Karaoke. Goldish. Lottery.

Friday November 6th, 2012

Light is vital for life. I never appreciated its influence until living in this apartment. There are no windows in my loft and the only thing to decipher day from night is the clock on my dresser. My thoughts keep redirecting to a science experiment I did in fourth grade where we observed two growing plants. We kept one near the window and the other in the art supply closet. The one in the window blossomed into a lovely bean plant almost overnight, while the one in the closet, cramped next to the poster paint and scissors, became only half the size and and turned a sickly yellow color. Photosynthesis is just as relevant to humans. I'm sleep deprived, but I'm getting out of this apartment and finding sunshine. I feel crippled by the darkness.
I climb out of bed and text Ashley, "lunch?". Ashley is a fellow waitress at the Coffee shop bar and an aspiring film producer. All of us at work are aspiring somethings; Artists, actors, writers, producers, models....etc. This isn't coincidence, this is just New York City. The arts move us all.
We mull over our failing relationships and complain about our horrible job while we munch on taco salad. Ashley's opinions always frighten me because they're full of truth rather than the usual, comfortable lies.
"Why do I still like him?" I ask her, "We both know he's a big fat jerk!"
Ashley's a-typical response: "It's hormones. You're drawn to each other. Imagine it this way: it's like having little magnets all over your body pulling you to him. You just can't help it."
I think about this for a minute. I was expecting her to say something like, "Yeah well, most men are jerks. When you find the one that treats you nice you'll know you've found the right one."
Instead I'm left pondering ideas of magnets and hormones.
"Maybe you're right. Let's go."
A stop for coffee in Korea town and a transfer on the L train puts us at her place in Brooklyn. Ashley points out a plywood sign hammered into a grassy patch by the sidewalk. "Trees not Trash!" it reads in thick black lettering. The grassy area is a makeshift landfill, littered with old Starbucks cups, plastic sacks and other garbage. I wonder if the abnormal amount of litter is a product of the sign being there, or if it's the other way around.
Ashley's bedroom is as big as my apartment, and I begin to question why I live in Manhattan. She has some old costume hats acquired through a former job hanging on a hat rack. She tries on a straw flat top with a chin strap and I wear a feather bonnet with a face net.
"How do I look?" I ask, pursing my lips.
"You're such a hat person!" She says, but I'm not convinced. I look ridiculous.
I mention that I'm feeling lucky, and would like to buy a lotto ticket. Most often gambling is associated with the negative. It's either someones last resort or just a dirty rotten habit. But today is a good day, and since nothing else has gone wrong I want to see what will go right. As the saying goes, you can't win the lottery with out buying a ticket. With that in mind we walk to the bodega next door and ask the clerk,
"Do you have any lotto scratchers?" The man behind the counter is wearing a wife beater and is unshaven. He looks rough and tumble, but this first impression is swept away when he grins largely revealing a few missing teeth. This makes him seem elderly rather than dangerous.
"No, just sold out ladies," he says with a slight lisp, "Try the neighborhood market down the street. Good luck."
We try the market down the street, which is an exact replica of the first store. Spanish fiesta music blares from the dusty black radio sitting on the counter. The whole Mercado smells like pine sol.
We say two words, "Lotto Scratchers?"
"Nope, sorry. Maybe next door. Good luck!"
So we do...same story, ..."good luck" Says the third clerk as we exit.
"Isn't it kind of funny that everyone keeps telling us good luck?" Ashley says.
"You know you're not going to get lucky in the lotto, when you can't even get lucky enough to buy a ticket," I respond
Finally we have success. Jose's liquor store also sponsors the new york lotto. I point to two tickets behind the 7 inch thick bullet proof glass.

We wait until were home to reveal our destiny. Ashley uses a file and neatly scratches off the numbers to bingo mania in perfect squares. I'm hasty and use a dime, impatient towards what lies under the metallic wax.
'$500,' it reads.
"I won 500 dollars!," I shout.
"No way..."
"Yes, way! Look, see that little dollar sign, and see the number 500!?!? Heeeellll Yes!"
Ashley's roommate Miranda becomes interested and investigates my festivity fun scratch card.
"I think you're right! You just won 500 bucks! You don't have to work for like.....a week!" (Only in New York will 500 dollars only last "like......a week")
My elation is doused after Miranda's boyfriend arrives and points out some unrecognized clause in the instructions.
"The numbers have to match in order for you to win. Scratch off the others."
I do, and he's right.
I'm so bummed out, but it was still fun thinking I had won the lottery for ten minutes. In fact, we all have a residual high from my false victory. Everyone is happy and smiling.
Before I leave Ashley and I share a cigarette on the back patio. Her upstairs neighbor hung laundry out on the line, and the pastel colored towels flutter in the breeze. She comments on how there's something picturesque about the scene.

