Escape to Manhattan: Two

When I woke up Friday morning in Christian’s Manhattan apartment I smiled and then closed my eyes again. I rolled around on the futon where I’d slept and fought the urge to start giggling. I was thousands of miles away from college and all of my homework and responsibilities and I had an entire unscheduled day ahead of me.

I heard the shower going and Christian singing an old Broadway show tune over the sound of rushing water. I got out of bed and folded up the futon. A few minutes later Christian emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Morning baby,” Christian said. “Why don’t you hit the shower and then we’ll go grab some breakfast?”

“Okay,” I said. “But you know, I’d be fine if we ate breakfast here. We don’t have to go out just because I’m here or anything.”

Christian laughed. “Follow me for a minute,” he said, walking toward the kitchen and motioning for me to follow. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, his chest still beaded with moisture from the shower, and grabbed the handle. “Take a peek in here,” he said, opening the door.

I looked inside and squinted. The bulb was burned out, but I could see that the fridge contained two bottles of Pellegrino water, half of a red cabbage, and a jar of Miracle Whip.

“New Yorkers don’t use their fridges,” Christian said with a grin. “We eat out.”

I grinned and eyed the contents of the fridge. “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

It was the beginning of a day that would end in a way I would never have imagined.

* * *

The October morning was crisp and cloudless. We both wore light sweaters and messenger bags as we stepped out the front door of Christian’s apartment building and onto the street. I felt like I was in a movie as we crossed the street and traced the perimeter of Central Park on our way to breakfast.

We bought croissants and fresh squeezed orange juice at a small bakery with the tongue-in-cheek name Bake My Cake. The New York morning news played on a television in the bakery and a line of well-dressed professionals formed to grab pastries and coffee before another day of work. Stately complimentary copies of The New York Times sat on the counter next to the garish colors of the New York Post front page.

“Can we eat breakfast in the park?” I asked as we left the bakery, croissant and orange juice in hand.

“Sure,” Christian said. “I have to eat quickly and then take the subway to my audition, but we have a few minutes.”

We settled into a green park bench near one of the sparkling bodies of water in the park. The leaves, now seen during daylight, were brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow. A gentle breeze kicked up and took a few leaves off the trees and sent them drifting to the ground.

“So are you feeling a little more relaxed yet?” Christian asked. “You don’t seem like you’re a person who’s coming undone.”

I took a big bite of my warm, buttery croissant. “Christian, if you had seen me a few days ago back on campus you would have tried to get me institutionalized. It was bad.”

“Why is school making you so unhappy?” he asked. “Is it really that bad?”

I washed down my bite of croissant with some of the fresh-squeezed orange juice and thought about my answer. “You know, it’s my last year and I’m finishing up my major and I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh my God, I have no idea what I’m doing.’ And I think that scares me, you know? I made the mistake of leaving my hard classes until last, so this semester is just loading me down with work.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess I’m fine, but I just needed a big break.”

Christian finished his croissant and swigged the last of his orange juice. “Well, I hope this trip is everything you need,” he said. He opened up his messenger bag and started digging around. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yep.” Christian pulled out a pair of keys on a silver ring and handed them to me. “The bigger one gets you into the apartment building and the little one gets you into the apartment. And this,” he said, grabbing a colorful plastic-coated map, “will get you around the city. It was rather handy when I first moved here.”

“Oh, Christian, I love you for this!” I took the keys and the map and held them like precious jewels. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.” I sat back and looked at him in his dark brown eyes. “Thank you for being so good to me.”

“It’s hard not to be,” Christian said. He glanced at his watch and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Good. I’ll call you when I’m done and we’ll meet up in the city, wherever you are.”

I watched him walk away toward the subway and then looked across the water at the trees and the leaves. I folded my arms and sighed. At last I felt relaxed.

Then my cell phone rang. It was my boyfriend. The boyfriend I’d forgotten to call last night on my first night in Manhattan where I was staying with my ex-boyfriend.

* * *

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Braden asked.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I meant to, but I got here and I was all wrapped up in the city and we ordered in some food and then I just crashed right away. I was kind of tired after all the traveling and everything.” There was a pause on the line and I could tell he wanted to say something. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“No, yeah, everything is fine,” he said.

