My Typical New York Day
I wake up every morning at 7:30 A.M. to my alarm, which is a mashup of “Theme from New York, New York,” “Empire State of Mind,” and the audiobook of “The Bonfire of the Vanities.” I spend a few minutes taking in the spectacular view of the city from my apartment on top of the Chrysler Building and then pop over to the Statue of Liberty for a quick morning visit with my roommates, the 1995-era cast of “Friends.”
Next, I head to my favorite bodega, to get a bagel smothered in cream cheese and Langston Hughes poems. I spend some time there chatting with Joe, the owner, who has lived in New York for the past two hundred and fifty years, and has always been eighty-three years old. Joe likes to tell me stories about how much better the city was in the nineteen-thirties, when there were still newsboys and polio outbreaks on every corner. He’s the greatest.
After my bagel, it’s time to go to work. I commute to my office by hopping in a classic yellow cab and telling the driver to step on it to the nearest subway stop, which I then ride to the Staten Island Ferry, which takes me the rest of the way. There are so many awesome ways to get around the city. I hate all of them.
It’s tough to describe exactly what I do, but I guess I would characterize it as a combination of Wall Street trader, real-estate mogul, Times Square Elmo, commissioner of the Department of Sanitation, and understudy for Aaron Burr in “Hamilton.” My office is in a glass skyscraper that is five thousand feet tall. It has been praised by multiple community groups as an affront to God.
I work a pretty standard New York day of between nineteen and thirty-seven hours. My weekly salary ranges between two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and a fifteen-dollar coupon for lunch at the Olive Garden. It’s never nearly enough to make rent.
My job is my life, but it’s also just something I’m doing to make ends meet while I pursue my true passion, which is why I moved to New York in the first place. My boss is maniacally focussed on making more money for the company, and motivates us by shouting “This is New York, people! You’re in the big leagues now!” once every seventeen minutes.
When work lets out, it’s time for the real fun to begin. I usually start my evenings by heading to Brooklyn to gentrify a neighborhood, after which I go back to Manhattan to complain about how much cooler Brooklyn used to be. Then I’ll go watch “The Lion King” on Broadway, make an appearance on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert,” and grab dinner at nine different New York pizza joints and one restaurant where they won’t let you in unless you’re wearing a tuxedo made out of American Express black cards.
After dinner, I’ll wander up to the Metropolitan Museum to appreciate each piece of art for the appropriate amount of time. Then I’ll take advantage of the city’s legendary night life. I’ll start out at the Cotton Club, then check in at CBGB, then mosey over to Studio 54, and finish up at a very trendy place with a one-syllable name that I am not allowed to say out loud under penalty of exile.