Bushwick In Fiction

003: “A Mindf*ck”

April 27th, 2025

Important Note: Out of disrespect to the real-life predators whom the fictional characters were based on, traumatic events and situations were told exactly as it happened to raise awareness and for prevention of Sexual Assault.

I woke up to the blaring sound of an EDM track. I think it was about 6:30 AM. I was in one of the private booths of some underground lap dance party, in Hell’s Kitchen in Work Island(Manhattan). The private booth itself is pretty small, with a black leather loveseat attached to the wall, big enough for a john to sit down and receive a lap dance from the stripper. As I stood up, I noticed that my boxers and my pants were down- I felt confused, I pulled up my garments. Then on my way out, I passed by one of the strippers, Chance, who’s always pursuing me each time I come into this kind of party – event when I blatantly indicated to him that I’m not interested and I like him as a friend only. He’s about twenty four or twenty five, he’s a Gen-Z fucker no doubt. He exudes with sex appeal and masculine energy, something that he probably needed to possess since he’s not buff or athletic, he’s not fat or chubby either. He’s tall enough, about 6 feet tall, with a slender built, moved here from the Dominican Republic when he was five and is now a proud resident of the Lower East Side . He’s got tattoos all over his body and his head topped with dread locks.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

“Yeah, I don’t feel so good…” I replied.

“You were a pro! I’m just sayin’”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember me fucking you?” He playfully asked.

I shook my head, clearly I don’t fucking remember.

“I came inside you twice!”

“I don’t fucking remember.”

I immediately left that goddamn party and went back to Bushwick. As I got the L train subway station on Jefferson Avenue, I walked my way to Nook Cafe on Irving Avenue. It was a good thing that I got there early morning, it was probably 8:05 or 8:10 AM when I checked the time. There I ordered some Irish coffee and sat down, I attempted to write something, but my mind itself was so fucked. I realized that I was raped. I got sexually assaulted. It’s pretty fucked up because I never expected it to happen to me, not at this stage of my fucking life. And not at some fucking gay bar, and not from a fucking stripper. To call out sexual assault that happened between yourself and a stripper, is like calling addressing the issue within the production of a porn movie set. This is where the grey line is… If you’re in a situation like this, how would you handle it? How would you react? How would you defend and recover yourself? And the short answer is, I don’t fucking know! Knowing that something like this happened to me and knowing that I placed myself in that situation, is a goddamn mindfuck! I realized that I was almost catatonic for two minutes, looking at the froth of my Irish coffee. When I looked up, I saw the baristas staring at me looking concerned, I partially smiled at them just to ease the scene that I’ve created. I also realized and remembered that I was drunk out of my mind, the last memory I remembered was Chance talking to me at the bar while I sipping on a glass of rum and coke. And then after that – it was a fucking blackout. What I don’t understand is, why? Sexual assault is NEVER OK. No matter what your sexual orientation is, no matter what your gender is, no matter where you are. It dawned on me, the he never even asked me for consent. He just assumed that because I’m a patron of that establishment and that he’s a stripper, he doesn’t need to ask for consent, and everyone who sees him dance his ass off around the silver pole, wants to be fucked by him. I also realized that sexual assault isn’t about sex, it’s about power, and in that fragile moment, I had none. I wasn’t sober enough to make that judgement. But still, he proceeded. What the actual fuck?!

TO BE CONTINUED…
002: “While the Rest of Us Die”

March 2nd, 2025

Fuck you 2024! Hello 2025! If you’re reading this, chances are you probably rung in the new year either shit faced or high as fuck! Whatever you did, I sure hope you didn’t spend it sober. But I’m not here to talk about about new year’s eve! I to tell a story of fiction and of course, New York City. You’re also probably wondering why I despised 2024, and the truth is, I really do. There’s no fucking way I’d sugarcoat it. After all, as a fucking writer, I have zero intentions of “being careful” to what I fucking say or write, or worried that the “easily offended crowd” will think when they read my words and sentences. Fuck them. Life is very fucking short. You might as well say what you want to say, and do what you want to do. Anyway, not all of the year 2024 was a total shit show. I’d say there was at least one or two memories that were somehow good. I’d consider it that way since this is just fiction! But, please enjoy this fucking short story.

