Is New York Still the Best Place for Authors, Playwrights, Actors and Artists?

 

She was thirty something, smallish, brunette. Her hair was chin-length, and her eyes were almost too dark to be real. When she came out of the kitchen, I had no idea how or when she materialized — all I knew was she was standing before us, waiting. The overall feeling I picked up from her was boredom, only it was boredom elevated to an art form.

"What do you want?” she asked. She had no pad or pen, just a little white apron that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but that she managed to wear while still looking cool. We were the only people in the diner, probably because it was a few days after Christmas and stormy outside.

My friend replied, “Watcha got?”

“Nothin’,” the waitress responded. It seemed like a preview of what you might find in the city itself; a profound indifference to politeness, small talk and nearly everything else.

I had met the two men sitting with me a few hours before, when they decided we should all go out to eat. Their names were Rafael and Henry, and my college teacher had recommended Rafael highly as a person who could “introduce me to New York” when I moved there.

I couldn’t tell them how nervous I was about moving to the city. Born in Brooklyn, I had grown up mostly in suburban New Jersey. I visited New York many times with my family to see relatives or plays/movies and eat at restaurants. But the idea of living there and trying to make a career of acting seemed like a whole other animal, one I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to ride.

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Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash