Fiction
The Only Living Boy in New York
Moving to the best city in the world at the worst time in the world
It’s late 2021 and the vaccine didn’t work. After the second, third, and fifteenth waves of COVID-19 flooded New York, millions of New Yorkers rode that wave straight out of the city and vowed never to return. Those who remained and persisted were eventually convinced to pack up their tiny apartments by the tidal wave of viral ‘New York Is Dead’ articles. The nail in the city’s coffin being a New York Times piece penned reluctantly by Jerry Seinfeld from his new home in Texas: ‘Okay, okay, I get it now, New York is dead.’
The Knicks moved to New Zealand. Woody Allen moved to Austria and even the rats migrated across the border. Still, it wasn’t enough to stop me from living my dream and moving to the Big Ol’ Apple.
I made my way in an empty plane, arriving via a deserted runway that once was JFK. The way the plane landed reminded me of the way my dad used to drop me off at school in the mornings. He’d pull up to the curb with a screech, reach over to open the door and shove me and my backpack out before speeding off and mumbling a goodbye. I was left standing on the empty tarmac with my bags as I watched the plane take off to faraway Corona-free safety. After the long-haul flight from Sydney, Australia, I was hoping to get my hands on a cup of the iconic cesspool that is black American coffee, but not even 1 of the 635 nearest Starbucks were still in operation.
I’d heard rumours that for the first time since the beginning of civilisation, finding an apartment in NY was going to be easy with everybody abandoning the place. So when the virtual real estate agent took me on a tour I was a little surprised to find what I could get for my budget, but at least I didn’t have to fight over it during the inspection.
“This is the living room and only room. All the other rooms are dead, get it?’
So there I was, living the dream. Sure the must-see Broadway shows, bars, comedy clubs, restaurants, galleries, coffee shops, pizza slices, hot dog stands, art galleries, museums, baseball games, bodegas, etc. were all closed, but hey, the buildings were still there. I was there! I’d made it. I could still take a stroll through Central Park as long as I didn’t touch anything or sit on a park bench or breathe or whatever. And you know what, the Dakota building actually looked pretty cool all covered in vines and weeds. I mean, I think it was the Dakota it was hard to tell.
Three days later and I was already starting to feel like a real New Yorker, except in place of the coffee, bagel, and subway were my gloves, sanitizer, mask, face shield, hazmat suit, force field, and bad temper. And you know what, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