I think it was early November last year, I saw an unpretentious art show somewhere on Myrtle Avenue and Broadway, of some Chilean artist, I don’t even remember his name. But I do remember his paintings! Every piece of it, looked almost like a reincarnation of Francis Bacon paintings! The theme was “While The Rest Of Us Die”, a satirical approach to today’s harsh reality of the dangerous barebacking between a tech billionaire/richest man in the world and the newly elected president who was a former reality tv star – kinda like a real time national footage of the final days of US Democracy. Anyway, I was madly in love with his work that I even tried to seduce him ! I was under the influence of love itself! Not entirely sure if it was his art or his creative aura. The other thing I was also under the influence of, was ketamine. Thanks to my friend, Jeremy. He’s one of my closest friends in Bushwick and the ex-boyfriend of a former friend who I no longer talk to. Jeremy is also a talented painter from Australia who holds a fulltime day job as an IT Administrator at the New York Stock Exchange. Life is not fair- when you’re not rich enough to avoid doing a regular job, and not lucky . Back to the art show, Jeremy’s date, who gave me ketamine in the bathroom, I finally remember her name, it was Lana. She’s an actress, currently studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, in Work Island (Manhattan), where Robert Redford, Grace Kelly, Jennifer Coolidge, and Adrien Brody, received their trainings. Jeremy and Lana are great lovers. I could tell. But they’re not in love, I think they’re both aware of it. Jeremy is in his mid-forties, Lana is in her mid-twenties. One thing I’ve noticed, after she gave me the bump of ketamine, she got a little touchy-handsy, almost wanting to make out with me, and as a trysexual man who’s friends with her date, I obviously avoided it as much as I can. I told her that I’m gay, but she did not give a fuck about that. Even Jeremy saw her trying to lick my face and he just laughed it off like a jackass. I had to pull away from Lana. being a man and a cis male, men going forward to report a sexual assault from a woman, is still almost rare. So I got away from her, and moved to the other side of the art gallery where it was more crowded and nobody knows me. Still high from the ketamine and feeling like the lawyer of legendary journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, I was in the K-Hole! Fuck. I started to carefully study each painting on the wall. It’s all so beautiful. Having the right substance, definitely enhances the organic euphoria that someone has. But one painting stood out to me. I think it was called, “I’m Sorry You’re Poor”. It was a painting of a single mother struggling trying to taking care of her two children, one boy, one girl, in a tiny apartment, on the lower ground floor of a building. on the very top floor of it, there’s the “All American Family- the father wearing a suit, the mother dressed in couture, the son wearing a prep school or boarding school uniform, a golden retriever dog, and lastly their maid, a person of color – either Black, Hispanic, or Asian, cleaning their apartment.” , I also noticed from the painting that from the lower ground floor apartment, there’s some kind of tunnel connecting it to the very top floor apartment, and inside that tunnel are colors of brown, blue, & red, of smoke coming from the bottom floor and when it transport out to the top floor- all the colors turn to yellow. In that K-Hole moment, I learned that the color of yellow in a biblical context- represents dishonesty, deceit, & betrayal. While the colors brown, blue, & red- represent hard work, productivity, & strength. Damn! This painting fuckin rocks! I have to have it! But there’s a problem, the price as indicated on the signage is at $10,000 USD. I was like oh fuck it! So I took the painting off the wall like I was Justin Timberlake driving drunk in Long Island! By the time I was about to exit the art gallery, I was stopped by a couple of people.

“Sir, you can’t take that painting with you!” Said a young woman dressed up like a Chinese lesbian- wearing a traditional Chinese male garment, short masculine haircut, no make up. This is not a stereotype and only based on the Chinese lesbians I’ve met IRL. So calm your tits down.

“Sir, you need to give that painting back!” Said the guy who looks like John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever movie, with a balding hair.

“But this painting is so damn good! I need this!” I said.

“Sir, you can’t!” Chinese lesbian said.

“Why the fuck not?!” I replied.

“Because someone already bought it for $10,000! Please give it back!” the bald version of John Travolta said to me.

In that moment, I realized that I don’t have $10,000 in cash or in my bank account! As much as I really loved that painting, it felt like I didn’t deserve it. Not yet. So I gave it back to the balding John Travolta. Perhaps one day, I’ll deserve to have it : )

THE END

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001: “The Prostitute & The Liar”

May 12th, 2024

Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck everything. Don’t ever believe a goddamn word I fucking say. After all, everyone’s pretending. After all, this is a work of fiction. Sometimes, there’s a possibility that we could lose ourselves between fiction and reality. Some could make it back to reality, while others completely lose themselves in fiction. And to be perfectly honest, I enjoy getting lost in fiction since reality itself is too sobering most of the time.

There goes Rita, dressed in blue satin, you couldn’t tell if she’s in her twenties or thirties. She’s one of those women who’s appearance is age proof, and she’s using it to her full advantage. Lots of women wish that their looks could stay the same. Especially the soccer moms living in Manhattan and New Jersey. But Rita, she’s child free by her own choice. And she’s glad that she lives in the neighborhood of Bushwick, NYC. She’s got this nice one bedroom apartment on Wilson Avenue. It’s almost eight o’clock at night and she’s standing in front of the mirror analyzing herself. She doesn’t need to tell herself that she’s beautiful, because she’s conventionally attractive; Caucasian, long blonde wavy hair, blue eyes, slender figure- She’s pretty much the doppelganger of the late Hollywood actress, Sharon Tate. She stares at her face one last time and tells herself, “Good luck tonight!”. She then finally leaves her apartment and heads to Carousel, a new bar with with the retro vibes of 1980’s Miami, on Wyckoff Ave and Starr Street.

