K in New York
Chapter 1: Bleak Street
It was his first job in New York City, and K. felt proud. He had left the quiet, suffocating inevitability of his hometown for the hopeful promise of the big city, bringing only a carry-on bag, a backpack, and the earnest belief that his qualifications were enough to build a new life. The opportunity had appeared in an online help-wanted classified, a digital tease that promised a future. His experience qualified him, the automated email response had assured him, a tentative confirmation that felt inviting. The job entailed selling subscriptions to the New York Times, offering base pay plus commission, a transaction where his worth would be measured in names and addresses. He was told to report for work at his soonest possible convenience.
K. got off the bus at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, a cavern of concrete echoing with noise where the air smelled of bus fumes and desperation. With his backpack slung over his shoulders, he exited the terminal onto the street, where a helpful pedestrian, eyes darting this way and that, directed him toward the New York Times Building, a short walk up the street, at 620 8th Avenue. He arrived at the building which loomed before him, a mountain of glass and steel. He entered. The lobby was stark and imposing. He proceeded to the nearest information desk. He held out his phone to show the desk attendant, the screen showing the email that was his passport to a new life.
“I start today. Can you direct me to Mr. Barney?”
The attendant searched the index of employee names, the cursor blinking with rhythmic indifference. While he waited, K. surveyed the incredible complexity of the city beyond the glass facade of the entrance, musing on its infinite possibilities, or perhaps its confusion.
“Go back out, and around to West 40th Street. Look for the loading dock, and tell them why you're here. Ask anybody where Barney's office is.”
He arrived at the dock, a place of bustling, chaotic activity that smelled of truck exhaust, stale cigarette smoke, and the sharp, chemical odor of ozone. He found Barney’s office, a dingy backroom crammed with a heavy desk, stacked inbox tray, and piles of newspaper bundles that occupied every available square inch. Barney sat behind the desk, face chiseled by years of deadlines met.
“Take a seat.”
K. sat in a battered leather swivel chair that creaked under his weight.
“Which one are you?” Barney scowled, squinting as if trying to focus on a distant, blurry image.
“I applied for the subscription seller job,” K. said, his voice steady, confident.
“Oh, yeah. Okay, look,” Barney said, waving a hand dismissively. “Be at the corner of 2nd Avenue—where it meets East Houston Street, tonight at 1:00 am. One of my trucks will drop off your first load. Have fun.”
As Barney turned back to his work, K. made a note of the rendezvous. He noted the time, and as a precaution, set the digital clock on his phone to remind him, and departed.
Determined to get the lay of the land, he found his way to the appointed location. He took a room in a men’s hotel nearby, a place of ceiling stains and thin walls, where he cleaned up, and fell asleep.
At close to midnight, he got dressed, wondering if he was dressed appropriately, and went down to the street. A late bodega was about to close, its fluorescent lights flickering. The clerk let him grab a snack and a bottle of water before shutting the door. He waited on a stoop, wondering what would happen. It was nice weather, the air warm and still, and he didn’t mind the wait. At exactly 1:00 am, the Times delivery truck arrived.
“Yo!” K. shouted, getting the driver’s attention. The truck braked with a squeal that echoed off the walls of the empty street.
“Are you the new kid?” the driver asked, his face illuminated by the dashboard glow, a mixture of colors. “I got a drop for you.” The driver got out, went back to the tailgate, and tossed a stack of the day’s papers onto the pavement with a thud. “Now, look,” he said, his voice low. “You ask them, ‘Do you want a subscription to the New York Times?’—like that, see?. And offer a free copy of today’s news. If they say ‘no,’ don’t argue; just say, 'maybe next time.' Like that. Your territory is the Bowery, from Canal to Cooper Square. Don’t ask for money, just names and addresses. I’ll be back tomorrow night at this time.”
The driver with his delivery truck then drove away, leaving K. alone with the stack of newspapers and the silence.
The prospect for taking subscriptions looked bleak. There was not a soul in sight. K. looked up the street. An odd assortment of street lights and shapes in profile met his gaze. The air smelled of wet garbage and fresh dog feces, a specific New York combination of things discarded and unwanted. The streetlights buzzed with a low, furtive hum that made his skin crawl with static electricity, casting long, jagged shadows that stretched across the concrete, making the cracks in the pavement look like the earth would split open at any moment. By the curb, a mountain of black garbage bags leaned precariously against a lamp post, the slick plastic looking blacker than black, exuding the smell of rotting fruit and stale beer. Flies—or maybe gnats—buzzed in a lazy circle above the pile.
Metal grates covered street drains, exuding the close breath of underground wetness that caught in the back of his throat. Manhole covers, shiny from wear, reflected the sickly warm glow of the sodium lamps. Graffiti scrawled across the lower walls of the buildings—tags in black, silver flake and electric blue, by an unknown hand, signs that claimed a turf he had no right to. A breeze picked up, causing a discarded soda can to tumble across the sidewalk, clinking like a beggar's tin cup.
Against the back-light of the cross-street ahead, he saw a figure turn the corner, and proceed towards him. K. stopped abruptly. The figure was easily 7’ tall, and thin as a rail. K. considered: should he turn and run, step into the shadows and hide, or confront his fears and continue on his path, disregarding the figure as they both passed one another? As the figure got closer, he heard a high-pitched giggle emanating from the tall figure. K.’s snap reflex was indignation, assumed the figure was laughing at him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” K. said, under his breath. “Just act like it’s nothing out-of-the-ordinary to meet a 7’ stick man in the middle of the night on a dark street in a strange city.” They passed one another without incident. K. breathed a sigh of relief, but did not look back.