I knew from his tone that it wasn’t. “What are you thinking that you’re not saying?”

“Nothing, nothing. I don’t want to be that guy.”

“What guy?” I asked.

“The guy who asks where you slept last night and everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “Braden, I slept on the fucking futon. What did you think? I slept in his bed and we had mad, wild, sweaty sex?”

“Don’t joke about that,” Braden said. “I know you guys used to be hot and heavy—”

“Braden, that was three years go! Come on.”

“I know, I just…”

“Braden, you know what? I’m in Central Park right now. The leaves are changing and they’re gorgeous. The weather is in the high 50s and I’m wearing a light sweater and I just had a breakfast of croissants and orange juice. I want to fucking enjoy this day.”

Braden sighed. “I know. I’m sorry—I told you I didn’t want to be that guy.”

I folded my arms. “Well, then don’t be.” There was a long pause. “I want you to support me in being here.”

“I do! We talked about that. I just—it’s just that Christian makes me nervous.”

I grunted and stood up. “Braden, I’m done having this conversation. The trip went well, I had a good night of sleep and now I’m going to go and see the city.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? I’m going now. I’ll call you later. And stop being so paranoid.”

I hung up and then buried the phone in my pocket. I started following one of the footpaths through the park and then pulled my phone out of my pocket again and turned it off. There was nobody I wanted to hear from in the next few hours and I wanted to focus all of my attention on the city awaiting me.

* * *

I did my best to shake off the conversation with Braden. I started wandering through the park and slowly, as I walked randomly down paths and followed curves up down and around hills, the memory of the phone call faded. I walked past a sprawling athletic field, still carpeted with green grass, where a few soccer teams and a lacrosse team scrimmaged. Across the field I could see some of the apartment buildings that I’d seen in dozens of posters of New York and Central Park. It seemed like a dream. I was getting dizzy and drunk off all the imagery and the park itself.

For a while I traced Fifth Avenue, the street that lines the eastern side of the park, and explored its street side offerings. I passed ornate stone apartment buildings, gentrified beyond belief and more expensive than many yachts, and strolled down the street past busy pedestrians and steady traffic. Despite all the busyness, though, there was a sense of quiet and calm about everything around me. The city seemed to work neatly, everything fitting together like teeth on a zipper or cogs in a clock, turning and whirring with fascinating ease.

I stopped for an authentic New York hot dog on the corner of East 77th Street and 5th Avenue. I walked back into the park, chewing on my huge dog, and walked toward the famous reservoir with the great view of the Upper West Side. Joggers, walkers, moms and dads, dog walkers and locals all walked past, enjoying the late October morning in the park.

Further into the park I found a café nestled among the trees around a small pond where people rented miniature white sailboats and floated them out on the still water. Small tables sat out in front of the café and near the sailboat pond. I watched couples talking, people reading the morning newspaper and mothers with their children.

Finally I made my way to East 86th Street and Fifth Avenue and stood outside the looming, columned Metropolitan Museum of Art. The fountains outside bubbled and dozens of students and families sat on the front steps of the museum, having snacks, looking through books, talking or smoking or thinking.

I made my way inside the museum and was immediately struck speechless by my surroundings. I browsed Egyptian artifacts, medieval art, collections of musical instruments, and finally ended up in European paintings from the eighteenth century.

I stopped in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Cypresses” and stared. There in front of me were the heavy brushstrokes and swirling motifs that Van Gogh’s hands had actually made on that very canvas. My eyes traced the cerulean blues and the dark navies and greens of the cypress trees.

I felt somebody standing on my right side and before I could turn and look the person spoke.

“I’ve always wanted to go and see the groves of cypresses that he painted,” the voice said.
I turned my head slowly and took in the stranger standing next to me. He was slightly taller than me and wore a red hoodie sweatshirt under a gray blazer. His hair was carefully tousled and I immediately noticed his green eyes. I felt my stomach lift as if I’d just raced over a set of railroad tracks at high speed. I returned my eyes to the painting.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to refocus my attention on the painting.

His attention, however, was on me. “My name is Nick,” he said, looking intently at me and extending a hand.

