I probably shouldn’t have booked the window seat on my flight over. I did my best to keep it together as the plane bulleted down the runway and shot into the sky. It turns out my best is awful. As all the buildings and roads and mountains kept shrinking from view, I cried in the clouds. My seatmate seemed judgy, admittedly. It made me wish even more that my sister was next to me as she should’ve been before a last-minute work opportunity came up. Thankfully, Scarlett will be on the first red-eye out to join me in our new apartment.
Five hours later, when New York came into focus, everything felt right, even though I’d never stepped foot among those skyscrapers and parks. Then we landed and I rolled my suitcases straight to the taxi line, where everyone else seemed miserable waiting, but I was so excited to finally ride inside these classic yellow taxicabs that I’d seen on TV and as props in magazine ads. The driver could tell I’d never been here before since I never stopped watching the street life. That first step onto the curb felt like a movie moment, as if cameras should’ve been flashing; there will be time for that later.
As of tonight, as of now, I can call myself a New Yorker.
Or maybe I have to wait until my landlord finally greets me with my apartment key so I can be certain that I wasn’t scammed after finding this studio on Craigslist. While I’m waiting, I’m taking in my little corner of the Upper East Side. There’s a tiny pizzeria right next door that’s trying to lure me inside with the smell of garlic knots. Honking cars pull my attention back to the street, where someone old enough to be my grandfather is screaming into his phone to be heard over the music blasting from the bar on the corner.
This city is loud, and I love it.
I wonder if I’ll ever miss the quiet of my old neighborhood.
The door opens behind me, and there’s a man wearing nothing but a white tank top and basketball shorts and slippers. He has a thick mustache and thinning black hair, and he’s glaring at me.
“You going to come inside?” he asks.
“Hi, I’m Valentino. I’m a new tenant.”
The man points at my suitcases. “I can tell.”
“I’m waiting for the landlord.”
He nods but doesn’t leave. As if he’s waiting for me to come in.
“Are you Frankie?”
He nods again.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
He reluctantly shakes my hand. “Are you moving in or what?”
I was warned that not every New Yorker will be nice to me, but maybe Frankie is tired since it’s pretty late. I grab my suitcases and enter the building. It’s a warm night, but once I’m inside, I understand why Frankie is dressed like he’s grabbing the morning paper in Arizona. It’s so hot in here it’s as if I walked straight into the pizza oven from next door. The hallway is narrow, painted this mustard yellow that is not fun on the eyes, but I respect the choice. There are steel mailboxes built into the wall with packages on the floor waiting to be picked up, and a trash bin overflowing with junk mail including Death-Cast flyers. I take it many people in this building aren’t registered for the End Day calls. I’m personally not either, because my parents are total skeptics, but that paranoia is another inheritance of theirs I need to abandon.
Frankie pauses while going up the first flight of stairs. “Where’s the other one?”
“The other one?”
“Your twin.”
“Oh, she’s flying in tomorrow morning.”
Frankie continues ascending. “Make sure if any other big boxes arrive you handle them in a timely fashion. Carrying all your deliveries up these stairs was bad on my back.”
“I’m so sorry.” I had to ship some things early, like an air mattress, blankets, towels, pots, and pans. Though I’m guessing the biggest culprit for his back pain were the five boxes of clothes and shoes and accessories, which are just as essential as making sure I have somewhere to sleep until my proper mattress can arrive on Tuesday. “Is the elevator broken?”