soil.
It’s breakfast time when you walk out of Newark Airport. The first thing you do is buy a foil pack of Marlboro cigarettes from a kiosk at the bus station. You’re amazed by how cheap they are compared to the UK.
The second thing you do is hail a cab and give the driver your Manhattan hotel address. You exit the Holland Tunnel into a concrete jungle. Head against the cab’s window, you strain your neck to look up at the skyscrapers. Excitement and pharmaceuticals flood your veins with adrenaline.
Twenty minutes later, you enter your hotel. It looks like nothing from the outside, but the interior is grander than you expected, given how cheap your booking was. A wide marble staircase rises from the lobby to the floors above. There’s no bar, because the hotel has no liquor license—a big reason why the booking was so cheap. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re underage. The other reason for the low price is how small and basic your twin room is. But that doesn’t matter either, because you’re 19 and in New York. You’re not planning on spending much time in your room.
You dump your bags, step outside, light a Marlboro, and start walking towards Broadway. A few blocks later, you see a long line of people wrapping around the corner of a building. You ask someone what they’re queuing for. They tell you it’s the Ricki Lake Show. Anyone can be in the audience. You just turn up. You and your friend look at each other, shrug, and join the queue. You’ve been in New York for one hour, and you’re about to be in the audience of one of the biggest TV shows in the world. Makes sense. Why not?
You pass through a metal detector at the building’s entrance and are ushered into an elevator. You ride it up a couple of floors, then fold in with people all headed in the same direction. Most of them are college-aged. Some clearly do this regularly. You find yourself in a large, dark waiting room with rows of seating. It’s like a giant cinema without the screen or sloping floor.
You watch people with lanyards and earpieces select rows of hopefuls and take them through a doorway you assume leads to the studio. Not all rows are called. As you wait to see if yours is, you notice the speed is wearing off, and you’re starting to come down. At some point, you find yourself with a coffee or water in your hand. A short while later, someone with a lanyard and a beaming smile gestures for your row to rise, then leads you through a door at the front of the room. Then you’re in a familiar, brightly lit TV studio. You and your friend are shown to two seats in the centre of the audience. The place is almost full. You watch more people with lanyards and earpieces quietly scurry about at the front of the stage, beyond a bank of silhouetted camera operators.
Soon, someone with another one of those immaculate, beaming grins comes out of a side door and starts talking into a headset. Through the PA system, their voice tells the audience you’re about to play some games. They tell you to cheer when they hold up a big cardboard sign. They tell you to boo when they hold up a different cardboard sign. They do a few fun call-and-response routines. Once they decide everyone is sufficiently warmed up, they tell you the show taping is about to start and that, if they hold up a sign during the show, you should do whatever is written on it.
A minute later, Ricki Lake walks out onto the set. The place erupts in applause, no cue cards needed. Ricki tells you today’s show is a catch-up with guests from previous seasons. She’s warm, smiling, at ease, like a best friend who’s just turned up at your birthday party. She takes her place on set, and the first guest comes out. Each guest spot follows the same pattern. They recap the issue from the original show and the dynamics of the people involved. Then they update Ricki on how things are now. Some guests’ situations have improved. Others have gotten worse. Most are about the same. There’s a short break between each spot, during which Ricki meanders through the crowd and chats with them through a wireless microphone.
The taping goes on for hours. With the speed wearing off and the jetlag kicking in, you struggle to stay awake. At some point, you open your eyes to find Ricki about two feet to your left. She’s walking backwards while she talks to someone in the wings. You manage to retract your unseen outstretched leg just before she steps on it. One of the later segments features a guest from an episode you remember watching on TV: a middle-aged woman accused by her teenage daughter of dressing too young for her age. The daughter has a point. Her unapologetic forty-something mom is dressed in a pink velour tracksuit. “This is my style, honey. Deal with it,” she says. Why not?
Three hours go by. The taping ends. You find yourself back outside, searching for coffee and food in the sun-drenched early afternoon. You walk. You decide to walk everywhere all week. The best way to see the city. In fact, years later, you can’t remember if you ever took the subway—that quintessential New York experience.
The streets are busy. Everyone walks fast. The sky feels a million miles away. Film crews shoot in the side streets. It’s all so surreal. You spend some time in the basement of Tower Records and come out with a cassette copy of Bruce Springsteen’s The Wild, The Innocent, and The E Street Shuffle to play in your Sony Walkman. The title sounds like an appropriate soundtrack for your week. At some point, you buy a pocket micro-cassette recorder so you can record the sounds of the city. A source of memories as good as any photograph. You eat hero sandwiches, bagels, tacos. You walk.
You go to see the new Tarantino movie, Jackie Brown, in a theatre just off Broadway. You’re taken by surprise when everyone stands up to clap and cheer as the credits roll. You step outside, grab a burger. Your friend buys a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for the hotel room. You sleep.
