Part IV

The asshole that said nothing could suck out your soul like New York City has never been to 14th and 10th at two in the morning. Ignorant fucks. I made my way to the train and decided I was in no mood to deal with people. I caught a cab right outside the station.

"Where you go?" His uncanny ability to not form a full sentence really amused me. Here I am, taking freelance jobs and pissing in a tin cup while this rag-head of an "American" probably makes more in a week than I do in a month. And I don't mean to sound cruel, I just find an odd irony in the fact that the rest of the world's problems are charging me to get around my city. Fuck capitalism. 

"Yea take me to 73rd and Park."

"Nice there! You have friends?" I laughed and made the best of it.

"I have one friend and he stopped talking to me a long time ago. I'm going for business."

"Oh! Business! You make money! Very good!"

"You make more than I do. Cross at 86th. And I'm changing the stop, drop me off in front of the church on 79th and Park."

"Ah, church! Going to sermon?"

"... there is no God. I just saved you years of bad decisions." He didn't say anything after that; stopped sizing me up in the rear-view. I gazed mindlessly out the window and watched as the city's landscape changed from rent controlled to multimillion dollar plants and shrubs, let alone the buildings confined by them. Central Park is kind of like Detroit with it's railroad tracks... unless you live above the park. Everyone up there is fucked.

"Corner?"

"What?"

"Which corner?"

"Oh. Near is fine." He pulled over, rang up my fare, and took a long hard stare at me. I got out, no tip. 

I looked around. The streets wreaked of Burberry and Chanel. Everyone had a.. you know what, fuck it. Go see it for yourself. This shit makes me sick. I walked about half a block, fighting off the urge to have a smoke. I caved. The thought of walking around this seemingly wonderful paradise that I would never be a part of made me sick, So I had a smoke. 

I found the address stamped across an arch that made for the entrance to my employers palace. It was the closest thing to a house that Park Avenue had to offer. In fact, the only thing that separated it from a brownstone was the roof. That and the relatively small windows which, mind you, were spotless. I guess I couldn't really complain about it. These people probably employed New York's finest illegals. I walked up the cobblestone stoop which might as well have had a moat running under it, and rang the bell. I checked the time. I was early, and she still hadn't called me back, but I'll figure her into this much later. I'll spare you her company for now. The doorknob turned and shot the sun right into my eyes. I had my glasses, but $8 won't get you very far in fighting off the sun. The door opened.

The paranoia, the anger, the hopelessness that seems to live in my room with me, it's all closing in.