Warren Adler 2007 Short Story Contest Finalists

See complete contest information including other winning stories.

I am a newly arrived immigrant to New York. I am living in Queens in a dingy room where I must bang the radiator for heat and dread the appearance of a giant water bug that lives somewhere beneath my two ring stove. There is a pervasive smell of damp and dust here and no matter how many scented candles I burn or incense sticks I wave about, I cannot beat it back. Next door a man coughs. And coughs and coughs. I’m paranoid that he suffers from TB and that our shared bathroom will pass on more than just the noxious gases he emits there.

I hate it. I want to go home. I am lonely, despairing and feeling like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life. I came here armed with a little bit of money – enough to find me the hellhole I live in and to keep me in cheap, nasty fast food and microwave dinners. But I also came with hopes, dreams and a vivid notion of what New York would be like. It would be just like the movies; glistening Macy snow globes, gorgeous men in tweed suits, cocktail parties and Sex and the City wardrobes. I’d bump into movie stars every day on my way to my fabulous high flying job in television or publishing or some extremely worthy not-for-profit. I’d be Mary Tyler Moore, whirling my hat in the air, delighted at my incredibly fortuitous existence in the city that never sleeps. In short my lifestyle here would be nothing less than fabulous. My bubble has truly burst.

I step outside. The air is crisp with the peculiar mix of cold and crazy that only Manhattan serves up. I have to soften my ‘T’s’ in the local bodega, saying "butta" instead of butter when I ask for a bagel so that Ibrahim, the deli guy can understand me. The steam is rising from my coffee cup and I struggle to hold it upright with my thick gloves. I take a sip, it burns my lip and my foot goes from underneath me on the slippery sidewalk. I swear out loud. This is not a good day and it’s only 8.30am.

I’ve just gone through menopause while waiting at the bank for the dour customer service rep to deprive me of my hard-earned cash. The searing wind rips through my polyester parka and I am chilled to the bone.

Today I am fed up of this city; fed up of the biting winter cold, the constant drone of traffic and the homeless man who plays salsa music loudly at a 4am in the morning outside my bedroom window. Yesterday I was propositioned by a man with no hair or teeth who offered to marry me. The week before an older man just walked up to me outside Duane Reade and squawked loudly in my face for no apparent reason.

I am jostled and pushed as I make my way into the crowded N train heading down town to my nondescript temping job. And even there, comes no respite. Shirley, the surly receptionist barely greets me as I walk by her desk in the morning, annoyed I’m guessing at some unspoken injustice I have done her. I can no longer take delight in the compliments on my ‘charming’ accent. I feel fake and phony. In my cubicle, I listen to the alarmingly loud laugh of a colleague at some video circulating the office and I feel even lonelier that I cannot share her laughter.

This is the third week at this godforsaken company selling million dollar property and million dollar dreams. My boss is a hyper, (was that white powder on his nose after lunch?) unfriendly man who barks orders at me from his windowless office. My nerves are a-jangle in case I make a mistake with one of his many “extremely important” documents. I take many toilet breaks where the cubicle doors barely allow for privacy just to sit and hold my head in my hands and wonder why?

I know why. A change, a chance to live a dream and to get away from the humdrum and safe existence back home. Things were nice and samey there. I had friends, a good job. I even had a lover. He was married but going to leave his wife or so he said. I knew that to be the biggest untruth of all, more fake than the mannequins in the window I passed daily.  And so when the envelope came in the mail, giving me the right to work legally in the United States, I jumped at the chance. It made perfect sense at the time. I’d go there. I’d make millions. I’d be happy and when I’d come home to visit, I’d walk by my ex-lover in the pub, leaving a scent of success and smugness in my wake.

But now alone and pining, I feel like a penitent. New York seems more a city to be endured than to be experienced. I live for the end of the day so that I can escape home to my tubercular studio and my tepid existence.

5 o’clock. Quitting time. Shirley is locking up for the day, her face set in rigid response to all comers, without even a sign of a thaw. I empty the dregs of my Dunkin Donuts and bagel into the trash can and begin to layer up for the journey home.

I walk along 42nd Street. It is already pitch dark – the grey, January light long gone. I have a notion to take myself to a movie, perhaps the new big budget epic with many famous and handsome men.  It will be a change from the distorted, rabbit eared television picture I have in my room.

I wander into a bar on 43rd Street to warm myself and have a bite to eat before the film.
Sitting at the bar, I can hear the faint thump of kettle drummers filtering through the sports coverage and hum of conversation. I notice that my fifteen dollar manicure is chipping already, the result of over zealous sheet tucking earlier that morning and vow that I will not spend any more money on expensive nail décor. An uninspiring Merlot causes my face to flush and I reach in my purse for some powder to dampen down my puce cheeks. The barman hands me my oversize plate of fish and chips and I proceed to eat.

