Pic of the day: A map of Mannados (aka Manhattan) circa 1661.
Manhattan. Sometimes from beyond the skyscrapers, across thousands of high walls, the fearful cry of a too-well-known voice finds you in your insomnia in the middle of the night, and you remember that this desert of iron and cement is an island of un-reality.
I’ve got two days of work this week. Which is better than last week, when I had only one. One day though, is not enough to keep the bills paid, so I went back and put in for unemployment for three days for that week. Two days isn’t much better, which means I might put in for unemployment again.
On top of it, I dislike working in Manhattan. It is a nasty place. too many people in too small a place working too hard for too little money is about the quickest way to describe it. The commute is too long and everything costs too much. There is nothing there to like from my viewpoint.
It is lucky for me that the next two days of work won’t be there. It is unlucky however that I will be working in Queens. Longer commute for me, and I’ve never been there as an adult. It won’t be easy for me to get there, as I’ve never even been on the train that will get me there. I am very unlike your average New Yorker in that regard. I am very proud of that.
I don’t want to know about Queens. I have spent my entire adult life trying to dissociate myself from “the City,” the other four boroughs that is. I was born on Staten Island, love the place, but I simply do not associate with the rest of the place. “The City” has always been a place to be avoided as far as I am concerned. I only go to “The City” for the money… and occasionally the sports. Rangers game? Count me in. Yankees game? Hell Yeah! Just go there and… hang… out? Oh HELL no! I don’t love shitty expensive food and loud people all over the damn place. And if you do, you are an idiot.
I like peace and quiet. I really don’t belong even close to here, but I was born close to it, and don’t have the money to get the hell out.
I was once in Queens as a small child. At a baseball game. In 1970 (I think.) I remember crying a lot. I don’t remember much more. I vaguely remember someone from the cardinals getting spiked at second base and being walked off of the field with a blood soaked towel wrapped around their arm. It made the 2½ year old Rhino bawl. I was not happy. I wanted out and made noise until my father got me out, as I recall.
Might have something to do with my deep dislike of the City in general and the New York Mets in particular.
If I could find work that paid on Staten Island, I would not even think about going into the city.
If I found a company that would pay me good money to work on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, or as a construction worker in Dubai, or anywhere doing anything to be honest, and I didn’t have to see Manhattan ever again, I’d jump at it. And I have in fact tried. I just don’t have the experience at any job where that would work, where I could live the dream of not being anywhere near “The City.” But I’ve sent resumes.
If the place I worked at closed tomorrow, I would miss the money and the people but not the place itself.
That’s it from here, America. G’night.