Every morning, you head out for coffee with a destination in mind and a plan to get lost. You sit on a bench in Central Park and listen to three men playing African hand drums. You watch people ice-skating in the Southeast corner of the park. You walk the spirals of the Guggenheim museum to look at paintings by Klee, Kandinsky, Picasso, and Pollock. You stand outside the Dakota building and imagine what it might be like to be a famous person living there. To come home one night and have a stranger step out from the shadows and shoot you dead at point-blank range. You imagine no possessions. It’s easy if you try.
The Knicks are playing in a big NBA game tonight, so you head out to watch it somewhere. You figure pretty much every bar will be showing it. So you wander away from Broadway, calling in random bars here and there. One is so small it feels like you’re in the living room of the old lady who’s serving you from behind a net curtain. You’ve been in three bars, and not one of them has a TV, let alone one showing the game. You’re getting towards the outskirts of the West Side, near the meatpacking district. It’s dark and raining.
You find a bar called The Village Idiot. It seems as good a bet as anything else. Inside, you find a barmaid in a cowboy hat standing behind a long, wooden bar. The place is empty except for two guys playing pool at the back. There’s no TV. The barmaid asks what you’re drinking. You order two beers. If you hadn’t read it in the paper, it would be easy to believe there was no basketball game tonight. You take a piss. A small, slim black guy in a blue nylon coat asks if you want to buy some cocaine. You’ve never tried cocaine before, but why not? You say sure, if it’s good. He folds a business card in half and shakes some white powder from a little plastic bag into the crease. You pull a ten-dollar bill from your wallet, roll it up, put it in your right nostril, and hoover up the powder. It feels as good as anything you’ve ever known. You say your friend has the dough, you’ll be right back. The coke dealer tells you to keep his business card. Says his name is Angel. If you want any more, just call him, and he’ll meet you in Central Park after dark. You say okay, but you have no intention of following up on his offer. You’re green, but you’re not that green.
At the bar, you tell your friend what’s just happened. He’s more experienced in these matters. He goes to close the deal. He’s back five minutes later, forty US dollars lighter and one Colombian gram heavier. You play pool and get your ass whooped by a guy in a wheelchair. When you return to the bar, there’s a guy sitting on his own. He’s about ten years older than you. When he hears your English accent, he slides over a couple of stools and asks where you’re from. You get chatting. He’s friendly and easy-going. Plays guitar in a band. He’s just finished practice and is having a beer before going home. Turns out they rehearse near your hotel. He gives you the address and tells you to stop by two nights from now, about 8:30. He’ll give you a tour of his favourite spots. You say okay.
The barmaid asks if you want another drink. She’s drunk. You tell her you have no money. She pauses for a second, then says she likes you because you’re English, so you can have a drink on the house. Then she leans over, grabs you by the collar, pulls you across the bar, and growls in your ear, “But you better come back here tomorrow and buy me a fuckin’ drink.” Then she lets go of you, picks up a bottle, slams three glasses onto the bar, and pours out three tequila shots. You say thanks. She says, “Nothin’ to it, darlin’,” slugs her shot in one gulp, and launches her glass over your shoulder. You hear it hit the wall behind you and shatter into a million pieces. No one bats an eyelid. No one clears it up.
One day, you take a ferry to Staten Island. You walk down towards the financial district. You stop for breakfast in a little cafe run by some Chinese just south of Houston Street. The place is packed. You sit elbow to elbow with locals as you tuck into omelette, toast, and coffee. Then you navigate your way to the ferry terminal using the World Trade Centre as a landmark, completely unaware that in a little over 1,000 days from now, its twin towers will be smouldering piles of rubble.
You take a photo of the bronze bull statue as you pass through Wall Street. Shining glass buildings everywhere. Hardly anyone around on the bright, wide sidewalks. Must be a weekend. You stand out on deck and brace yourself against the wind on the Ferry ride. You gaze at the Statue of Liberty and think how everything you’ve seen so far in New York looks larger than life. But this grey-green statue… it looks smaller—absurd and insignificant surrounded by the harbor’s cold black water.
You alight amongst the rusty industrial environs of the Staten Island ferry terminal. It’s a far cry from Broadway glamour or West Village charm. After a short walk, you discover the Wu-Wear store. It’s small, about the size of a single parking garage. You try the door. It’s locked. You have to buzz to gain entry—a security feature you’ve never encountered before. The eyes of the man behind the counter silently scan you as you enter, quickly decide you’re no threat, then ignore you. You browse racks of hoodies and heavy-duty cotton attire that’s out of your price range and leave a few minutes later. You explore little of the island, but you enjoy the view of the sun-bleached financial district across the water as you wait for the return ferry. All that glass and money feels like an alien world.
You go to meet the guitarist from The Village Idiot at the designated hour. You locate the rehearsal studio a couple of blocks from your hotel and navigate the concrete stairs and whitewashed corridors until you find the right practice room. The building is freezing, but you receive a warm welcome from the three-piece band. You listen to them run through a few numbers for half an hour. They remind you of Sebadoh. You mention this to the guitarist, but it doesn’t seem to mean much to him.