The minute she arrives at Carousel, all the eyes of men, and some women are on her. And she’s also very aware of it. Yet, she tries to appear ambivalent. She takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of vodka tonic. She looks around the bar, seems to be looking for someone. At one of the booths, there’s an older man, in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in an expensive suit. He seems to be preoccupied with Rita takes a sip of her drink and walks over to his booth where he’s sitting alone. She takes a seat across the booth table from the lonely man, without any hesitation. The man who was staring down the table with his hands crossed, looks up to her pretty face and slightly smiles.

“Gary?” Rita asked.

“Yes, hi.” He replied.

“I’m Rita, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

A cocktail waitress comes over to take their orders. He ordered a Makers Mark on the rocks, while she ordered a cosmopolitan.

“So, you wanna head over to the hotel after this?”

“How much is your service fee again?”

“Oh, it’s the same amount on the text I sent you.”

“Could you confirm?”

Rita seems to be baffled and felt strange at the same time.

“Sure, it’s $5000, cash only.”

“OK, copy that.”

Gary takes out an envelope and gives it to Rita. She immediately accepts it, opens it up, and sees cash inside in one hundred dollar bills. She counted it and it’s $5000 total.

“Thanks. So where’s your hotel?” Rita asked.

“There’s no hotel.” Gary answered.

“Don’t expect me to suck your cock in the bathroom, that’s not gonna happen. And don’t even think that you can fuck me in the subway. I don’t do sex in public places. Let me very clear about that.”

“No, you don’t need to do any of that.”

Rita started to look baffled.

“Okay, so what do you want to do?”

“If we could just sit here and talk, I’d appreciate it.”

“You’re not gonna ask me questions like some creepy journalist?”

“No.”

For a split second, Rita finally felt almost comfortable in the presence of Gary. I think someone can say that it’s her lucky night, she got paid $5000 with no need to perform sexual services. Just listen to whatever Gary has to say. The cocktail waitress delivered their drinks and he started to talk about his life- how bored he is with his wife, who he’d been married to for the last eighteen years, how he regrets having children who are now both teenagers. How he wondered how would have life turned out for him if he remained single. It’s funny really, how some “successful conformists” people like him have regrets about marriages and having children in their middle aged years. In a way, Rita is beyond glad that she hates children and has no plans of having one or dealing with one. Biologically, she’s still young and healthy enough to bore an offspring, but frankly, she knows for a fact that she’s not equipped for it. And also, she wants to spare any future human the suffering of life’s harsh reality without the pink motif of the Barbie movie that everyone was blabbing about as if it was some masterpiece motion picture from the 1930’s.

“I think I’m gonna divorce my wife and leave my kids.” Gary said.

“What? No, are you serious?” Rita replied.

“This whole family guy living situation is strangling the hell out of me! And half of my friends who remained a bachelor seems to have less headache than I do. I hate my kids and I don’t love my wife.”

“Gary, I think you’re making your decisions too quickly.”

“Oh yeah? What would you do if you’re the one in my place?!”

Rita was thinking very carefully before she says anything back to her client. She looked at the bathroom hallway and saw her friend, Carlos, a handsome Puerto Rican native who moved to NYC when he was sixteen years old, now he’s thirty. He walked out of one of the bathrooms zipping up his pants, looked around to make sure no one was looking, after he left the bathroom hallway, a fat guy with bearded face, wearing sunglasses also came out of the same bathroom where he was. Rita saw that and she smiled to herself.

“Rita!” Gary exclaimed.

“Hey, I’m sorry… I got distracted” She responded.

“So what would you do? Huh? If you’re the one stuck in a marriage and a couple of teenagers?! And all I want is for me to be happy! I think I deserve it.”

“I know you do. But you have a responsibility as husband to your wife and father to your children.”

“You don’t get it”.

“You’re right, I don’t. Because I chose not to be married, and not to have children. This is basic common sense.”

“Well hell, I think I got my answer.”

Gary then hurriedly stands up from the booth and looks at Rita. Rita seems to be confused.

“Thank you, I needed this.”

He then walks out of the bar. She watched him exit the bar, he walked out like an accomplished graduate student from NYU who finally completed his MBA and is now ready to take on the fucking world. Good luck to Gary. Rita then left the booth and moved towards the backside of the bar past the mezzanine seating area, and ordered herself an absinthe-based cocktail. She looks to her right and she sees Carlos again, who at this time, making out with some random guy, definitely someone from his age range. He noticed that Rita saw him. He then stops making out with the rando, seems to be nervous and then sits right next to Rita.

“Oh hi Carlos, who’s your friend you’re having some mouth to mouth action with?” She asked with a smirk in her face.

“Listen, it’s not what it looks like! I’m not gay!” Carlos replied.

“I never said you’re gay! Could you relax?!”

“Well, you’re making assumption about my sexuality! I’m straight, I’m not gay!”

“Carlos! I’m not making any assumption of anything! Just live your life, no one cares!”

“I always live my life. But so you know, sometimes I have to do things I don’t like just for the money.”

“Oh believe me, I understand completely. So who’s the fat guy with the beard that you were in the bathroom with? And that blonde twink you just made out?”

