So, if you’re hip, you’ll know I started my new job in events last week—a first few days that consisted of production assistant work loading in for Govball. I was tasked with setting up an activation for a client, for which I mostly organized product, broke down boxes, and picked up various orders from Uber Eats. One of my main goals in showing up on-site was to remain confident and talk to as many people as possible. However, in my mission to own some sort of presence, I was swiftly humbled by my own two feet. After nervously finishing my entire Hydroflask, I walked slowly and confidently to the porta-potty labeled as “LADIES ONLY” by printer paper, Sharpie, and gaffer tape. Focused on walking with my head high and my shoulders back, I failed to see a forklift’s prongs resting only inches in front of me. The toe of my sneaker caught under the lift, and my entire body jolted forward, all organs violently sloshing to my head as I dove face first toward the potty. By the grace of God, I managed to pull my other foot over in time so I wouldn’t actually crash-land. When I regained my balance and my bearings, I lifted my head to see a scattered group of security guys watching, a mix of amusement and horror in their expressions. Imagine I died on my first day on site. I didn’t, but can you imagine lol?
Aside from keeping my ego in check, my favorite part of the events industry is that very few people feel like they have to fake who they are. Walking around the festival grounds, I love seeing foremen hit their vapes, hearing executive producers say “we’re fucking fucked,” and watching fabricators rig stages in baby tees and jorts. There’s no time to play pretend for HR when you’ve been awake for 18 hours and have to do it all again 6 hours later.
On Friday, a friend from college, Cece, came into town to visit before training for her summer job in Midtown during the week. I took her to “Puppet Blok,” presented by Dixon Place on Chrystie—a theater whose resident bartender, Jennifer, is a key part of the charm. Curated by Joshua Holden, we watched five acts from full-length productions currently in development by each respective artist.
Although all of the artists were beyond talented, Holden’s own performance stood out to Cece and me. The premise of the scene was a puppeteer consoling one of his older puppets, Mr. Nicholas, as he finally faces his last few minutes within his current form. Holden quickly captivated the crowd as he begged and pleaded with his puppet to try to see the beauty in getting older, all the memories he’s collected, the hearts he’s touched. As Holden’s sobs softly guided his preparation of the next new puppet (a fresh tube sock) to be filled with the soul of Mr. Nicholas, I felt tears roll down my face, splashing gently into my glass of Josh red wine. Holden found a way to communicate our shared mortality through, of all things, a puppet, and witnessing this kind of work reminds me why I’m in New York in the first place.
After the puppet show, we headed east to Lucinda’s, the honky tonk-themed bar on Avenue A where I once accompanied an older man to a Country Burlesque show—a Thursday that ended in me drunkenly informing him that his reverence for Leonard Cohen was pretentious. After recognizing that the crowd was severely compromised by interns and recent grads, we ducked out after a drink and one karaoke song, then walked down Saint Marks, mostly for people-watching. When my mom asked in the morning whether we watched the Knicks game, I told her we didn’t have to—everywhere you turned, there it was on TV, over the loudspeakers, or projected straight into the street. It didn’t take much effort to keep up with the game, given New York’s affinity for turning itself into every resident’s living room. We stopped at Cafe Mogador for a couple more drinks and to use the bathroom too—something I don’t have to chronically keep in mind in any other city. After waffling around for a little bit, we walked back down Saint Marks to see if there was a chance of getting into Schmuck anytime soon, given the Knicks drama and the fact that it was a beautiful Friday night.