In the corner of my eye, I soon become aware of someone looking; a shape, a certainty. The person is gazing in my direction and I am nervous in case I turn to look and the man for that’s who I presume it is, is not actually training their eyes on me but in front or behind me, on someone else. I continue eating but I sense the eyes are still watchful, inquiring and ceaseless. I have heard about stalkers, stranger crime, women being warned against unknowns they meet in bars. Back home I never had to worry about this. I was always with people, rarely on my own and certainly never under threat. I take another swallow from my glass and try to ignore the gaze.

I cannot relax though and find it impossible to distract myself with my food and wine and vague glimpses at the television. I am becoming uncomfortable and it shows. Between bites I fidget with the hole in my tights beneath my flimsy jersey skirt. This staring seems unspeakably rude to me and continues to solidify my belief that New York is far from the
 city I had imagined it to be. A city full of hostile strangers who ogle you in bars.  The barman asks me if I want another glass of wine and before I answer a hand reaches over my shoulder, slaps some money down on the bar and declares “I’ll get that!”

I turn and instantly I recognize a face I have not seen in about 10 years – my friend from Dublin, Maureen. We do a “what, where, why?” and fall into each others arms in mirthful laughter.

“I spied you from across the bar”, she says, “But you’ve cut your hair and you have glasses on so I wasn’t sure it was you. I kept looking because I didn’t want to surprise a total stranger!”

I tell her that I was sure some serial killer was keeping an eye on me – determined to knife me once I left the pub. She tells me she has been living in New York for 8 months, about 4 more than me, and finds it tough going. Also over on a green card and without any friends or family here, save for an uncle in Connecticut, she regales me with tales of
 hostels, failed room-mate disasters and her current search for a share in Manhattan. We haven’t laid eyes on each other for over 10 years but once we get chatting, it’s like those 10 years evaporate. My heart is overjoyed at a friendly face, a glimpse of the warmth from home and of fond memories, a feeling of belonging. I fill her in on my life in frantic, festive chat, our words and sentences tumbling over each other in an effort to catch up on a decade of living.

Over several more glasses of wine, we formulate a plan. We will find a place to live together. We will make a determined effort to get out and take full advantage of the sights and sounds and experiences New York City has to offer, starting with a tour on the Circle Line the following week. Maureen has already joined a gym and entreats me to come along as her guest. We will see a Broadway show within the next month; we will have brunch at a ritzy hotel. We will buy impossibly high heels and wear them out for cosmopolitans.

I return home that night, dizzy with wine and happiness. How small a thing has changed my day, my world, my life here in New York? Suddenly it does not seem to be the dismal place I deemed it. My phlegmy neighbor hacks away next door but it seems funny and quaint to me and I am certain I won’t be listening to him much longer.

It is Saturday morning. I am awakened at 4am by our favorite salsa lover and the whoops of laughter from the reveler playing it. Instead of pulling the pillow over my ears as I usually do, I tune in, listening to the subtle rhythms and sounds on the boom box, marveling at how such a simple thing can bring such joy to a person without a home.
I have not seen the water bug for a week – perhaps he has departed to sunnier climes.

I pull on my clothes and venture outside to the bodega for coffee and a bagel. It’s just bread I think, bread with a hole in it but this morning, the melted butter and crispiness make it taste extra special. Ibrahim, the coffee guy makes a joke with me about my accent and I laugh, our first pleasant exchange.

I am heading into town to meet Maureen. I observe all the faces on the subway. All the nations, colors, variations on a human that I would have never seen back home in my small town.  There is a heated exchange on Broadway where I exit the subway; two street vendors fighting over sidewalk space. Now this seems exactly like a scene I have witnessed in a movie.

I ponder how in a few short days my perspective on this city has changed. How with addition of a friendly face, a known quantity, I am suddenly so much happier in my new home. I think about the awful cold, the crappy job, the sour receptionist and somehow it’s not quite as depressing. Maybe I am here for a reason. Maybe this great city will open like a pearl in the coming months and reveals its wonders to me.

I consider all the other immigrants from all the places all over the world who come here, same as myself, seeking a new life, a new start and I feel part of a community of hope and fresh beginnings. Maybe, just maybe this won’t be such a bad decision after all.

Maureen meets me at the Circle Line stop and we grab a pretzel and a soda from a cart nearby. She’s got the Village Voice and has circled potential places for us to visit later with a view to finding our new shared apartment together. But before we do that – we’ve got some shoe shops to visit.