stories

stories

the hum
The city has a tune all its own. The hustle
and bustle interspersed with raging sirens
and couples shouting at 2 am. Anyone
who has lived in this city long enough can
tell you it’s this kind of background noise
that eventually becomes integral to your
definition of silence. You don’t notice the
train passing by your bedroom window or
the sound of construction thundering on a
Saturday morning. You don’t notice, until
they vanish. Then suddenly your ears are
screaming for an escape from the quietude.
You never imagined that the sound of
nothingness could make you want to hide
in a corner and cover your ears. Because
you’re not accustomed to the earth’s hum.
So thought Nicky as he recounted the
moments that had left him standing at the
top of the Empire State Building.
Having lived all his life between the avenues
of the city that never sleeps, Nicky had
never heard the hum. But on one particular
Tuesday afternoon, Nicky woke up with a
faint sense that something was wrong. As
he stumbled out of his bedroom, letting the
stench of old Chinese food waft into living
room, he felt a tragic sense of loneliness.
Stammering onto the street he realized
everyone was gone. His roommate, his girl,
the dude he exchanged nods with at the
coffee shop. Probably even that annoying
guy Todd at work. They were all gone.
After the initial panic subsided, Nicky took
to roaming the deserted streets of a once
thriving metropolis looking for someone.
Literally anyone. Now, even that annoying
guy Todd would have been a welcome
companion. Life all alone was a hard pill to
swallow. Eventually though, he had gotten
used to it.
But it wasn’t a life of solitude that had
bothered Nicky most. It was the hum. Each
day that passed, it grew louder. A distant
ringing that was a drill in his eardrums trying

to pierce through to his brain. The hum never
ceased. It was there through the night. Only
getting louder when he closed his eyes.
No variety of earmuffs or expensive noisecanceling
headphones could provide Nicky
with even a moment’s relief. Maddened by
what he could only liken to auditory Chinese
water torture, ceasing the hum became
his obsession. In an act of desperation, he
had tried to deafen himself. Filling his ears
with glue or soaking them with hydrogen
peroxide. But to no avail.
Times ceases to matter when you are all
alone, thought Nicky. After many weeks,
that felt like months, he had started looking
for a more permanent solution. That’s what
brought him here. He was staring out of his
tenement-building window at a sky setting
on a dead city. In the distance Vincent
Scully’s “lonely dinosaur [rose] sadly at
midtown” and for the first time, Nicky had
felt a glimmer of hope.
He then set out to climb all 1,576 stairs
determined to escape the sound. With each
step his heart swelled, epinephrine pumped
through his blood. With a joyous leap, Nicky
had burst out on the observatory deck
only to be welcomed with an even more
deafening symphony. “It’s magnified at the
top,” he thought, “like the best seat in the
house at Carnegie hall.”
He realized then that there was no escape
and began to clamber over the tall metal
railing and plunged over the side. For a
brief moment as he fell, the sound of the
wind rushing past his ears gave Nicky the
momentary escape from the hum he’d
been looking for all along. A few mere
inches away from the sidewalk below, he let
out a sigh of relief. Nicky had found a way to
escape the hum. He landed with a thud that
reverberated through the streets creating a
hum of his own.

church &
51st and Fifth. There stood
Sam, gazing up to marvel
at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“A monument to the great
Catholic Church,” he thought
noticing the local marble
and lavish Tiffany altars. Spires
three hundred feet tall reach
towards the heavens and
shout a proclamation of power
and wealth.
Sam tiptoed around the
stately figure, peering into
the church through the mural
of intricate stained glass
that caressed the light rays
into the building. Rows and
rows of hard-backed pews
silently preached restraint and
discomfort inside. He could
hear the pipe organs blasting
symphonies of sound that
echoed into every corner. Sam
was in awe. He felt his chest
inflate and an electric current
run through his heart. It was a
feeling he could only describe
as divine. Sam felt safe, like a
baby being swaddled by its
mother.
But it didn’t last. As he
stepped back, the rest of the
world rushed back into view.
Stumbling back he could see
the whole picture. This marble
giant wasn’t as formidable as
it once was in the 19th century.

