Page 50 of Ruin

Now I’m deep into adulthood, barely scraping by financially in a city that demands everything, and my social circle consists of my parents, my sister, and a few dogs in the neighborhood that I know by name. I couldn’t name their owners even if I tried.

I walked leisurely, savoring the brief respite from my office’s artificial environment. The shock to my senses I experienced when I left the office had subsided for now, replaced by the steady pulse of the city. Despite the heat, the humidity, and overstimulation, it was nice to feel the life of the city after hours in the lifeless office. Midtown might be relentless, but at least it wasn’t empty.

Turning the corner onto Third Avenue, I continued my stroll, heading north for two blocks. The cityscape around me softened as the towering office buildings of 42nd Street gave way to humbler, more charming storefronts and small eateries smashed between old Irish pubs and fluorescently lit bodegas. Nestled between a quaint bookstore and a small café serving the suited masses was Chipotle. The familiar logo was a welcome sight, like a beacon calling me home.

I pushed open the door as the blast of frigid air conditioning met me with resistance. As soon as the temperature shock faded, I was greeted by the familiar aroma of grilling meat, cilantro, and warmed tortillas. As I waited in line to order my tacos, chips, guac, and a fountain Coke, I scrolled aimlessly through my personal email. Sales promos. An invite to my boss’ baby sprinkle next month in Boston. And then, the email.

There it was: the message I’d been dreading. The one I had mentally prepared for all week. My landlord.

With a resigned sigh, I opened the attachment, bracing for the inevitable. And there it was, cold and matter of fact. Another $275 tacked onto my monthly rent. Just like that.

No promotion. No raise. No mercy. Just another slap from the ever-punishing reality of renting in New York City. It was a bitter pill, sure, but hardly a surprise. This city has a way of kicking you when you’re already down and then sending a follow-up invoice for the privilege.

Having called the city home for the past three years since my post-COVID return from Long Island, I understood the harsh realities of urban living all too well. Like many New Yorkers, I initially fled to the suburbs in search of lower rent and better living conditions when COVID hit. Then two years later, I found myself renting a two-bedroom on the Upper East Side days before Alex’s business school graduation—a kind of “congrats, let’s live together!” surprise.

I thought that if I had my own space, Alex would eventually move in with me. Considering we had already been together for four years at that point, it wasn’t an unrealistic idea.

Spoiler: he never moved in.

I guess I only had myself to blame for that frighteningly stupid level of optimism.

The young woman called, “What can I get for you?” snapping me out of my daze of distressed thoughts. Steam filled the space between our faces as I told her my order and watched her begin to work from station to station like a choreographed dance.

As I watched my food being prepared, I couldn’t help but entertain thoughts of alternative living arrangements. Maybe it was time to explore other neighborhoods or even consider having roommates again—a small sacrifice for a semblance of financial stability in the concrete jungle I call home. My mind wandered deeper down a hole of anxiety as I questioned if I even wanted to stay in Manhattan.

But I had to, right?

Work made me work from the office one day a week. Maybe I could commute in from Long Island, New Jersey, or Westchester? Maybe I should just find a new job and say goodbye to the city?

Anxiety started to bubble in my throat as my breath hastened. I approached the cashier just in time, pulling me back to reality before I started to spiral.

Lunch in hand, I stepped back out onto the street and returned to the heat’s oppressive embrace. As I rounded the corner back to Third Avenue—doing my best to maneuver around groups of slow-walking tourists—my phone started to ring. I shuffled my food and drink, trying to dig around in my tote bag for my iPhone, finally managing to answer just before the last ring.

“Hey, Brian! I just got the invite for the…sprinkle,” I greeted my boss with a warm smile, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the bustling street, though I was thoroughly confused about why they were having a post-birth sprinkle over a pre-birth baby shower.

“Good, good! How’s the office?” Brian chuckled, his booming Boston accent crackling through the phone.

“Oh, you know,” I replied with a hint of wryness, “just the usual hustle and bustle. Typical New York City chaos.”

Brian’s tone shifted, a note of urgency cutting through his words, “Hey, listen. Something’s come up, and I need your help. Are you free to chat for a few minutes?”

I glanced around at the throngs of people pushing past me. “Sure, I’m walking back to the office now from picking up my lunch. Bear with me but go ahead.”

“Great.” Brian exhaled. “So Hannah, she’s due any day now. An opportunity has come up that normally I would handle but considering the circumstances and what a great job you did with the family vineyard deal in California last month, I thought this might be up your alley.”

Entering the lobby of my office building, I tapped my access card against the scanner at the front desk, waiting for the reassuring beep of acceptance before acknowledging the doorman with a quick nod. Pressing the elevator button to the twentieth floor, I replied, “Okay, tell me more.”

Thank God this elevator always has reception, by some miracle.

“There’s this vineyard in Italy,” Brian began, his voice filled with excitement. “Real middle-of-nowhere place. The trip is an absolute nightmare. A long red-eye flight and a two-hour bus ride. Anyway, this vineyard is hundreds of years old and is known for some of the best wine in the world.”

Walking through the twentieth-floor common area and back to my office space, my voice filled with confusion as I mumbled, “Uh huh…”

“I’ve been emailing them for a while, telling them how big of a hit their wines would be with our clients in New York and all over the Northeast. Now that they’re ready to start working on contracts, they’ve agreed to an in-person meeting!” Brian exclaimed with a level of excitement that startled me.

I held back my excitement and composed myself to respond without seeming too eager. “While the prospect of Italy sounds amazing, why do they need to hold the meeting in person?” I inquired as I settled into my squeaky desk chair, my fingers deftly removing the aluminum lid from my taco trio.

“Well, they’re a pretty small family vineyard, and they really want their distribution partners to understand the wine and sell it the way they would,” Brian explained. “To be honest, it’s such a great opportunity that I didn’t press them too much on it. It’s not very often an opportunity like this pops up, and I’m hoping we can get an exclusive deal for the US, or just the East Coast. Hell, I’d be fine with having an exclusive for New York City alone.”