Carlos looks annoyed and irritated.

“Don’t talk to me like that! What’s the matter with you?! I’m not gay!”

He then storms out of the bar. She then smiles to herself. Rita thought it was funny that Carlos blatantly after she saw him in homosexual action. She never really understood why he keeps lying about his sexuality. Not just lying but also in full denial. The song “Chandelier” by Sia is playing in the background and she thought to herself, that night wasn’t so bad. It was an interesting tale of the prostitute and the liar. She also realized that life itself is one big costume party, and the biggest mistake anyone can make is by dressing up as themselves.

THE END
NEW UPDATE!

May 2nd, 2024

“New York In Fiction” is now “Bushwick In Fiction” as of 05/02/24!
“The Operator”

March 12th, 2022

“ARBEIT MACHT FREI”, that’s the German phrase that sits on top of the entrance gate of Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp in Poland that killed at least six million Jews. In English, it means “WORK SHALL SET YOU FREE”. What’s ironic about it is, the Jews who entered its gate was never set free by their slavery work for the Nazi Germans. Most them died and perished. The only time they were set free was when the Russians arrived and liberated Auschwitz on January 27, 1945. But this isn’t about a story of the Holocaust. This is a modern tale of a synonymous tyranny in the version of corporate America and White female privilege.

Year – 2021. Location – New York City. Job – Office Coordinator. Name – Travis Chenowith. Ethnicity – African American. Employer – Eumerican Trade, A fintech firm. Education – Boston College. Major – English & Literature. Chances of earning a true living as a writer – 50/50. Travis knew at the back of his head that it will be extremely difficult to earn a decent living after graduating from college. So he followed the necessary rule of mediocrity, get a day job to pay his rent and food. For whatever reason, he’s been pretty lucky that he got decent paying day jobs for Wall Street firms in Midtown Manhattan. His new job, which he got through an agency, took him five zoom interviews before the boomers who recruited him finally made up their fucking minds. It was a decent paid salary with guaranteed cash bonus and full health insurance benefits. What Travis didn’t realize is that decent paying day jobs always come with a high cost that even money cannot buy.

First Week.

It was the first time Travis has returned to the office since the lockdown. He is waiting for his supervisor, the office manager, Karen White. She’s one of the people he interviewed with over a month ago. Karen walks over, holding on her left arm what seems to be a preserved carcass of a small animal. As she approaches me, I could smell the scent of a middle aged woman. Not necessarily body odor but a musk that not even a body soap or a French perfume could eliminate.

“Karen? Hi, I’m Travis!” He greeted her while reaching out to shake her hand. Karen is hesitant and almost afraid to make any human contact.

“Hi, I’m Karen. I don’t shake hands…” She replied.

While she was trying to speak to him, he cannot stop looking at the preserved carcass of a cat that she’s holding on her left arm.

“If you could stop looking at him, I’d greatly appreciate that.” She barked.

“I’m sorry, stop looking at what?” he replied.

“At Mr. Kenny!

Karen then raised the preserved carcass of her dead closer to my face. I stepped back in terror.

“This is Mr. Kenny! He’s the love of my life because I hate people! He died four years ago and I decided to preserve him! Look how alive he is!”

“Okay, could you please keep him off my face?”

She then puts down the carcass, and gestures to for me to walk toward the front desk reception.

Karen White barked at me that the main phone line at the reception desk must be answered at all time. The pussy bitch also reiterated that when I see the company CEO outside through the cctv camera on my desk, to make sure that I buzz him in, even though he’s got his own badge that he carries around in his fucking wallet. So basically, Karen was telling him that he’s the CEO, and if he tells him to jump out of the window, that he should still do it. All in the name of an office coordinator job that pays $65,000 a year plus $7,000 bonus. To most people, it’s a decent salary to live off on while living in New York City. But the truth is, that salary is just pennies compared to what the senior management capitalists are earning in the wall street industry. They have this thing called “fuck you money”, an bonus amount that’s separate from the bonus that you receive if you’re a banker or a trader. It ranges from $100,000 to $1,000,000. The reason they call it “fuck you money” is because on top of your salary and bonus, you can spend that money any way and however you like, with no consequences or ramifications. Pretty sweet isn’t it? It’s one of those moments where Travis wishes that he majored in finance instead of English! But, it’s a little late to cry over spilled milk.

So during Travis’ first week at work, has been nothing but a shitty experience of cluster fuck, and a string of shit shows. Some people in that office seem to be shocked to see a Black, male receptionist manning the front desk.

Across town down on Lexington Avenue, the company has a sister office that operates on its bookkeeping and human resources services. They also have their own receptionist there named, Ruth. Ruth trained Travis during his first two days at the company. She’s probably one of the nicest people he worked with in that office. However, every time Karen stops by their desk while Ruth was training Travis on something.

“Are you guys feeling comfortable?” She asked.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“I said, are you both comfortable sitting so close to each other?” Karen screeched.

Travis and Ruth both looked at each other.

“Yes, we’re fine” I replied.

