The Poisonous Apple

It will ALL be okay!

The Post-it clung to my bathroom mirror haphazardly. It was there as a reminder to find my happiness, or accept my lack of happiness, or something like that. At least, that is what my therapist told me. Back when I had a therapist. Back when I, or more accurately, my parents, would pay for a therapist.

There were sixteen of these notes around my dingy, tiny apartment on the Upper West Side. I had three roommates and no space, and it was still more than I could afford. My two waitressing jobs hardly made ends meet. I had left small town, U.S.A. for the bright lights and opportunities only this city could provide. I was doe-eyed, absolutely enamored the first time I stepped foot off the subway. I was home. I was clueless, really. I mean, home does not typically involve three barely-getting-by dreamers in an apartment the size of a closet, cut off by family, laughed at by friends, with my potential being wasted away at some slimy restaurant where I say just about anything for tips. Some days just felt hopeless.

When my parents finally cut me off, both financially and emotionally, they sent a letter. Actually, they sent two words – Remember Her. That was all that was written. Enclosed was my high school graduation picture. I did not recognize the girl there, so innocent and unaware. I had been valedictorian, if you can believe it. I was accepted at every college I applied, dated the most popular boy, excelled at sports and academics, and was actually voted Most Likely to Succeed. I think this makes me atypical, at least for my current situation. But all that success early on made me expect it. I thought I could travel here and book any gig I wanted by sunset. That wasn’t exactly a realistic outlook but also not an uncommon one. This city was filled with the most talented people on Earth scraping by on pennies and dreams.

It was only supposed to be a make-it-or-break it year. One year to make all my dreams come true, then, if it didn't work out, college and adulthood and all that came with it. In the six years since, social media had shown my former friends graduate, start careers and families, buy homes, and settle into a life that seemed safe and secure. My life seemed neither, but I still was not finished pursuing this, whatever it was that this had become.

I reached for the light as I left the room. There, another Post-it:

You are STRONGER than you think!

I sighed. Strong was not exactly how I would describe myself. I looked down at my emaciated body, partially from a non-existent food budget and partially because I knew skinny was the new fat. ‘Skeleton-chic’ was the buzz word now. There was a certain look this city required and I, along with everyone I encountered, knew it. We picked at our food with precision – no carbs, no sugar, no taste. We worked out with the intensity of Olympians. We would kill ourselves before we would go against the image forced upon us.

My eyes flicked to the stamp covering the top of my left hand. I licked my other thumb and began trying to rub off the red ink that penetrated me. My removal attempt became more and more aggressive as I rubbed the spot, trying to delete both the stamp and the memory. He had told me he was an agent. I believed him. I always believed them. He bought my drinks and talked about my potential. When he took my hand and led me to his “office”, I did not object. I don’t even remember his name. Maybe I would if he had actually been an agent.

I looked around at the other Post-its clinging to their spaces. My sad smile upturned slightly. These notes reminded me of me – full of desperation with a tendency to lie.

Yet another set of sirens (the third this morning) distracted me from my thoughts. I went to the window and stared down at the street. Martin, the homeless man that had started frequenting the neighborhood shortly after I moved in three years ago, sat on the corner hopeful that someone would throw spare change into his cup. If you asked him what he would do with the money, he would tell the truth. Martin was an alcoholic. Yet, this homeless alcoholic that had left his family in ruins was the most honest person I knew here. We often talked, sometimes about philosophical nonsense, sometimes about the weather. I suppose we were able to look past the brokenness that each of us possessed. Only a damaged person can see the good, I guess. I reached in my pocket and felt the quarter I had placed there yesterday. Although I really could not afford to, I pulled it out and promised to deposit it into Martin’s cup later today.

On the other side of the street was Maria, the owner of the small deli that smelled of pickles and bleach. She was sweeping the sidewalk. Even with everything in decay around her, Maria took pride in the cleanliness of that little store. She used to own it with her husband, but he passed away suddenly a couple of years ago. The store had really been his, she had always wanted to travel after their retirement. After he died, she could have given it all up and moved on, but she stayed. She honored his dream. I admired that about her. I often thought of her as the Phoenix, rising above the ashes, above her circumstances, and living the best she could with what she had.

I scanned the street for any happiness – for children playing or people laughing. There was none. This was the problem with this city – daylight. In the light, all the secrets were exposed. It sucked out the life around it. The sadness, the loss, the poverty seeped out and found a way into all of us. We realized our broken dreams in the light here. We remembered how we had traveled hundreds of miles away from our families, spent our last pennies, and compromised our beliefs just to survive. And for what? Stardom? Fame? Fortune? Certainly not the series of rejections we faced on a daily basis.

But then, there is night. The city becomes alive again. The lights act as beacons of hope. We were always one handshake away from everything falling into place. We dressed up, we smiled, we flirted for free cocktails, because tonight, this night, every night, was THE night. This night would change everything. At night, there was nowhere in the world I would rather be. These nights had me stay and chase them like an addiction. I believed every promise this sorry town had ever offered. I believed in myself again.

I mixed up day and night like an infant. In the night, I was finally awake. I only saw the light under the stars. We, all of us chasing these impossible dreams in the greatest city in the world, were the lucky ones. There were moments where I had honestly felt like I made it already. I would stay up as late as I possibly could, willing each night to go on forever. But, it never worked. The sun always came up, and with it, the reality of another day.

My Post-its were only written in the moonlight. They were only read in the daylight. 

I walked away from the window, carefully showered and got dressed, and looked over my lines one last time. I had a good feeling about this audition. There, attached to the final page, was a Post-it I only faintly remember writing.

This time will BE DIFFERENT!

And maybe it would. If not, there is always tonight.