“Oy, I just don’t look like me,” said I. While on an exodus in California, I happened to pack a New York friendly fall wardrobe. Hence, I was roasting in the roaring California sun. Rather than buying brand spanking new t-shirts and shorts, I took a drastic step.
For years, I always avoided my father’s closet, since we have dramatically different fashion sensibilities. With sweat dripping from every direction, I took my father on his offer.
When we headed to lunch, the two of us had almost matching outfits. I finally caved in and borrowed my father’s clothes. He thought I looked dashing in his red polo shirts. Rolling my eyes, I declared, “of course, I look dashing to you. I’m wearing your clothes.”
On a warm Friday afternoon, we had a Mexican lunch in Palm Springs. My California retreat was drawing to a close. I look forward to returning to New York. Unfortunately, I was returning to Manhattan, unemployed. Nerves sprung from the soil of my brain.
I missed my old job and life in New York. However, life tossed me a blank canvass. I had to cleverly decide if I wanted to turn my blank canvass into pop art, impressionism or even cubism. My brain harvested the seeds of my anxiety.
After lunch, an oak tree grew from my head. It leaves fell, anxiously. My father sensing fear took action. Since I was a kid, one place cheered me up in the midst of purgatory, also (commonly) known as adolescence. “Anthony, we’re going to the Palm Desert mall,” said dad. I lifted my head and clapped in utter enthusiasm.
There was always a bit of nostalgia with malls. Somehow, my oak tree shed its dead leaves. Beautiful branches jutted out. I grew giddy, once again.
As we walked along the 1980’s nostalgia, I took in a deep breath. I pictured myself merrily walking in the East Village, in my own clothes, holding a coffee cup, while reading a good book. Hello, positive thinking brought to you by the American mall.
We returned to my father’s house. I packed up for the return to New York City. “Everything is going to be just swell. Goodnight, California” said I. Upon, waking up, my heart nearly pounded out of my chest.
Going back to New York City seemed more nerve wracking. My dad and I were equally dazed. “I’m not nervous, he said, while driving in circles at Ontario airport.
Finally, we reached the terminal. I took my sweet time checking into the flight. It was painful to leave my father in California. Like an astronaut heading into the deep abyss of space, I put on my best brave face and said, “goodbye.”
After changing planes, I was on a red-eye to JFK. The plane landed and I was off to my apartment, uptown. I was far too tired to think about the worrisome unknown.
Instead, I arrived at my apartment and fell asleep to the unexpectedly soothing sounds of sirens and honking cars. A few hours later, I woke up alone to grey skies.
Instantly, my anxiety returned. That morning, I made plans to have a birthday brunch with friends. Quickly, I slipped into my fall wardrobe, which consisted of a cardigan, buttoned down, and navy trousers. While staring into the mirror, I proclaimed, “at least, I look like myself again. Oh, I love my New York friendly wardrobe.”
The city with its brownstones and tenements was exotic, after ten days in Southern California. I headed toward my neighborhood coffee shop. “Wow, we haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?” asked the friendly barista with a smile. I replied, “California.” She sounded excited to hear that word, and warmly, responded, “welcome home to New York.”
“It really is home here, nothing to be scared about,” said I, feeling revived after hearing those simple words. I walked toward the subway. Everything lost its scary monster on the subway seats feeling.
Fall had arrived in Gotham. The weather was refreshingly crisp. Fourteenth Street turned into an enviable fashion catwalk. Coffee cups promenaded alongside a concrete backdrop.
As I hopped off the crosstown bus, my feet touched the East Village. “Heck, I don’t remember there being so many hipsters,” said I. Merrily, I walked toward brunch on Avenue A. I was greeted from the warm smiles of my friends at the cafe. With laughs and hugs, I knew I could make it through this obstacle known as life.
My paintbrush finally touched the blank canvass. I didn’t know what my beautiful painting would look like. Inwardly, if it didn’t come up with anything, Andy Warhol worthy, that was ok. With hands thrown in the air, I proclaimed, “fuck it” and enjoyed a whisky on the rocks with my urban family.