2.

I woke alone the next morning. The Brazilians’ bags were gone, the Australian’s were not. On my way to the bathroom, I noticed blood on the pillow of the one who’d tried to help his friend. I got dressed, went to reception and requested a room change.

Gruesome clouds filled the sky. I took a folder from my bag, placed it on the bed of my new room and sat by the window overlooking the courtyard. I lit a cigarette and yet again read the letter my father had penned here. Nothing new was going to jump out from between its lines. The words weren’t going to change; only I was. I was in the exact neighbourhood where he’d pushed pen onto pad, declared his self-righteousness, and signed off on my mother’s and my fate twenty years earlier. It had all begun in these streets, in these buildings, in these rooms. This was the closest I’d ever been. I threw on my jumper and butted out my cigarette.

I moved east along 20th Street. Rubbish was piled high; murky water filling crevices between roads and footpaths. Pools of the stuff collected at crossings, forcing crowds to move around them like a trail of ants encountering a pebble. I passed a homeless man, then another. Horns blared almost incessantly while opportunistic motorists tried to gain a foot’s advantage in miles of gridlock. I came to a construction site narrowing the street and a driverless cement truck blocking the way. A bus tried to navigate the tight gap to no avail, its driver getting out and approaching the truck as its driver returned.

‘Man, move this damn truck. You blocking the whole street with that bullshit!’ he yelled at the small, Eastern European-looking man. I felt a rush of nerves, expecting violence to ensue.

The small man looked up and down the street for a better place he could’ve stopped, before shrugging and replying, ‘What you gonna do? It’s New York City.’

‘I know, motherfucker, I’m born and raised!’ he exclaimed, drumming his thumb into his sternum as he walked backwards to his bus. ‘Get that shit outta here!’ he added, throwing his hands in the air. The truck driver shooed him off with stiff joints as he climbed back into the truck. Noticing me watching, he shrugged the same ‘What you gonna do?’ expression before driving off. I buried my hands into my pockets and continued on my way, unsure if I’d just witnessed my first taste of New Yorkers’ particular brand of pride.

I continued to weave through Chelsea and its immediate neighbourhoods, refusing to acknowledge the rest of the massive city. People walked their own paths from A to B, unwilling to stray from the straightest line between the two, with a stubborn indifference to those around them. I became more adept to these patterns and had fewer collisions with each block I traversed. After a few hours, I began to wonder what I was expecting to find. With every turn moving me further away from an answer, I called it a day and did the most unoriginal thing I could think of: I walked to the Empire State Building, bought a ticket, got in line and took the lift to the top.

Winter was holding on, or so I overheard in the queue. The wind at the top was icy and my jumper couldn’t stop me from shivering. I paced the packed lookout. The sun was setting through the clouds, casting streams of light in patches onto the mammoth expanse below. From a distance, New York City seemed a singular whole; as if a forest. But only when inside could you see each tree, string of bark and leaf comprising it, and the impossibility of being aware of them all at once descends on you like a dark cloud.

Sunlight and shadows fought for control of the city as I made my way back to the hostel. A small bar nearby appeared closed from the outside, despite its big, illuminated ‘OPEN’ sign. The bartender saw me as I peered through the gap between the door and blocked-up window, lazily gesturing me in with a raised hand. There was very little seating except for stools around the bar, most of them filled by hunched-over men. An Eagles song played through worn speakers. I approached the bar.

‘What you having?’ the bartender asked me.

‘A beer, please,’ I said, looking at the unrecognisable can gripped in the hand of a man sitting next to me. I pointed to it. ‘One of those.’

‘That’s a PBR. You want a beer or a PBR?’

‘Is PBR not a beer?’

‘Kinda,’ the man interjected. ‘I mean, they put “beer” on the label, but it’s really fermented horse piss, is what it is.’

He threw the rest of the can down his throat and tapped the bar twice with his finger, not once looking at me. The bartender cracked open another for him and one for me. I didn’t speak another word to anybody in there for the rest of the night, or them to me. The seven or so seats around the bar were on a constant rotation of silent men who pushed the door in, ordered their poison, drummed on the bar at intervals, unfurled their notes and left – never saying a word or sitting beside each other if they could help it. The place had the feeling of a medical centre – the barflies like patients who had self-diagnosed their illness and written prescriptions only a bartender could fill. I sat, listening to the music, not realising how drunk I’d become without the distraction of conversation. I stumbled back to the hostel and went to bed.

The next morning I awoke to a guy fumbling through his bag. The other two in the four-person room were gone. Sun streamed through the window and my watch said 1 p.m.

‘Oh, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he said.

‘No, no, that’s okay. Something had to. Fuck …’

I turned my head and the hangover began straight away.

‘Danny,’ he said, extending a hand in front of big, white teeth.

‘Mark,’ I said, taking it.

‘You sound like you’ve got a bit of an accent there. Where ya from?’

‘Australia.’

‘Australia, beautiful! I’ve always wanted to go, it looks so great.’

‘It’s something.’

‘You look like you had a big night on the sauce.’

‘Yeah? I feel like it too.’

‘It’s all good, enjoying a vacation in New York City! You’ve gotta make the most of it. I’m up here for a buddy’s buck’s party tonight. You want to get a drink tomorrow maybe?’

‘I never want to get a drink again.’

‘Alright,’ he said, laughing. ‘Well if you change your mind, let me know. I’m heading off the day after.’

His enthusiasm worsened my headache, though I couldn’t help but like the guy. He seemed to take energy in from the world, amplify it somehow then send it back out. I lay in bed listening to the city through the walls, feeling somehow excluded from it. There was a knock on the door. I wandered over, underpants-clad, and reached for the handle as it turned from the other side. A short, Hispanic housekeeper stood there, armed with a bucket of brushes and sprays.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hello, sir.’

‘Hmm, you looked different in the picture.’

She raised an unimpressed brow.

‘I come back later. You no be here.’

‘Okay.’

Even with the afternoon sun out, the wind was icier than it had been the day before. A bell chimed as I pulled open the door of a thrift shop. I flicked through clothes on a rail and stopped at one. A jacket, leather – a fabric I’d always loathed. It was brown, with cuffs and an upright collar in wool. A small belt ran through loops around the collar, meaning it could seal snug against the neck. It was ridiculous, like something a 1950s fighter pilot might’ve worn, yet I was drawn to it. I placed it on the front counter.

‘Ooh, I was wondering when someone was going to snatch this up,’ said the round woman behind the counter.

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, it’s very nice. If you want, I got some boots that’d go real nice with it.’

‘No, just the jacket, thanks.’

I walked back out onto the footpath and began moving north. A girl looked me up and down. Waiting at the next intersection, I glanced down at my worn Chuck Taylors, splits forming at the bends of my toes. I turned back, pushing through the crowd gathered behind me, and chimed the bell. ‘Show me these boots.’

I tapped and clicked my way through Central Park. I’d never owned a pair of wooden-soled shoes before and the sound made me more conscious of my walking than I’d ever been. I sat on a bench in the sun and watched a group play baseball. Joggers jogged, children laughed, dogs barked; I smoked a cigarette and took it all in. A winding path wrapped around a lake with rowboats drifting along its surface, lovers intertwined in each.

A group of drunken French girls on their backs in the middle of a path gazed up at the trees. They threw sour looks as I stepped over them and continued. ‘Hey, fuck you, man!’ one yelled to me. I walked without turning back. ‘Hey!’ she yelled again. ‘I don’t like you; I only like your arse!’ The others erupted in laughter. I continued along the track and headed south towards Chelsea.