6
The buildings in the Chelsea district of Manhattan, were, at least in my eyes, a representation of a less buttoned-down European city that had gone rogue over the years. The houses built a level into the ground, of multicolored hues, with a mixture of the stained awning and sliding windows, were primly cut and somehow held something of transience for me. That feeling wasn't just localized to any particular street either. It was something sharply distinct I'd felt, even in the blocks surrounding that little three-mile radius that made me go mad on the inside, like a magpie being taunted with a shiny bracelet in front of it. Perhaps, it was foolishness to feel so giddy when hunting down affordable rent spaces to move into. Yet somehow, that was exactly how I felt when I stood outside the rather charming, rose-painted stucco walls, of the four-story Compton Building. A small, humble establishment, of that there was no question - the outer presentation had me sold anyways – the price was a little high, but the scholarship could take care of it, plus a few menial side-jobs during the weekend would be enough to cover the entire package, even if barely.
Hauling the million different cardboard boxes full of photo frames, crumpled romance novels, an assortment of toiletries, and freshly folded clothes, up the narrow stairway to the room with the plain hardwood flooring which was to be my room for the foreseeable future, from the back of the red Volvo truck parked downstairs, was a different matter altogether. And it would have been nearly unmanageable had it not been for the help provided by my Aunt, as we took the two-manned approach to lug all my belongings in a strategic manner, efficiently going about the business of settling in. By the end of the morning, we had stocked everything neatly into its rightful place other than a few duct-taped boxes here and there which I'd left for the upcoming weekend. There were still a few days before University classes would kick in and as impressive as the Compton building had looked from the exterior, it looked that much more downcast on the inside – thereby only reaffirming what I already knew. It would take a long time before this new place of domicile - in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Manhattan Island - would start feeling like home again.
But not all that long, I told myself, as we went out for a bout of shopping on Church Street, walking down the neon-lit avenues, and past the barnacle-encrusted glass panes of designer shops and the red paper lanterns and origami dragons hanging outside the Chinese cuisines with a kind of starry look in my eyes, while simultaneously feeling this incredible sense of belonging already. That sense was present and beating down hard in the forefront of my mind whilst Manhattan pulled us in deeper and deeper and I got lost in what it had to offer. This was the city, as it was meant to be taken in. If you strip back the façade of the filthy pavements, the clogged traffics, the insane number of pedestrians bumping past us every second, it was all about the sound of the street artists on every corner, the overflowing subway exits, the famous movie scenes, the Times Square pictures on pamphlets, and the commercials that had advertised the Big Apple in a certain ethereal way since time immemorial. Growing up, I used to call this feeling the "New York Connection". Later, I'd learned it was just a feeling born out of an escapist fantasy in a young girl's head while she lived a meager existence in Pennsylvania. And even from my time in the boring old suburbs of Queens, from where I'd made the switch, I'd always wondered what it must be like to live on the other side of town, where things looked so much more distant and exciting. And now, I didn't have to imagine anymore because this was to be my home for the next few years.
I'd known that for a while too, even before I graduated from Midtown High. It had all really kicked off with the scholarship, which I'd been trying so hard to get for the past few months and which, when it had come through, had surprised me because I'd felt like I had hit a snag in the process. But the mail was there, waiting to be opened in my flooded inbox, right after the exams. I had been accepted for the theater program at Empire State University. To say I was overjoyed would be an understatement. I was no academic whiz kid, so, in my estimation, I had worked extraordinarily hard to achieve my spot. And that would have justified the excited screams flooding through my bedroom window the day I got the news, though my Aunt might have had a few objections about that. What followed next was obviously the breaking up of two years of school cliques and friendships and relationships and tight bands. The farewell celebrations, a few weeks later, were blasted off ceremoniously with the sight of graduation caps flying through the air. Songs were sung, tears were shed, promises were made, pictures were framed for posterity, and future arrangements were made that could never be kept. Liz would be going her own way, and I would be going mine, and I suspected even then, that no matter how close in touch we stayed over the internet, or through our phones, the next time we met each other in the flesh it would only come about as sheer happenstance.
As for me and Harry, that particular relationship could keep going on, mostly due to the nature of our unique circumstances. Harry had been picked for a high-ranking position at his father's company, and unsurprisingly, there was no choice in the matter. It was what his father wanted him to do and it afforded Harry the chance to impress him by showing him he wanted it too. For the first couple of years, it would be a training period to prepare him for the real deal down the line, but it also meant that he was stationed in Manhattan, like me. So, whilst I would be attending my classes at ESU, he had promised to drop down from his penthouse on Fifth and Central to pay me regular visits. Plus, his familiarity with the Manhattan layout allowed me to seek his help when it came to hunting for a place to stay. Trouble was, all the places he knew were either – A. surplus to my requirements or B. way out of my budget – and I had to politely rescind my request for his help. He was disappointed but understanding of my reasons. Also, the places he suggested were either too far north or south of the University campus, and given the state of the New York traffic, I needed it to be someplace a lot closer for the little matter of traveling back and forth.
So that's how I'd ended up at the Compton building. I'd heard about this small place in Chelsea from my Aunt's mouth one day over supper, and she said she'd heard about it from May Parker. It was a stroke of luck really, and it saved me months of painstaking search and asking people to point me in the right direction.
I don't know what it was about that period, but everything seemed to be falling into place without any hiccups. From the scholarship to the university call-up, to finding a place to live; if I didn't know any better I would have thought there was something else pushing me down this path towards an unforeseen destination. Call it destiny, or fate - two words I'm not a big fan of – it was hard to argue against the drive and the motivation and the general positivity that was coursing through me at that point in my life. Fresh out of school, free from my father's abusive stranglehold over my life, I was raring to go and enjoy the next two to three years of my life in the most thriving and exciting place in the states. Perhaps, the only big surprise in that 'things falling into place' or 'things going to plan' business was when I came to know who was living across the hall from my room in the Compton building. Though, with the number of times I'd already run into him at odd places maybe I shouldn't have been because who else could be my new flat neighbor, except Peter Parker. When I found that out, and I found that out when I saw him standing outside the neighboring door in the hallway struggling with the lock one day, it kind of made me realize why May Parker had been the one who'd mentioned the location of Compton building to my aunt. We acknowledged each other's presence with an awkward smile and a nod before disappearing behind the thin veil of our doors.
From street neighbors on Queens to flat neighbors in Manhattan. Somehow I couldn't get rid of Peter Parker and neither could he get rid of me.