“I’m Jordan,” I said, shaking his hand firmly.

“So you’re visiting New York? For how long?”

I let go of his hand, slightly miffed. “What, do I scream ‘tourist’ to you?”

Nick let out an easy laugh. “No, no. I just don’t see the locals react to paintings like this. They’ve seen it all and they’re not impressed anymore. It’s the way you looked at the painting and really took it all in that made me think you weren’t from here.”

Suddenly I was less miffed. “I’m staying with a friend in the neighborhood.”

“I see,” Nick said. “Well, at the risk of being forward, do you think you might like to go out and have a drink with me? Tonight, perhaps? Or tomorrow?”

I tried to regroup. I considered my schedule for a moment and then realized I didn’t really have one. “Sure,” I said with a grin. “Why not?”

I gave him my cell phone number and he saved it in his phone.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” Nick said, “but I’m going to call you and we’ll go out for a drink. I’ll take you some place you’ve never been.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said sardonically.

Nick smiled. “I know.”

And almost as quickly as Nick had appeared he then disappeared and I was again alone with Vincent Van Gogh’s swirling cypress trees.

I let my eyes roam over the painting and then realized for the first time that it might be a naughty thing that I’d just given some strange New York guy my phone number and told him I’d go out with him for a drink. Was that wrong? Was that bad? Would it technically be a date? Would that make be a big, fat cheater? And more importantly, did I care?

* * *

After leaving the museum I hopped on the subway and, with a little luck and a few mistakes, found my way onto the line that took me down to Greenwich Village. I nearly shit my pants time and time again as I explored the area around New York University. I settled into the area around Washington Square Park and sat near the near a huge circular fountain in front of the famous white arch in Washington Square Park, just a block from the NYU campus.

Christian hadn’t called. I had turned my cell phone on after I left the museum and tried calling him a few times with no luck. I got a sandwich in a nearby café and ordered a cappuccino to go. Finally, as the sun was starting to set and Christian still hadn’t called, I decided it was time to start heading back to the Upper East Side.

I walked back through the park and hopped into the subway tunnel on Christopher Street. As I walked down the stairs, though, I took a sharp turn and didn’t know quite where I was. I looked around me and at the signs above and started to feel a slow gnawing feeling. Why was everything around me so empty? And didn’t I want to be on the other side of the tracks?

I sighed and looked around. A youngish skater guy appeared and I felt a sense of relief. I started walking toward him and decided to ask him how the hell to get home. As I started approaching him I noticed his ripped, sagging jeans and threadbare sweatshirt. He started walking toward me, too, and my stomach made a sharp jump. He was walking toward me faster than I was walking toward him.

I looked around and noticed that there was nobody else around.

Fuck.

“Hey buddy, why don’t you give me that iPod and your wallet.”

I looked down at my iPod, horrified. My stomach was in knots and my heart was beating so fast that I felt like I was nearing a heart attack.

“My what?” I asked, stammering stupidly and backing up.

A knife appeared, small and silver with an ornately carved handle. He flipped the blade out.

“I’m serious, dude. The iPod and your wallet and that watch, too.”

I don’t know why, but I kept backing up. I prayed for somebody to walk down the stairs and help me. I wondered if screaming for help would do anything at all.

A trains whizzed through the station so loudly that it drowned out everything. It was just this skater guy and me and the deafening train rumbling past without stopping. The skater guy stepped nearer and placed the blade of the knife against my stomach. I started to unhook my watch. I felt my knees start to buckle.

“Hurry up, motherfucker,” he yelled over the noise of the train. “Don’t think I won’t use this fucking knife. I know where to cut deep.”

The throbbing in my head continued to pound faster. As I started pulling my watch off my wrist I felt another surge of adrenaline rush through my chest. I started seeing black.

It was then, with the skater boy’s knife pressed against my abdomen and my watch held in my hand, that I blacked out and careened to the cement floor beneath me.

* * *

Josh, 22, is a Minneapolis-based writer. He can be reached for questions, comments, or kind words at joshcentral@hotmail.com.

"Escape to Manhattan: Three" will appear on this site on Wednesday, March 16, 2005.