Recently, in Manhattan, there was a day; one day that was absolutely perfect. It was the first of its kind this year. It was as if Mother Nature had spritzed the entire city with Windex and wiped away the dull, gray grime of recent months to reveal a clean, sparkling look into what summer might bring.
In recent years, midtown Manhattan has become what Chelsea used to be: the unofficial gay hub of New York. Nestled on the West Side in what’s commonly known as Hell’s Kitchen, there are a plethora of gay and gay-friendly establishments to choose from. When visiting New York, Hell’s Kitchen is, hands down, the best place to observe gays in their natural habitat. This area of town (which might more accurately be labeled “straight-friendly”) is contained, roughly, from 43rd street to 57th street, between Broadway and 10th Avenue.
On this perfect day, the energy on Ninth Avenue was palpable as gaggles of homos zipped along the sidewalks, frantically searching for the nearest (and cutest) place to perch themselves for a little kiki and a few cocktails, al fresco.
Ninth Avenue is the nerve center, running right through the heart of Hell’s Kitchen; specifically, the strip of asphalt between 45th and 55th streets. There are so many Broadway dancers and actors strutting their stuff down this small stretch of Ninth Avenue that we’ve dubbed it “The Dance Belt.” No need for Google Maps: the plumes of fairy dust and clouds of Dolce & Gabbana permeating the air let you know that you’ve arrived at Homo Central.
Never is that more evident than during the summer. If the barometer threatens to go anywhere near the 70 degree mark, Ninth Avenue inexplicably explodes into a dazzling, twirling, sashaying array of tank tops, crop tops, booty shorts, rompers, and shirtless men whizzing by in their freshly greased roller blades. Like moths to a flame, the bright sun draws people out of their apartments and into the streets, reminding us that summer will soon be here.
It also reminds us to get our fat asses to the gym, and use that monthly membership we’ve been paying for since January 2. That’s exactly what I was doing on that recent perfect day in Manhattan. I was walking through the Dance Belt on my way to the gym. While it’s true that day was lovely and hovering around 72 degrees, it was – and is – still a bit early in the season for me to be sporting any crop, booty or romper wear. It was impossible not to notice the near perfect physiques of the twenty-something chorus boys posing/not posing on every corner, which convinced me that it was time to get to the gym. Now, with my Bluetooth headphones in place, and Anto Briones’ Carnival podcast cranking up my motivation, I began to power walk my way Uptown, and ready myself to get back to the grind. The energy on the streets was infectious, and I remember thinking, “This is why I live in New York.”
When you compare the actual size of Manhattan to the number of people cramming themselves into it, there isn’t enough room. People are everywhere. There is nowhere to hide. And everyone wants something from you. Someone may be asking you for spare change. Maybe a tourist is turned around and in need of directions. Creepy shag carpet knock-offs of Sesame Street characters taunt you to take a picture, while yet another person conducting a survey wants to know how global warming is affecting your sleep pattern. If you were to stop and give your time and energy to every person who approached you or tried to get your attention on a daily basis, you wouldn’t get anything accomplished. You would fall victim to giving away money phony homeless people, buying tickets to bullshit comedy shows, filling out bogus surveys for identify thieves, or ending up with arms full of knock-off perfumes and Gucci purses.
New York is where you perfect the ultimate Resting Bitch Face. If you live here long enough, you develop a certain look for walking the streets, taking the subway, etc. The look is like a mask that you would put on in public and remove in comfortable surroundings. Once you develop it, it’s quite empowering. It’s a look that conveys the message, without saying a word: “Don’t ask me for shit.”
My second line of defense should my RBF fail to deter a drunken patron, panhandler, or sidewalk barker, is the word “No.” I’ve used it so often, it’s become an unconscious reflex. If a person approaches me uninvited, before they can finish their sentence, regardless of what that sentence might be, I reflexively blurt out, “No.” And keep moving. It works like a charm.
However. On this day. This one perfect day in question, I was caught with my defenses down.
“Excuse me, Sir. Can you help me?”
Out of nowhere, right in front of me, stood a beautiful young girl who looked like she had been tossed into the tumble cycle of a clothes dryer. Half of her hair was in a ponytail, while the other Recently, in Manhattan, there was a day; one day that was absolutely perfect. It was the first of its kind this year. It was as if Mother Nature had spritzed the entire city with Windex and wiped away the dull, gray grime of recent months to reveal a clean, sparkling look into what summer might bring.
In recent years, midtown Manhattan has become what Chelsea used to be: the unofficial gay hub of New York. Nestled on the West Side in what’s commonly known as Hell’s Kitchen, there are a plethora of gay and gay-friendly establishments to choose from. When visiting New York, Hell’s Kitchen is, hands down, the best place to observe gays in their natural habitat. This area of town (which might more accurately be labeled “straight-friendly”) is contained, roughly, from 43rd street to 57th street, between Broadway and 10th Avenue.
On this perfect day, the energy on Ninth Avenue was palpable as gaggles of homos zipped along the sidewalks, frantically searching for the nearest (and cutest) place to perch themselves for a little kiki and a few cocktails, al fresco.
Ninth Avenue is the nerve center, running right through the heart of Hell’s Kitchen; specifically, the strip of asphalt between 45th and 55th streets. There are so many Broadway dancers and actors strutting their stuff down this small stretch of Ninth Avenue that we’ve dubbed it “The Dance Belt.” No need for Google Maps: the plumes of fairy dust and clouds of Dolce & Gabbana permeating the air let you know that you’ve arrived at Homo Central.
