Summer and the City

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Now I’m confused. And kind of insulted. “What does my wanting to be a writer have to do with wanting to become famous?”

He wets his lips. “Some people think writing is glamorous. They make the mistake of thinking it’s a good vehicle for becoming famous. But it isn’t. It’s only hard work. Years and years and years of it, and even then, most people don’t get what they want out of it.”

Like you, I wonder? “I’m not worried, Mr. Greene.”

He sadly fingers his mustache.

“Is that it?” I stand up.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Greene.” I glare at him, wondering what Waldo would say.

But when I get outside, I’m shaking.

Why shouldn’t I? I demand silently. Why shouldn’t I become a famous writer? Like Norman Mailer. Or Philip Roth. And F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and all those other men. Why can’t I be like them? I mean, what is the point of becoming a writer if no one reads what you’ve written?

Damn Viktor Greene and The New School. Why do I have to keep proving myself all the time? Why can’t I be like L’il, with everyone praising and encouraging me? Or Rainbow, with her sense of entitlement. I bet Viktor Greene never asked Rainbow why she wanted to be a writer.

Or what if—I wince—Viktor Greene is right? I’m not a writer after all.

I light a cigarette and start walking.

Why did I come to New York? Why did I think I could make it here?

I walk as fast as I can, pausing only to light yet another cigarette. By the time I get to Sixteenth Street, I figure I’ve probably smoked nearly half a pack.

I feel sick.

It’s one thing to write for the school newspaper. But New York is on a whole different level. It’s a mountain, with a few successful people like Bernard at the top, and a mass of dreamers and strivers like me at the bottom.

And then there are people like Viktor, who aren’t afraid to tell you that you’re never going to reach that peak.

I flick my cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and grind it out in a fury. A fire truck roars down the avenue, horns blaring. “I am pissed off,” I scream, my frustration mingling with the wail of the siren.

A couple of people glance my way but don’t pause. I’m only another crazy person on the street in New York.

I stomp down the sidewalk to Samantha’s building, take the stairs two at a time, unlock the three bolts, and fling myself onto her bed. Which makes me feel, once again, like an interloper. It’s a four-poster with a black coverlet and what Samantha calls silk sheets, which, she claims, prevent wrinkles. Except they’re really made of some kind of super slippery polyester and I have to push my foot against one of the posts to keep from sliding onto the floor.

I grab a pillow and put it over my head. I think about Viktor Greene and Bernard. I think about how I’m all alone. How I’m constantly having to pull myself up from the depths of despair, trying to convince myself to try one more time. I bury my face deeper into the pillow.

Maybe I should give up. Go back home. And in two months, I’ll go to Brown.

My throat closes at the thought of leaving New York. Am I going to allow what Viktor Greene said to cause me to quit? I have to talk to someone. But who?

That girl. The one with the red hair. The one who found my Carrie bag. She seems like the kind of person who would have something to say about my situation. She hates life, and right now, I do too.

What was her name, again? Miranda. Miranda Hobbes. “H-o-b-b-e-s.” I hear her voice in my head.

I pick up the phone and dial information.

Chapter Nine

“All men are a disappointment. No matter what anyone says.” Miranda Hobbes glares at the cover of Cosmopolitan. “‘How to Get Him and Keep Him,’” she says, reading the cover line aloud in disgust.

She places the magazine back in the rack. “Even if you could get Him—and why do they always capitalize His name like He’s God—I can personally guarantee He wouldn’t be worth keeping.”

“What about Paul Newman?” I count out four dollars and hand the money to the cashier. “I’m sure he’s worth keeping. Joanne Woodward thinks so.”

“First of all, no one knows what goes on between two people in a marriage. And secondly, he’s an actor. Which means by definition he’s a narcissist.” She looks at the package of chicken thighs doubtfully. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

I put the chicken thighs, rice, and the tomato into a bag, feigning ignorance about her concerns. Truth is, I’m a little worried about the chicken myself. Besides being minuscule, the supermarket is none too clean. Maybe that’s why no one cooks in New York. “Don’t you think everyone’s a narcissist?” I ask. “I have this theory that all anyone ever really thinks about is themself. It’s human nature.”

