NYC: Open Call

I Heart New York read a crisp tee worn by a wide-eyed tourist. Rushing past you, the fool noticed neither you nor the other robots walking in step with him.

The tourist loved New York. He loved the buildings that hovered high above him, blinding him to what was really there. He loved the crowd of people that pushed past him — each individual more interesting than the last. The exotic faces of each New Yorker intoxicated the tourist. Transfixed by their glamour, the tourist forgot all about his angst. As he fell deeper and deeper into their gaze, he felt himself being pulled into a different dimension. As he walked the glimmering streets, he let his worries float away, out from the depths of his mind and into the humid New York City air.

The City advertised freedom for all who came, making it easy to lure the tourist into its trap. Unlike where he came from, the City enticed him with tales of being able to fulfill his dreams here. His destiny. The tourist saw opportunity all around. In his mind, it was deeply rooted in everything that was “New York”. The businessmen always advertised this idea to the tourist best. In their crisp designer suits, hands permanently magnetized to their phones and hair slicked back using the most expensive products, they represented the idealized dream.

But the tourist, lost in the allure of the city, only saw what he chose to see. Because in New York, reality didn’t reside within the businessmen or the tall, gleaming buildings. Reality was harder to find. It hid in the dark— within the shadows of the tall buildings and beneath the feet of the businessmen in their suits.

The real New York resided in the garbage on the streets; manifesting itself through the hustlers who ruled the street corners, or the bums hiding in the park. The “Old New York” you would hear being spoken about in whispers never left. It came out every so often — when you’d hear a racial slur on the subway, or when a man would whisper something perverted as a woman walked by. I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you. That New York was still there. It was slithering its way through the cracks in the pavement and into the deranged minds of each native city dweller.

But the most haunting image of New York was also the hardest to find. Only a true New Yorker could spot it, because only a true New Yorker knew that all those exotic faces that the tourist saw, the faces that transported him from his boring life and into a dreamlike reality, were merely masks— working hard to hide the pain that their souls carried.

New York: The New Sin City.

Fuck New York, you think to yourself. You arrived exactly a year ago today, by way of bribe. Opportunity, the City promised you. A younger, more eager you stupidly listened. You thought you could make it. You came with pride, with your head held high, thinking you had something unique to offer. That you were different. But once here, in the City that’s meant to make dreams come true, you suddenly felt not so different. In fact, no one seemed to be. All around you was the same grave expression, eyes transfixed on the vines of cracks in the pavement.

By the end of your first month, faces became undistinguishable. Everyone looked the same, acted the same. Shit, they even felt the same somehow. Only later, once out of your reverie, did you see that you possessed that same look; that you too were walking in rhythm to the cities oppressive beat.

How did you slip? You were in control, weren't you? The whole time you were in control. Couldn't She see you? Time kept trickling away from you, and you still couldn’t figure out how to get Her to see. You tried cutting your hair, changing your clothes. You even splurged on expensive shoes. The voice inside kept screaming to the outside in the hopes that someone would pick up on the beat. But no one ever heard your inner screams. They only ever saw the face before them.

She had always been smarter than you; saw right past your attempts. To Her, you were no different than the other robots trying to stand out.

Before you came there was a recurring dream that kept replaying itself in your mind. In it, you confided in the City and told Her all the great things you knew. She accepted you and sent you all Her riches. But the dreams stopped once you arrived. Different demons came out at night along with the rats and roaches, replacing your sun cast dreams. In the city, things came alive under the cover of darkness.

After a year of let downs, you began to question things. Maybe you weren’t so different. Maybe you were just like the other 8 million around you. With each let down, you seemed to be falling deeper and deeper into the mold the city had so intricately set for you. Little things in you began to change. You no longer smiled at strangers, choosing instead to keep your head hung low. You were less patient; you were shocked and angry when strangers distracted you on the subway; you’d shove people standing in your way; you'd curse at anyone who tried to take advantage of you, mistaking you for a dumb tourist.

Suddenly, you couldn't breath. You came in as a naive, wide-eyed tourist and a year later, while smoking a cigarette from your $15 pack, questioned which parts of your life were real and which had been imagined. It was getting harder and harder to decipher reality from fiction. You were lost within the city’s mist amongst others just like you.

Maybe these mixed feelings were the result of the rats venom flowing through your bloodstream. The City failed to mention that the metamorphosis would take about a full year to go into effect. The rat took no mercy on you, but treated you just like every other sucker who had fallen under its prey; who had listened to empty promises about New York. No one told you that only a few dreams came true here. More dreams died in New York than came to life.

From up on your fire escape you see another tourist on the street below. He seems lost — lost in the tall buildings, the pretty people, the fast pace of the urban jungle. He is hypnotized, unable to take his eyes off all the beauty and wonder. Only one thing could wake him from his reverie...

The rat opened wide, flashing its yellow stained, thin, sharp fangs. A slow, eery hiss escaped its mouth before it took its deep bite, reaching all the way down into the tourist's already dying soul.

New York: Now Welcoming All Tourists.