When I came to New York City, I was 24. I wore a suit to my interview at ICM. It was August, so I arrived at the literary agent’s office soaked in sweat, with my long, Crystal Gayle hair stuck flat to my face. Somehow, miraculously, I got the job.
The late Lindy Hess of the Radcliffe Publishing Course—who rocked her own long, is-Joni-in-the-building sheets of hair—had put my resumé in the wrong box. On purpose. She had called me into her office after seeing I’d put my resumé in the box meant for folks wanting to stay in Boston. (There was a guy.)
She looked at my poorly applied liquid liner, my ripped suede coat, and squinted.
“You belong in New York,” she said, flipping her hair for emphasis. “You’re fashionable—not that fashionable—but I think you’d do well there.”
I muttered something about wanting to stay in Somerville and stay small and not make trouble and maybe I could get the One Editorial Assistant Job at Beacon. I put my resumé back in the Boston box.
A few days later, I got a call.
“This is Lisa at ICM. We’d like you to come in for an interview on Tuesday.”
“Are you guys on the Red Line?” I asked brightly.
Long pause. “We’re on 57th street at 6th Avenue.”
This was not a Boston address. Holy shit. New York goddamn city.
“Ok, see you Tuesday!” I squeaked.
I got the job, and my friend Amber and I—who got to talk to Gary Shteyngart, Francine Prose, Kevin McCarthy, all these badass writers—made $22,000 a year. Cokes in the office fridge were free, so we drank all the Cokes. At a party, hearing us complain of anxiety and stomachaches, a colleague suggested it might be the five Cokes we each drank daily. We snapped at him.
At 5pm, we’d run to the subway to make it to Oznot’s—a bar off Bedford in Williamsburg with pretty little tiles behind the bar—in order to make their happy hour, which ended at 6. We ordered Raspberry Lambics for $2.50 each, and thought ourselves the height of sophistication. I paid $500 per month for a room at Bedford and Grand in Williamsburg. It was so small I couldn’t get out the door once I’d unfolded the futon. I painted the walls baby blue—a fake sky—in order to not lose my mind.
In my time in the city, I saw some things. I attended epic dance parties and marched in the Mermaid Parade as a Busby Berkeley girl. I got the jobs of my dreams—hosting a restaurant segment on NY1; launching websites; learning about food; consulting for awesome companies; writing for The New York Times and The Washington Post—and I am a bit verklempt to leave.
For two and a half years, I’ve been living in Westchester with my daughter, in an apartment overlooking the mighty Hudson River. I raised an infant in a pandemic, largely alone, while freelancing. I found a great daycare, and squeezed in half-hour walks daily along the river, thanking the sky, the trees, the Palisades for helping me survive a tough couple of years.
I left New York City because I could no longer handle the pointy subway elbows, the smoking neighbors, the car alarms. I am leaving New York State to be closer to family, and am psyched to be in contract for a house in Rhode Island.
“L’il Rhody.” I’m trying it on for size. I found a little 1950s baby with good bones and a knobby old tree out front. I’m going to paint it pale blue with a red door and hope it doesn’t look like a flag or Crest toothpaste. It’s got shingles and problems and a big old porch and soon it will be mine. And I’m optimistic—cautiously, as I’m a cynical New Yorker forever—for this new chapter. The fried fish here is killer. My new house has a little room for me to work in, looking out at the sea. There’s easy Amtrak access for trips back to the city. So come visit! Really.
I’m also in the market for full-time remote work and fun, robust contract jobs, so please ping me with leads and neat-sounding opportunities. (Try grub lover AT gee male.) And see you in Rhody.
AVB