Never is that more evident than during the summer. If the barometer threatens to go anywhere near the 70 degree mark, Ninth Avenue inexplicably explodes into a dazzling, twirling, sashaying array of tank tops, crop tops, booty shorts, rompers, and shirtless men whizzing by in their freshly greased roller blades. Like moths to a flame, the bright sun draws people out of their apartments and into the streets, reminding us that summer will soon be here.
It also reminds us to get our fat asses to the gym, and use that monthly membership we’ve been paying for since January 2. That’s exactly what I was doing on that recent perfect day in Manhattan. I was walking through the Dance Belt on my way to the gym. While it’s true that day was lovely and hovering around 72 degrees, it was – and is – still a bit early in the season for me to be sporting any crop, booty or romper wear. It was impossible not to notice the near perfect physiques of the twenty-something chorus boys posing/not posing on every corner, which convinced me that it was time to get to the gym. Now, with my Bluetooth headphones in place, and Anto Briones’ Carnival podcast cranking up my motivation, I began to power walk my way Uptown, and ready myself to get back to the grind. The energy on the streets was infectious, and I remember thinking, “This is why I live in New York.”
When you compare the actual size of Manhattan to the number of people cramming themselves into it, there isn’t enough room. People are everywhere. There is nowhere to hide. And everyone wants something from you. Someone may be asking you for spare change. Maybe a tourist is turned around and in need of directions. Creepy shag carpet knock-offs of Sesame Street characters taunt you to take a picture, while yet another person conducting a survey wants to know how global warming is affecting your sleep pattern. If you were to stop and give your time and energy to every person who approached you or tried to get your attention on a daily basis, you wouldn’t get anything accomplished. You would fall victim to giving away money phony homeless people, buying tickets to bullshit comedy shows, filling out bogus surveys for identify thieves, or ending up with arms full of knock-off perfumes and Gucci purses.
New York is where you perfect the ultimate Resting Bitch Face. If you live here long enough, you develop a certain look for walking the streets, taking the subway, etc. The look is like a mask that you would put on in public and remove in comfortable surroundings. Once you develop it, it’s quite empowering. It’s a look that conveys the message, without saying a word: “Don’t ask me for shit.”
My second line of defense should my RBF fail to deter a drunken patron, panhandler, or sidewalk barker, is the word “No.” I’ve used it so often, it’s become an unconscious reflex. If a person approaches me uninvited, before they can finish their sentence, regardless of what that sentence might be, I reflexively blurt out, “No.” And keep moving. It works like a charm.
However. On this day. This one perfect day in question, I was caught with my defenses down.
“Excuse me, Sir. Can you help me?”
Out of nowhere, right in front of me, stood a beautiful young girl who looked like she had been tossed into the tumble cycle of a clothes dryer. Half of her hair was in a ponytail, while the other half was either flying away uncontrollably or stuck to her neck with perspiration. I could see the beads of sweat on her forehead gather together and drip down and around her eyebrows. Under each arm was an over-stuffed bag from Bed, Bath & Beyond, tripling the width of space she was occupying on the already narrow sidewalks of Midtown. In a nanosecond, my brain had already ticked off three things I didn’t like about her: 1) She was stopped dead in the middle of a busy sidewalk, 2) Her height/width ratio was off due to her extra-large shopping bags, foreshadowing the inevitable traffic jam she would cause by being so wide, and 3) She was wearing flipflops. Flip flops on the streets of New York? Eeeww.
“What?” I said.
“I’m moving in today. I’m almost done, but I can’t carry it all by myself. Can you help me? Please?” she asked.
The secret to living in New York is to always walk with a purpose, as if you’re supposed to be somewhere and you’re running 15 minutes late. This helps dissuade the general population from trying to engage you in conversation. But on this day, I was dick-tracted by the eye-candy on display throughout the Dance Belt. I let my guard down, and Raggedy-Ann, with her sloppy ponytail and sweaty face, pierced my armor and the cold and stoic New York façade I usually wear fell to pieces.
“We can do it in one trip, I promise. I’m by myself. My mom was here double-parked, until the cops made her move. She’s supposed to be circling the block while my dad returns the U-Haul. That was an hour ago. He’s not answering, and I haven’t seen my mom since. She’s never been to New York. She’s not a very good driver to begin with…She could be halfway to Pennsylvania by now.”
“Ok. I’ll help you.” I said.
“Thank you!” she cried.
I was about to commit a random act of kindness, something virtually never experienced on the streets of Gotham. She was desperate, and there was something very endearing about her spirit. In my mind, she was following her dream; a young chorus girl, just arriving in New York, anxious to take Broadway by storm. I could relate to that. This kid was a female version of me twenty-five years ago (minus the flip flops). Suddenly, I was eager to lend a hand. I wanted to help.
Turns out she wasn’t a chorus girl at all. Her name was Katie, and she was in advertising. Here for a summer internship, and couldn’t give wet donkey’s ass about Broadway. *Womp womp*. Suddenly, I didn’t want to help any longer, but I’d already said I would, so I was stuck. How bad could it be, I thought, just to run a couple of bags upstairs?
I reached to give her a hand with one of the gigantic Bed Bath & Beyond bags she was clinging to, and she said;
“Oh, I got these. I need you to carry that.”
Check back in the next issue of Ambush Magazine for the conclusion of Like a Good Neighbor…
Until then,
RyanRocfordNYC@gmail.