“Is this human nature?” Miranda demands, still absorbed by the rack of magazines. “‘How to De-dimple Your Thighs in Thirty Days.’ ‘Kissable Lips.’ ‘How to Tell What He’s Really Thinking.’ I can tell you what he’s really thinking. Nothing.”

I laugh, partly because she’s probably right, and partly because I’m in the giddy throes of a new friendship.

It’s my second Saturday in New York, and what no one tells you is how the city empties out on the weekends. Samantha goes to the Hamptons with Charlie, and even L’il said she was going to the Adirondacks. I told myself I didn’t mind. I’d had enough excitement for the week, and besides, I had to write.

And I did work, for a few hours, anyway. Then I started to feel lonely. I decided there must be a particular kind of lonely in New York, because once you start thinking about all the millions of people out there eating or shopping or going to movies or museums with friends, it’s pretty depressing not to be one of them.

I tried calling Maggie, who’s spending the summer in South Carolina, but her sister said she was at the beach. Then I tried Walt. He was in Provincetown. I even called my father. But all he said was how much I must be looking forward to Brown in the fall and he’d talk more but he had an appointment.

I wished I could tell him what a hard time I was having with my writing class, but it would have been pointless. He’s never been interested in my writing anyway, convinced it’s a phase I’ll get over when I go to Brown.

Then I looked through Samantha’s closet. I found a pair of neon-blue Fiorucci boots that I particularly coveted, and even tried them on, but they were too big. I also discovered an old leather biker jacket that appeared to be from her former life—whatever that was.

I tried Miranda Hobbes again. I’d actually tried her three times since Thursday, but there was no answer.

But apparently she doesn’t protest on Saturdays, because she picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hello?” she asked suspiciously.

“Miranda? It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Oh.”

“I was wondering . . . what are you doing right now? Do you want to get a cup of coffee or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh,” I said again, disappointed.

I guess she felt sorry for me, because she asked, “Where do you live?”

“Chelsea?”

“I’m on Bank Street. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. As long as I don’t have to take the subway, I guess I could meet you.”

We spent two hours at the coffee shop, discovering all kinds of things we had in common. Like we both went to our local high schools. And we both loved the book The Consensus as kids. When I told her I knew the author, Mary Gordon Howard, she laughed. “Somehow, I knew you were the type who would.” And over yet another cup of coffee, we began to have that magical, unspoken realization that we were going to be friends.

Then we decided we were hungry, but also admitted we didn’t have any money. Hence my plan to cook us dinner.

“Why do magazines do this to women?” Miranda complains now, glaring at Vogue. “It’s all about creating insecurity. Trying to make women feel like they’re not good enough. And when women don’t feel like they’re good enough, guess what?”

“What?” I ask, picking up the grocery bag.

“Men win. That’s how they keep us down,” she concludes.

“Except the problem with women’s magazines is that they’re written by women,” I point out.

“That only shows you how deep this thing goes. Men have made women coconspirators in their own oppression. I mean, if you spend all your time worrying about leg hair, how can you possibly have time to take over the world?”

I want to point out that shaving your legs takes about five minutes, leaving plenty of time for world-taking-over, but I know she only means it as a rhetorical question.

“Are you sure your roommate won’t mind my coming over?” she asks.

“She’s not really my roommate. She’s engaged. She lives with her boyfriend. She’s in the Hamptons anyway.”

“Lucky you,” Miranda says as we start up the five flights of stairs to the apartment. By the third flight, she’s panting. “How do you do this every day?”

“It’s better than living with Peggy.”

“That Peggy sounds like a nightmare. People like that should be in therapy.”

“She probably is, and it’s not working.”