“OK, good to know. Ruth, make sure you teach him on how we complete the spreadsheets, our messenger service, and most importantly, our security guest list!”

“Sure,” Ruth answered.

Ruth continues to elaborate on some training things for Travis and then stands up from her seat to go to the bathroom. Karen then rolls up her eyes like a sexually repressed concubine.

“There’s always something with that girl” She said.

“Well, she needed to go to the bathroom just like everyone else.”

“Sure, sure. So how are you liking the job so far?”

“So far, so good.”

“I forgot to tell you this, but when you see the CEO, don’t make eye contact with him, no small talk, don’t try to be friends with him, only speak to him when you’re spoken to. Understood?”

“Yes, I heard you loud and clear.”

“Thank you”.

She then walks away while murmuring to herself. Travis thought she’s fucking crazy and wished he never accepted this job. But then again, he needs a job to pay the rent! And unfortunately, he doesn’t have a trust fund to dip into. He lasted on the job for about three months. Karen, the cunt office manager, made racist remarks about him during their meeting. The topic was in regards to his ethnic background. Given his African-American heritage, she made a comment that referred to the lynching of Black people in the South.

“You know Travis, if this was a seventy years ago, you and I were in the South, I’m your boss, and you made a mistake while working in the cotton fields, I would have had your Black ass lynched!” She said.

“But we’re not in the South. We are in New York City and the year is 2021.” Travis replied.

“I’m just joking with you! The problem with your generation is everyone is so goddamn sensitive! You can’t say anything anymore! My old school generation however, we can say whatever we want and then laugh at it!”

“There’s nothing funny about lynching Black people, Karen.”

“Whatever, I need to be on a conference call in ten minutes. Make sure you don’t make the same mistake again.”

Karen abruptly ended their meeting when she realized that Travis felt uncomfortable about her racist remarks.

That same day, Travis contacted the human resources office to report Karen. HR indicated and stated that they will get started in an investigation with her. However, two weeks later, he got called into a meeting with the vice president of HR and was told that he’s not the right fit for the job and is subject to immediate termination. He was also offered a decent severance amount on top of his last paycheck, under the condition that he will leave his job quietly. That meant, he cannot sue the company and he cannot talk about his termination with anyone. Those were the condition on the piece of paper that he needed to agree on. Considering that he has little money on his savings, he accepted their offer and he was fired.

The minute Travis walked out of the office building, he thought to himself, what the fuck just happened? He then realized that he got played by the corporate system that sustained him after all these years. He thought he was immune from these kind retaliation but he’s fucking wrong. Luckily, in less than a week, he found an assistant job at a talent agency, Creative Artists Agency, one of the biggest talent agencies in the world, representing the likes of Tom Hanks, Steven Spielberg, and Madonna. In a way, it was a “happy accident” for Travis.

THE END
“Car Crash”

April 6th, 2021

Start the engine baby

We have to go

Drive real fast

Because we’re

Both high

Hold my hand

Just in case

We die

But I’ll never forget

How you pushed me off

And tossed me aside

It was a hit & run

You left an accident

In my heart

And kinda fucked up

My mental health

Since you’ll never

Be with me

We might as well

Crash again
“Infinite Treatment”

February 17th, 2021

Where the fuck do I begin? The pandemic obviously fucked everything up for everyone. Jobs, relationships, businesses, wild parties, and worst of all, everyone’s mental health. I know it’s been eight years since my psychiatrist, Dr. Lessing, killed herself on the same day when I was about to have my seventh session. It was a cerebral betrayal. Something that I’m still struggling to get over with. Back to my self medication tactic, I went for my daily walk in my neighborhood of Bushwick, Brooklyn. No offense to Manhattan, but Brooklyn is the new mecca of everything – parties (lots of underground events going on despite the lockdown!), art, music, food, bars, restaurants, literally everything! Although, I still take time for a stroll in Lower Manhattan once in a while. But here’s the funny part of the short story, most of the time whenever I’m drunk or high on something, she appears in front of me. I was passing by Talon Bar on Wyckoff Avenue and Menahan Street. The pandemic has prevented any indoor activity in restaurants, bars, and clubs. But at Talon Bar, they have a nice outdoor backyard with heaters to warm you up during the winter. I looked at the time it’s almost 8:30 PM, so I was like, I need a fucking drink! I tried to find an empty table to myself but the entire patio was filled with people. However, I saw an innocent looking couple at the corner and joined them on their table.

“I’m sorry, I’m just waiting for a date, do you guys mind if I sit wait here for a few minutes?” I politely asked.

“Sure” the guy replied.

The couple seemed nice and very understanding. But I needed the table to myself, So I decided to apply one of my tricks that always pushes strangers away.

“Excuse me, does anybody here know the symptoms of syphilis?” I asked with a serious face.

“No,” the girl replied.

Then the young couple looked at each other and left! I just got the table to myself. I then smiled like an evil asshole and lit myself a cigarette.

