Slowly wandering down the pier in New York City, Jackson and I searched for a bathroom. “Rhode Island. We could live there and commute in?” Our conversation about making New York work continued. We were wistfully coming up with ideas that might make it possible. “Yeah, but then you would have to live in Rhode Island…” Jackson laughed back at me.
New York was catching. It’s this gargantuan mass of a place that has this impossible ability of making you feel like you can do, build, or be anything, while simultaneously making you feel like you are one of eight million little mice on their unimportant way to the cheese that does not exist at the end of the tunnel: a soul crusher and creator.
As we continued our leisurely search and discussion, a retro blue building popped up as we rounded the bend. “Maybe it’ll be open?” I wondered hopefully. It seems like park bathrooms are always closed because it’s “out of season.” The light blue door had a small circular window in the middle; the sun baked into the brick, and I could almost feel the heat emanating from off the building. It seems silly, but it just seemed perfect. Experiencing New York with my husband, walking out on a pier after a light rain, fantasizing about a life in this city, and finding what we were looking for.
I walked in, finished business, and started on my way out. I paused at the door and looked out the little window. The city across the expanse looked like a fairy tale, like it was impossible for such a strong skyline to exist against the backdrop of such a blue sky. It felt immoral to realize that this slightly dingy bathroom probably had one of the best, most beautiful views of any bathroom in New York City. And it seems to me that if a bathroom can deserve such a gorgeous view, that perhaps someday I can deserve such a view someday too.
I met Jackson outside. He was facing the sun. His hair looked like dark, golden straw. It smelled like salt. “Maybe we can make it happen.” I said, continuing our conversation.