Slowly, over time, the city had
crept farther and farther north.
All around, the skyscrapers
of today encroached on this
sleeping dinosaur. Each new
building hovering taller and
taller. Each one surpassing St.
Patrick’s spires and reaching
one foot closer to the heavens.
Sam’s feeling of security
vanished. Fiftieth Street was
simply a block from a different
era. Sam’s eyes seized to
adjust to the Neo-Gothic
design clashing with the stark
lines of modern buildings.
Industry was overpowering the
church.
In a grasp of panic, Sam
spun to avert his eyes from
the incongruence. But even
then, there was no relief. Even
Atlas, who stood just across the
way, was eyeing the ancient
colossus. Ready to shrug at a
moment’s notice and usher
in a world unchained from
outdated beliefs. A world not
imposed by sin and guilt. A
world of dreams and profits.
“Just like it has no address,“
Sam thought, “it has no real
place in today’s New York.”
He slowly walked away,
embracing the direction of the
world.
industry

foot
candy

Escape the hustle and bustle of the
avenue outside and find solace
behind the revolving doors of
Bergdorf’s. People say New York is
like no place on earth. Those people
have never been to the Shoe Salon
at Bergdorf Goodman.
Silver-gilded elevators bring you
up. They open up into a magical
world. A world of bright colors and
shimmering lights. You step out as
endless tables of shoes beckon you
in.
As you walk through the store, its
transforms. You’re not an adult but
a kid in a store. A store bursting
with candy and ice cream and
more. Not shoes but gumdrops and
jellybeans line the walls of this floor.
Lollipops and white chocolate.
Ribbons of candy and licorice.
You skip by tables and tables with
a grace of when you were eight.
The shelves are laden with sweet
goodness. Willy Wonka, it seems,
has invented this place.
Life you can see, is a cotton candy
dream. At Bergdorf’s, they’ve got
shoes of lilac and purple and pink.
Boots clad in black leather and
suede soft as mink. Shimmering
silver and gold heels catch the light
and gleam as you pass.
Sweet melodies are flowing. And
in the next room, you can swear
they’re playing your favorite song.
You want to dance and twirl tirelessly
through the place. Bergdorf’s, you
think, must be heaven on earth.
Manolos are beautifully displayed
like cakes on a pedestal. Louboutins
stand glimmering under an art
deco light. It has the grandeur of
Gatsby’s mansion. And a style to
match.
Surrounded by luxurious sofas
covered in sumptuous fabrics.
Regal armchairs beckon you in. You
fall onto one as time slows. Your hair
cascades in perfect folds after you.
There you are outstretched,
surrounded by a world of delight.
Everyone is smiles and songs.
Delivering scrumptious foot candy
in silver boxes. You’re Cinderella
and every shoe is the perfect fit.
You bounce to the register with joy
in your heart. You’ve found one that
fits! It’s perfect, you think. You hand
off your card with not a care in the
world. Reality comes crashing back
as you max out your Amex. And
all you’re left with is a light purple
shopping bag.

Just like the steel workers of the
1930’s, Dale sat high in the sky with
his ham sandwich in hand. Near
the 70th floor of One World Trade
Center to be exact. A window
washer sees the world differently.
He peeks inside a world hidden
behind unbreakable glass. And the
freedom tower was a world and a
skyscraper like no other.
This wasn’t any old building
crowded by its counterparts. This
was a symbol. A symbol of hope
and strength. Like a beacon rising
up through the ashes. One World
Trade stands in the ruins of a day
that was filled with confusion and
fear. A day that every New Yorker
remembers.
A black hole stands nearby,
reminding passersby of the dark
day that has passed. Never to be
forgotten, the water flows down
endlessly. Each drop echoing the
names of those engraved in the
granite.
This building was no small feat. It was

lunch
atop a
skyscraper
a goliath of steel and glass. Standing
strong on an impenetrable base of
concrete and the American spirit.
Looking down, Dale saw the
bustling metropolis buzzing by
him. People—like ants—scurrying
to keep up with the pace of the
world. Dale took a bite of his ham
sandwich, relishing this moment,
knowing that this place was a
symbol of the America he had
always known.
You could say One World Trade
is a mathematician’s dream.
Standing in all its octagonal
glory. Magnificent glass triangles
perfectly aligning and sending
your eye up and away to the sky.
Jutting out from the concrete is
subway nearby. Like the spine of
an ancient creature coming up for
air and diving back down under
the tallest building in America.
To the people below, One World
Trade is a world of glass. Gazing up
as it
gleams and glistens. Catching the
light from wherever it may shine.
This building had a mind all its own.
Transforming itself into whatever
it likes. One day a warship with
its spire like a ship’s mast sailing
majestically through the sky. The
next, masquerading around as a
twin of the buildings nearby. Today,
Dale was perched on an invisible
giant that had taken on the look of
clouds.
lunch
atop a
skyscraper