Six glasses of old fashioned later, I was buzzed. The good thing of that table where I was drinking was, I was on the corner of the patio garden where I was almost hidden. Suddenly, I found Dr. Lessing, my dead psychiatrist sitting across from my table.

“Look at you, drinking all by yourself!” She said.

“Oh fuck off!” I replied.

“I sense a lot of hostility in you. What’s wrong?”

I took out a cigarette and Dr. Lessing lit it with her steel, vintage lighter. I looked at it and it’s engraved with her name, Diane Lessing.

“Do you really wanna know what’s wrong with me?”

“You bet your drunk ass I do!”

“You never fail to fucking disappoint me. This pandemic is still lingering around like a cheap slut, I haven’t found a day job so I’m still living on unemployment insurance, and the world has no fucking idea that I’m a playwright!”

“Oh boo-hoo-hoo! You’re shielded by unemployment insurance worth $900 a week, that basically pays you for doing nothing and you’re living in a seven bedroom loft! That’s a cushy welfare for someone unemployed.”

“Fuck you!”

“The only real problem that you have right now is that you’re not seeing the plays you’ve written on stage because Broadway is closed!”

“Why the fuck are you here then?”

“Simple, I’m only here to help.”

“That’s funny, because I need help 24/7 and you’re not doing a goddamn thing!”

“If that is so, I wouldn’t be here coming back for you from beyond the grave.”

“Then just fucking help me! You’re my psychiatrist! Well, not anymore because you’re dead!”

“Tell me what is that you want, Lorenzo. It’s beyond difficult it is for me to have in treatment with you if you’re unable to tell me specifically, what is it that you want help with!”

“I’ll tell you what I want. I want this fucking pandemic to be over! I miss drinking inside bars, I miss dancing by myself in clubs, I miss having sex with countless strangers, and you’re goddamn right I miss seeing my work on stage! Overall, I miss the normal way of human interaction.”

“You know that’s beyond my control.”

“Oh bullshit! Then why the fuck are you here?!”

“Lorenzo, let me tell you something, in every century, a cleansing season must begin. And it’s not the first time that this is happening. We’ve got the black plague during the middles ages, the Spanish flu, and now the corona virus! What a time to be alive isn’t it?”

“No, not really.”

“This historical mishaps are necessary in order to move forward to a better future.”

“That’s fucked up!”

“It is, but also necessary. In terms of returning to normalcy, that will be a big yes. There will surely be changes but just like seasons do, things will return to where it was. As with your career as a writer, you will get what you want, eventually.”

“That’s a fucking relief!”

“But in terms of love, you need to stop looking for it. Love itself will find you.”

“That’s ironic, because I’m beginning to think that something’s wrong with me.”

“Why is that?”

“Most people just grow up and love and relationships come in handy for them, with little or no effort at all.”

“You are not like most people, remember that.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that I’m special? Because that sounded a lot like my seventh grade teacher!”

“No, but you are unique and will always rise above the others. You will never be “normal” like the others, so stop trying. All the bullshit that you’re going through right now could be your final phase.”

“What final phase?”

“Your final phase. Meaning, a new chapter in your life is about to begin with little or no struggle.”

I laughed off what Dr. Lessing said. Because I’ve never experienced a life with any form or element of struggle. Just hearing it makes me feel like I’m listening to a church mass with the unicorn as the high priest.

“A life without a struggle?! What are you high?”

“Maybe a little bit, I snorted a little bit of ketamine on my way here. But that’s not my point! My point is, you’re finally arriving at a new chapter in your life where there’s more pluses than minuses.”

“Stop telling me good things when you know for a fact that things won’t get any better.”

“I’m not. That’s the advantage that I have as a dead psychiatrist, I can’t bullshit anymore.”

“I’m not sure if I should smile or vomit on your last sentence.”

“These are just my pieces of good advice. I should probably go, there’s this speakeasy club in Herald Square that I’m dying to check out!”

“Our illusionary treatments are always the best, Dr. Lessing!”

“Always a pleasure, Lorenzo!”

And just like that, she disappeared without a trace in plain sight. I looked across the patio and there’s this girl looking at me. She’s staring at my like I’m fucking crazy. She’s also sitting by herself.

“Instagram it, it’ll last longer!” I said.

“I’m sorry, it’s just I saw you talking to yourself and I thought it was entertaining.” She replied.

“Why don’t you join me, instead of us yelling at each other.” I said.

She joined me at my table. Her name Elisa. She’s an acting student at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in Manhattan, same school where Robert Redford, Grace Kelly, and other award winning actors received their training. She became more interested to know me since finding out that I’m a playwright. Just like that, we immediately got acquainted like some high school class from bumfuck nowhere who found each other here in New York City. We talked for about two hours and ordered more drinks. She then invited me to a house party nearby, and then revealed that she’s got a crush on her guy friend who happens to be gay and has no idea how hard she’s falling for him.

