Last Sunday, at the bookstore, I saw the name ‘Emily Gould’ in red letters on the spine of a book in the memoir section.  I don’t forget the names of editors I worked with briefly as a literary agent.  Back then Emily was an editor at Hyperion.  She has since worked at Gawker and is now on her own doing freelance.  Her memoir, And The Heart Says Whatever, is a snapshot account of her life from college through young adulthood in New York City.

            “I felt the vacuum of the empty suburbs surrounding me like a black hole in which my body was suspended, as though I were the only warm alive thing left in the world (Gould, 27).”

            After her childhood in the burbs, Emily only lasted one year at Kenyon, a university in the Midwest full of loser frat boys, where women end up objectified or abused.  It’s obvious that she does not fit – the same way that I did not fit at small, conservative George Fox University.  While all of my roommates were out with their fiancés, I was sitting alone in my bunk bed with a stray cat, eating Chinese take-out and watching old Fellini films.  I dreaded the moment when they would return, “What is this crap you’re watching?  It doesn’t make any sense!”

            Once in the city, Emily pays her way through writing classes with a series of server jobs where she suffers from anxiety.  She feels exhausted from performing, leaves her feminism at the door, and puts up with being treated like a dimwit.

            My first job in New York was in Soho at an Italian restaurant.  The manager wanted me to stand outside to try and draw people in.  I was not even a host, and I was not getting paid.  Around 9pm, a band started to play, and the manager asked me to sit with some rich businessmen.  I have to admit, though he was turning me into some kind of unpaid escort, I enjoyed the conversation, since one man owned the art gallery across the street, and bragged about how he had worked with Andy Warhol.

            The manager said I would be serving at another location that was just opening up in the Lower East Side, where my commute would take twice as long.  On my first day there, the owner only came upstairs to yell at us then disappeared into the basement for hours.

            The other two servers were actors and called me “babe,” in a condescending tone that I found irritating.  There were no sections, and they viciously fought for tables.  Being the newbie, I had one lone table, and ended up bussing the other 49, spinning in confusion. 

            When it was time to go, I went downstairs to find the boss.  Down a long hallway, he was sitting in a grimy office smoking a joint and counting piles and piles of money.  There were at least twenty stacks over six inches high.  I’d been in New York for one week, and already I was working for the mafia.  I’ve since learned that in Jersey and New York, restaurants are backed by mafia money, while in Seattle they are backed by drug dealers - same thing, different titles.

            I walked back to the original location and told the manager that I wanted to work in Soho, but he didn’t have a position for me.  It was a good thing.  I was the only person there who wasn’t right off the boat, and all the money was under the table with no salary.  I was beginning to think that the entire city was outside of the law.

            A year later I ran into the manager again at a party thrown by a flamboyant Italian man.  At all of his parties, the host hired a model to walk next to him carrying a sign that read, “Stefano Is Here” with an arrow pointing down.  The manager was working as the DJ that night, and I had been hired as a dancer with a percussion band that I performed with.  We were at a swank restaurant uptown, called Zanzibar, and the party had a tribal theme. 

            The ex-manager/DJ was completely shocked to see me.  I was no longer shell-shocked and outside of my element.  In fact, I was getting paid to be the life of the party.  Things moved fast in New York, so fast, I can’t believe it all happened. 

After a series of serving jobs, Emily Gould found herself working as the Editorial Assistant to a Senior Editor at a publishing house.  

“I was realizing that the production of book-shaped products had very little to do with “books,” the holy relics that my college education had been devoted to venerating (Gould, 99).”

Once at the literary agency, I imagined myself taking on literary clients and life-changing books, but I couldn’t halt the constant stream of fluff being thrown at me by my boss or the pressure to find a sale that could meet current trends.  I didn’t feel strong enough, or maybe nothing seemed good enough, and everyday was a pressure cooker to make that deal happen.

Being let go was a tremendous relief.  For all that time I’d never been able to read my own books, or write my own words.  So every morning for the next six months, I was up at 6am to write for an hour outside the coffee shop, with people rushing past me to work.  After writing ten pages, I would begrudgingly join them, and go to my shitty job in the city, numbering every single piece of crap artwork that came out of Peter Max’s factory.  Like that first restaurant I worked at, only recent immigrants lasted in his exploitation-fest.  He was donating millions to charity, and I couldn’t afford to live.  But as long as I got that writing in every morning, it seemed okay.

Emily Gould still lives in Brooklyn, and I have to admit, I feel a sense of envy that I am not still in New York too.  There is always the sense that I am missing out on something - connections, parties, shows.  You can find all that in Seattle too, the problem is that I really haven’t yet.

I also have a theory – that when you leave New York you get slightly weak and introverted because the pressure is finally off.  I hadn’t realized how much energy it took.  I’ve watched as friend after friend left the city and completely went into reclusive mode.  One friend even took to the mountains, and never lasts for more than 24 hours when she comes to visit me.  In New York she was a tough, angsty, goth rocker chick in platform boots.  Now she is a peaceful hippy, who prefers to live in a yurt, pee in an outhouse, and grow vegetables.

Five years since my move back, I’m teaching myself how to refind my New York energy.  I’m remembering that in New York, amidst all the crazy, I learned how to live, how to survive, and how to love exponentially.  Not the fake romantic love of adolescence, but real love for all of my friends and my community.

Instead of complaining about how I lost that when I left, I’m now remembering how to be what you wish others would become.  And surprisingly, I’m finding what I’ve been looking for.  Friendships are flowing naturally, the way they should be.  I sense I’m growing closer to the pulsing beat of my city.  Life takes a turn, once again.