When practice is over, you all get in his car, minus the drummer. You are told the plan is to drop the bassist—a cool, laid-back Latino guy, back home in Brooklyn, then hit some downtown drinking spots in the city. You drive over the Brooklyn Bridge. The views are incredible. Your guide tells you that if you bring a girl up here on a date, you’re definitely getting your dick sucked. You file this insight away for future reference. You stop in a low-rise area of Brooklyn. Your guide makes a brief house call. The streets are deserted. The Latino bassist tells you it’s not a great area, but nobody bothers him on the street because he’s not white. Says people usually cross the road if they see him coming. A few minutes later, you pull up outside his house. You say your goodbyes, and he gets out of the car. Your guide swings the wheel around and heads back to Manhattan.
You hit up some small bars in Greenwich Village. Your guide introduces you to Brooklyn Beer. You shoot some pool. You share stories. It gets late. As he drops you off outside your hotel, you take a photo of the three of you, filling his car with your big smiles and winter coats. He gives you his address. Says to write him. Says if you ever want to visit, he’ll stay with his girlfriend and give you free use of his apartment. Then he opens his glove compartment and hands you a cream envelope. Something inside makes it bulge in the middle. It’s weed. About a gram, maybe more. Beautifully cured and covered in crystals. Says it’s a piece of what he picked up on his Brooklyn housecall earlier. He tells you you’re in the happiest place in the world, and it ain’t Disneyland, enjoy your stay. Then he’s gone. You buy cigarette papers from a 24-hour convenience store. Then you smoke a joint hanging out of your hotel room window, gazing down into the dark side alley and across at a fire escape that’s almost close enough to touch.
With the weed and the whiskey and the coke, you get a buzz on in your hotel room before you head out every evening. Then you walk and see what you can find. One night, you sit on a high stool at a little round wooden window table in an airy bar grill and eat well-done steak while watching a rainy corner of the world pass by. Another night, you realise every bar you’ve been in has the same black, circular bakelite ashtrays. You steal one as a souvenir. Why not?
Walking back from a night of drinking, you realise you’re hungry. You’re only a few blocks from your hotel. There are no takeaways or fast food joints nearby, so you buy a big bag of potato chips from a convenience store. You pull a few dollars in change from your pocket, but you’re too drunk to count it, so you drop the coins on the counter and let the cashier take what he wants, then you put the rest back in your pocket. You’re stumbling and slurring your words. You glance up at the cashier, who looks on with silent disapproval. You catch sight of the shelves on the wall behind him, stacked full of tobacco products all the way to the high ceiling, and it gives you vertigo. You’re dangerously close to blacking out. You need fresh air. You step outside and stagger back to your hotel, up the marble staircase to your room, then eat the full bag of chips before passing out on your bed.
You spend a morning at a flea market near your hotel. People sit in fold-out lawn chairs in an unused parking lot, drinking coffee from thermos mugs, surrounded by plastic crates, trestle tables, and rugs all overflowing with piles of personal junk. You eat more heros. You walk. You sit on the curved steps of Washington Square Park and spend an hour people watching. Jewish men playing chess. An old rasta guy doing some kind of mystical, slow-motion dance while he manipulates a glass orb about the size of a baseball between his hands, an unblinking, focused expression fixed on his face. College kids smoking in the sun. You idle through Greenwich Village and see a group of school children out for a class trip.
At some point, you find yourself wandering the shady streets of the Lower East Side. People hold signs saying GOLD, JEWELLERY, and GOLF SALE outside scruffy independent shops with towers of jeans and sweatshirts out front. The storefronts all look like the cover of the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique album, except the densely packed buildings are all five or six storeys high. You see logos for Stussy, Bathing Ape, and dozens of skate brands. Everything is denim or heavy cotton. It’s hard to believe anything’s legit.
You eat tacos. You drink coffee from paper cups. You find a police clothing store. Your friend tries to buy a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Official regulation wear. The cashier asks if he’s NYPD. Your friend replies no and is told it’s a felony offence to impersonate a police officer. You are, however, allowed to buy a navy blue t-shirt with an NYPD bomb disposal unit badge stitched onto the left breast. It becomes a prized possession you wear for years to come.
On your last morning, you deposit your empty Jack Daniel’s bottle and drug paraphernalia in a trash can on the sidewalk, then get coffee and bagels for breakfast. Back at the hotel, you ask someone at the desk to call you a cab. It arrives a few minutes later. You step outside and see that it’s snowing. You tell your friend you’ve always wanted to see New York in the snow. You snap a photo of your yellow cab with snowflakes falling midair in front of the lens. The driver puts your suitcase in his trunk and asks where you want to go. You say the airport. He asks which one. A half hour later, you recognise the Newark bus terminal as he pulls to a stop. A short while later, you’re in a metal tube flying over the Atlantic. A cab ride later, and you’re back home. It’s early evening, and dark. You put your suitcase at the foot of your bed and lie down on your mattress. You wake up thirteen hours later, fully clothed. You take a piss, eat some noodles, and go back to bed. When you wake up eight hours later, your jet lag is gone, and your old life is back.
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