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

Author Day on Beat Street: Whatcha Got?

I was at a table in Brooklyn somewhere, sitting with a man named Ralph and his friend Michael. I'd been in the city maybe one or two days and they were taking me out for coffee, or drinks. I had moved from Boston to New York to be an actress. I was 23 years old.

The waitress walked over slowly and looked at us like a snake, waiting to strike.

"Whatcha want?" she asked.

"Whatcha got?" Ralph said.

She looked him up and down. "Nothin'."

I can't remember if she had a uniform or her own clothes, but I know they were black. She had dark, curly hair and crimson lips. Long, dangly earrings. In seven seconds she'd managed to terrify me and become my hero. 

Ralph just laughed.

I think he got some kind of eggs and a drink, I got coffee and Michael got something too but I can't remember. I think her name was Rita, but that may just the name I've given her. I wanted to write a story about her. I never did.

Years and years and years have passed, and I've written thousands and thousands of words. I was an actress for a few years and then became a writer. I kept seeing a young girl wander in and out of vision, dark and tough, with a bit of a chip on her shoulder. A little angry, but smart enough to be funny about it.

I named her Ruby. I can see her being this waitress in her early twenties, in Brooklyn somewhere.

Whatcha got?

Nothin/.

I don't know where my Ruby will end up, and this waitress thing could just be a pass-through, probably is. But that one night was the night she was born.

Funny how they come to us. How long they can stay.

Dark haired woman: Victoria Dixon