After chatting with the lovely doorman, we went to the curb to smoke a cigarette while we waited for the table we’d been promised. With a cigarette between my teeth and my hands poised to light it, my focus was broken by an overbearing presence looming into my line of sight. “How you girls are doing?” The broken English came from a gentleman who was maybe 6’2“ and on his first trip to New York, with his toady buddy sluggishly catching up to him to chat with us. His name was Andreas, and he was very interested in what plans Cece and I had for the rest of the night. When he and his squatty henchman invited us to a rooftop party at Mr. Purple, I couldn’t help but giggle as I told him we wouldn’t be attending. His dreams of the last 90 seconds crushed, he threw one last Hail Mary and asked for my Instagram. I told him I wasn’t on social media. “I also don’t have a phone number,” I said as I palmed my caseless iPhone 12, my cigarette flickering in the screen’s reflection. To say I was unamused would be an understatement, and at risk of being the asshole here—whatever. Couldn’t he see I was having girl time? We finally shuffled away from the boys, who had an inspiring level of confidence, if nothing else, and signaled to the host, Mathieu, that we were ready for our standing-room-only reservation. So if Andreas asks, I have neither an Instagram nor a phone number, okay?
Inside Schmuck, we were eventually seated on a ledge (you read that right) and enjoyed a Buttered Paloma and a Doughboy Spritz, forcing Cece to tongue a sprig of Baby’s Breath with each sip. We kicked our feet, fluttering and swaying them freely as they dangled 3 feet off the ground. We had a prime view of the entire bar, witnessing couples wrap around each other, and laughter grow increasingly hysterical as we ventured further into the night. We were perched for about 20 minutes before Mathieu moved us to the long family-style table that occupied most of the bar.
With Cece’s upcoming trip to Paris, she asked Mathieu if he had any suggestions for her, particularly for the restaurant and bar scene. Between some very French “umms” and “euhhs,” he raised one finger to say “une minute” and whisked away to find a pad of paper and a writing utensil. Cece watched as he shooed away questions from servers, determined to deliver a list of the utmost quality for the beautiful girl he’d promised it to. He hurried back several minutes later, gently setting the sticky note down in front of us, and said, “Okay, girls.” He used his pen to point to each bullet point and gave a little spiel about each place, letting Cece know which of the establishments she could say she knew him at.
Many thank-yous (and mercis) were exchanged, followed by several complimentary shots of a French Apple spirit called Calvados, and then an invitation from Cece for Mathieu to come join us for a cigarette on the street. Afterward, it felt like we teleported home, somehow finding our way back to Brooklyn and crawling into a bed with, unsurprisingly, no sheets. Cece and I chatted and giggled and told stories until we were only mumbling our thoughts, sputtering like the engines running our brains finally needed their tune-up. I felt my eyelids crash around 4 am.
…
Last week, I made a real effort to be disconnected from my phone in order to reconnect with myself and my inner monologue, something of mine that is always running no matter what, but only produces in clear and concise dialogue when given peace from interruption. I put my headphones away while walking to work and didn’t listen to music or NPR in the shower. I stopped watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills while blow-drying my hair and sat and stared at the wall whenever I was bored, rather than filling every ounce of silence. I welcomed my own awkwardness, trudging through it until I could actually hear myself think. This week has been harder, though. One of my biggest enemies is Instagram—Godzilla compared to the garden snake that is any Bravo series.
I must confess something to you now. I spend a rather unhealthy amount of time living on strangers’ Instagram pages, trying to piece together their lives like a mystery novel. All the characters I browse I collected from an ex-boyfriend’s many stories—these artists, models, and downtown dwellers fascinate me. It’s hard to believe we occupy the same city limits; their attitude toward the world is so entitled and unapologetic, while mine is still...well, I don’t know what mine is. Why do I have some personal desire to be like that? To be downtown, infamous for a beautiful face and a dick bigger than Mick Jagger’s. Where did any of that made-up nonsense come from? But I want it, I kind of really want it. I think what this all comes down to is a very human want and need for a sense of establishment, place, and connection—to be seen, known, loved. While enthralled with these personalities, it’s really the reliability and permanence I’m envious of. I’m still trying to find my spot here, but it takes time and repetition to build something, to even discover it in the first place. So why do I pressure myself so hard when all I have is less than a year’s worth of history to show for?
LOVE!!