I ended up at the house party where Elisa dragged me to. It was at her friend’s loft near the Bushwick Beer Garden, On Jefferson Avenue and Wyckoff Street. There were several people there at the party when we arrived. Some of them were snorting lines of cocaine, some are passing around a bong. The music was blaring, mostly a mash up between 80’s synth pop and 90’s alternative rock. The music wasn’t bad. Over by the kitchen counter, there’s a platter of bite sized, THC brownies. There’s a sign next to it that says “CAUTION – MARY JANE BROWNIES”. I also met her best friend that she’s in love with – his name is Stan – he’s also an actor and goes to school with Elisa. He looked like the younger version of Ernest Hemingway. In some way, I guess I understand Elisa’s fascination with him. He’s a gay man who’s butch and masculine. What I’ve noticed was when I met Stan, he barely spoke to Elisa. He sounded more interested in talking to me which I found kinda strange, and we did back to back tequila shots with Elisa watching in the background. I noticed too that she’s giving me the sharp eye for spending an extended chat with the man that she’s in love with. So I told Stan that I needed to catch up with her.

“Sorry to cut you off but I think I need to catch up with Elisa.” I said.

“Yeah, sure. I should probably catch up with her soon too. But hey, I wanted to ask you something..” He responded.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Come out tomorrow night and have a drink with me. You’re a playwright and I’m an actor and I believe that we have some kind of connection here. Here’s my phone.”

“And why are you giving me your phone?”

“Put in your number and I will text you.”

I hesitantly typed in my number while glancing at Elisa in the background. I felt kind of guilty for being the person of interest of the guy that she’s madly in love with. Stan then texted me right away from his phone.

“Okay, I got your text.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow? Say yes.”

“Do I have any choice at this point?”

“No, no you don’t have any choice.”

“Alright, I gotta talk to my friend now.”

“OK cool, it’s really nice meeting you, Lorenzo!”

I just nodded my head and walked over to Elisa. She was sitting at the corner couch, looking quite upset. I walked over and sat on the couch next to her.

“Hey, how you doing?” I asked.

“How do you think? Obviously, the guy that I liked is more into you! Elisa replied.

“Elisa, stop blaming me for something that I have no control of.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just romantically frustrated.”

“I know, I’ve been in that situation years ago and please don’t ask me because I don’t wanna talk about it. Look, I have a good feeling from you and I want your friendship. Hope that’s okay.”

“I’d love that.”

“Good, now let’s do some vodka shots!”

Elisa and went back to the kitchen table of the apartment where they had all the booze and did shots of Ketel One vodka. I also noticed that Stan is standing on the corner, staring at me the whole time.

I thought to myself, why am I caught up in this situation? For whatever reason, I seem to attract dysfunctional elements around me. And I said to myself, fuck it! Because life will go on with or without me. Might as well live my fucking life free from any dogmatic restraint or fear.

TO BE CONTINUED…
“Skyline”

November 25th, 2020

I see you smiling

A million miles away

I pretend to feel

That you feel the same

You led me on

Like a red parade

I played along

Like I didn’t care

You made me believe

What I saw was real

Like a Disney ball

I kept dancing with you

Little did I know

What I was dacing with

Wasn’t even you

It was nothing

But an echo

Of possibilities

Here we are again

Back to where we started

Another mindfuck to fill the void

How soon can I escape you?

Tried to push you away

A thousand times

But you kept coming back

No matter what

I can run, I can hide

But I can’t escape your beautiful lie
Support, Donate, or Tip

November 20th, 2020
“A Never-Ending City” Choosing To Stay When Everyone Else Is Leaving

November 10th, 2020

An exodus has begun. Don’t be alarmed, this is just a short fiction, or not. You decide. My name is Paul Brenner and I’m a fucking writer living here in New York City.

Blame it on the invisible plague. Some kind of virus that originated in China, flourished in Europe, and hit its peak here at my home, New York City. A lot of New Yorkers lost their jobs, their gigs, their daily incomes. Broadway Theaters’ billion dollar revenue came to an unexpected halt. All of a sudden, actors, singers, musicians, playwrights, producers, directors, dancers, and anyone employed by the New York City theaters, found themselves in a lockdown. What’s the most hurtful of all is, the virus took away dreams and ambitions in progress for many people. Not just those in theater. And I’m one of those who ambition in progress got disrupted by the virus. Around March, I had my theater debut as a playwright, at the 2020 New York Theater Festival in Manhattan. I was slated for three performances, unfortunately, towards the height of our third and final performance, the festival got canceled, by order of the City of New York and the State Governor. I also lost my day job at a hedge fund on Park Avenue. The lockdown was declared in the middle of March 2020. All businesses closed except the “essential” ones, these include, grocery stores, pharmacies, and convenience stores. The first thirty days was a depressing period. I’m sure you could relate. After a week of being in lockdown, I got tired of being in quarantine, so I stepped out with my mask on, since the virus was also declared to be airborne. I walked on the theater district in Times Square, in East Village, in Soho, and Lower East Side. I was in search for a little breath of life, amidst the hundreds of death that occurred here in the city where I live. I missed drinking inside bars, dancing the night away in dance clubs in Brooklyn, going to house parties of total strangers that you just meet randomly. I missed all of it, dearly. My unemployment insurance from the New York State and some government assistance sustained my survival. Meanwhile, the majority of New Yorkers, I don’t want to accuse the “rich ones”, started leaving NYC. Some of them, retreated to their mansions in The Hamptons, some went back to their home states in the Midwest, the South, the West Coast, New England, and some to their home countries around the world. New York City has witnessed her own residents abandon her during a dark hour when she needed them most. But thankfully, not everyone left. I could’ve left if I wanted to. I could’ve patched things up with my estranged parents in Los Angeles and waited out the end of the “invisible virus” in the West Coast. But I didn’t. I chose to stay because there’s no place I’d rather be. I love New York City from the bottom of my impatient heart. When I moved here ten years ago from California, the minute I landed at JFK, I knew I was home. I knew that my love for NYC is real. I knew that this place is the empire of my dreams and ambitions. Those dreams and ambitions of mine did come true, although none of it has made me a millionaire yet. I can still prove to anyone that if you’re tough and smart enough to be here in New York City, dreams really do come true for you, considering you’ll put in all the hard work. You will learn to love this city and the city will love you back and will take care of you. It happened to me. And I don’t see any reason why it cannot happen to anyone who’s ambitious and willing to work their asses off.