All of New York’s best-kept secrets are
hole-in-the-walls. No New Yorker ever
brought their friends for a locals-only
experience to a mega-chain restaurant
with bright, shining neon signs on 42nd
Street. Memorable nights were never
had a Dave and Buster’s.
Joe’s Pizza, stands near a corner of NYC
that managed to retain the seediness
of New York days past. Even as the rent
soars continually higher. No doubt, this
corner was just as grimey as the day Joe
opened shop in ‘75.
In those days, no Spiderman film was
taking over your favorite shop. Cops
coined it Fear City. Tourists ran in fear for
their hotels rooms, trying to make it inside
by 6 o’clock. A slice was closer to a
dollar, and came with a smile to match.
The city was as good as bankrupt and
moved much slower.
In a world overcome with choices,
people find solace in that, at Joe’s the
menu can be read in a quick glance.
No wacky combinations or Frankenstein
slices exist here. You can’t order a taco
or Caesar salad masquerading as a
pizza slice.
There’s no use in describing a pizza

that someone hasn’t tried. Yes, there’s
cheese and sauce and crust. But it’s
more than that. It’s an unseen magic
that occurs inside that oven. There’s
a mad chemist in there. He’s busy
creating reactions with secret chemical
compositions only Joe and his disciples
know of.
But, this hidden gem isn’t what it once
was. Today, rows of dubious tattoo shops
are brightened by the ties of briefcasetoting
New Yorkers lined up to get a slice
after 5.
There’s a new line of patrons gathering.
Each hoping to have their taste buds
astounded.
Transplants. Transplants from all over
litter the sidewalks. Touting their selfproclaimed
local expertise. Sharing
uninvited stories of their grotesque
sexual exploits while you try not to choke
on your slice.
Inside and out, a cloud of tourists is
swarming the place. Like Mohammed’s
30-dollar hotdog, they’re sure the
following must be an unquestionable
fact. Seven Carmine Street is the
undisputable champ in the fight to hold
the title of New York’s best slice.

the waiting room
Ascending with the lightness of a
parkour master, Cheryl was spit out
from the subway entrance and
onto the streets of the 9-to-5 world.
Dashing past tie-wearing businessmen
with heads full of finance, she ran
down Broad St. towards the water.
The smell of salt and deceased fish
that wafted through the air told her
she was getting closer.
Bolting across the streets, Cheryl wove
expertly through a gridlocked pattern
of yellow taxicabs and black Lincolns.
Glancing at her watch as she edges
nearer the maritime building lavishly
adorned in ornaments of greens
and pinks. With a ticket in hand she
flies through the waiting room. Only
a minute to go as she handed her
ticket to the attendee. Securing a
coveted spot at the back of the ferry.
The soft rocking of the boat eased
her heart rate down. The fog horns
sounded a deep, flat note as the
ferry pushes off and away from
Manhattan.
The old battered wooden seats
provided a moment’s relief to
Cheryl’s aching limbs. She was never
much of a marathon runner. But
before she could even regain her
breath, the floodgates opened and a
swarm of people was released onto
the soil at Governors Island.
Stepping foot on solid ground, the
air of spring caught her attention
and pulled her into a lush garden of
blooming flowers and tall trees. Trees
older and wiser than the surrounding
buildings. Turning for a moment
to look at the city she left behind.
Sailboats whizzed by her sightline.
Folks frolicked carelessly aboard while
a world of worker bees, chained to
desks, sat on the big island just a few
yards away.

Strolling past fortresses that hold
deep dark secrets of war stories
past, Cheryl made her way through
a world unlike the one less than
1000 yards away. The island was
an empty shell. There was no life
in this place, save for the racially
ambiguous father-son duo, which,
almost too conveniently, happened
to be playing Frisbee in a wellmanicured
lawn. In the distance,
a group of hippie-like hipsters sat
weaving together a useless teepee.
She felt the slow rock of the boat
come back to her as she awoke
she realized she’s still in the waiting
room. Ticket clenched in her fist.

A