Everyday in this city I'm reminded that not everything beautiful comes from nature.

On my walk back to the subway I become lost. I'm supposed to walk down star fleet, but I don't know how far. I look around at clusters of intimidating men in baggy jeans, who all seems to be staring at me. I see a girl hustling down the sidewalk wearing tori birch. I immediately know from her shoes that we'd be great friends. "Hey!" I yell to her across the street, "Do you know where the subway is?"
"You're close, it's just a few more blocks."
"Do you mind if I.."
"Of course not," she interrupts, flashing me a warm smile.
We stroll in silence, but it doesn't feel awkward. Were both with the understanding that our encounter is brief and that something resembling first date conversation is unnecessary. She points to the subway and I say thanks. She raises her hand in farewell staying above ground to finish her cigarette. Again, I marvel at the simple kindness of humanity and a little bit of my cynicism dissipates.

I sit on the L train and watch a beautiful couple kiss on the bench across from me. They are clearly tourists visiting new york, probably on some romantic vacation together enjoying Broadway plays and fancy restaurants.
I had decided earlier that I was missing something to transfer my love onto. Since men aren't healthy objects of affection, and I have no yard for a dog, I'll have to settle for a goldfish.
There's an aquarium store on 38Th and second. I get off at grand central and walk in immediately saying to the clerk:
"I'm looking for a fish,"
"What kind?" he responds, "We have school fish, saltwater fish, exotic fish, coral fish....
"Um sir," I say, "I actually just want something I can keep in a small bowl at my apartment. You know, low maintenance. I was thinking like, a goldfish?"
"Sure, right this way."
He guides me down the isles of tanks filled with creatures snatched from the sea. The light reflects through the glass and blue ripples dance on the floor and ceiling. I think about how the world is our tank and were all different schools of fish. I stop mid thought and ask myself why I'm always thinking in metaphor. God I'm a weirdo.
I'm interrupted when he stops and points to a large, forgotten tank in the back of the store.
It looks forgotten because green moss crowds the sides, making its contents unclear.
I look deeper inside and blurt "What are these, goldfish on steroids"?

Over the last decade everything has gotten smaller. TVs, Cell Phones, and NY apartments, but, apparently, the only thing increasing in size are goldfish. And these ones were as big as my fist.
"You're sure these are goldfish? They are really big!"
"Yeah, we sold all of our smaller ones. This is what we have left."
I looked down again at the abnormally large school of goldfish. Their eyes are big and bulging, making them seem absentminded. Their bellies were round and looked too big for their fins, and consequently they just sort of floated there in an anti gravity kind of fashion.
"I think you're mistaken, these are trout pretending to be goldfish." I laugh, "They may have you fooled but, I'm not so sure."
"These are a large breed of goldfish. They're all I've got."
"Weeeellll, okay. Hmmm.... can I keep one in a bowl?"
"Yeah but it will have to hold 8 gallons, and you'll need a filter."

I realize that I'm not interested in any relationship that requires more than a water change once a week, and leave the store empty handed. No wonder I'm single.

My friend Ian's boyfriend and his roommate are at an Irish karaoke bar near grand central. I meet them for a pint. The place is awful and the crowd middle aged, but the beers are 3 dollars so I don't complain. There's 6 foot broad shouldered man singing "Come What May" in a business suit. In between versus he drunkenly mumbles "My wife's a fuc**** lunatic" into the mic. I laugh at the obvious cliche of his life. I assume he's another 40 year old finance banker, who is married with 3 kids and a golden retriever in Connecticut. It's the perfect recipe for a midlife Crisis.
Later a Mexican woman who is a little under 5 foot apprehends the mic. The words: "Ozzy Osbourne: let me hear you scream", pan across the Karaoke screen.
My friend Eamon looks at me with skepticism, "How is this going to work out?" he inquires.
Were befuddled when the midget woman climbs on top of the bar and begins screeching and hollering with a vibrato that sounds like an angry cello. She's surprisingly on key. We look at each other in awe. My conclusion: Ozzy died last week and came back as a 43 year old Latina.
Eamon asks me to get up and sing a song. That's my cue to leave.

Later I meet Chase at a music hall in the lower east side. We drink red wine and stomp our feet on rhythm to the folk band, "Hey Mama,". The main singer has a sultry, strong voice and plays the washboard. We both enjoy the band so much that we sign up for their mailing list, and I tell myself I'll track them down next time they play in new york.
I've decided that the cliche should be rewritten, "Music is next to godliness,". Being clean is boring anyway.