The exodus of New Yorkers leaving the city continued like a broken water dam. Skeptics and pessimists has written her off. They all looked down at her like a murdered prostitute, that she had it coming. They eventually declared that she’s finished, she’s over. What everyone else has forgotten is that New York City herself, has died and came back alive, countless times when they all thought that she’s dead. The truth is, New York City will never die and she will live for centuries to come.

Fast forward to the month of early October, I’m still unemployed but I’m still writing. Still creating. Broadway theaters are still closed until May 2021. Dreams and ambition are canceled for now. But it does not mean that I stop doing what I love to do.

The melancholia that cloaked the city is still here. Some businesses have opened like restaurants, bars, and art museums, but with limited capacity per governor’s and mayor’s regulations. All the bars and restaurants needed to have an outdoor space so that their businesses would survive. Dance clubs however, are still not allowed to open. Which sucked big fucking time!

One day, I was at Citibank in Union Square in East Village. I needed to speak to an associate since I got a notification that someone in Upstate New York has got a hold of my account information and went on a shopping spree. For that reason, my debit card and checking account got frozen and I have no cash on my pocket. I didn’t have a credit card either. I went in there because I was literally down to my last dollar, and needed to access my bank account ASAP. But what happened when I got there? I was told that I have to wait for twenty four hours to have my issue resolved due to “technical difficulties”. That made me more fucking angry. So I flipped out at the bank associate who was tending to me.

“What the fuck?! Do you have idea what it’s like to be unemployed right now?! My unemployment insurance is set to dry out in thirty days! The pandemic destroyed my dreams on Broadway! What the fuck am I supposed to do?! How the fuck am I supposed to pay rent? How am I supposed to buy food?! Fucking tell me!”

The bank associate looked very sad because he didn’t know that what to say. I was one of the forty million unemployed here in America. After a few seconds, I realized that I was a total asshole for losing my cool. The bank associate walked away and grabbed the manager. Subjectively, I was still looking at them sharply through the glass window. Probably because I was very hungry and haven’t eaten anything that day because I only had a one dollar left on my pocket.

A woman, in her early forties, stood up from her seat and approached me.

“Excuse me, may I speak to you for just one minute?” She asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

I then found out that she’s talent agent at Creative Artists Agency, and that she’s scouting for writers or content creators for streaming networks like Netflix and Hulu. She also said to me that she completely understands what I was going through. Finally, the bank released a portion of my account and I was able to withdraw some cash. The name of the talent agent was Sue Rothschild. For a split second, the first thing that came to my mind was that she was a part of the illuminati conspiracy theory along with the Rockefeller Family.

The following week, I found my little world changed completely around. I handed over a copy of my play ” to Sue at Creative Artists Agency in Midtown Manhattan. During that same week, I was called in their office and they confirmed with me that Netflix wanted to buy the streaming rights for my play and produce it into a Netflix film. When I first heard it, it felt like I was in one of those Hallmark movies where things are finally turning in my favor. But the weirdest part was, I still felt numb despite the good news. A fragment of doubt was still playing in my head. I guess, life itself has knocked me out more than a thousand times so when something good finally happens, I’m cynical. But guess what? This is the reality right now and I need to face and accept it. There’s something good to feel about, and I will not shit all over it.

I walked out of my new talent agent’s office feeling like I’m on cloud fucking nine! After endless years of struggle, my lucky cards finally showed up! I received an advance payment of $50,000. Netflix was willing to pony up $300,000 for the streaming rights but my talent agency wants more and also wanted streaming royalties as well. Of course, I didn’t disagree, the bigger the deal my agent could accomplish, the better it is for me.

I am beyond glad that I never left New York City when everyone else was jumping ship. Perseverance does pay off in the end. I may no longer see my work on stage but hey, at least the world will still see it on Netflix!

XOXO NYC!