Just Another New York Story

An Actress on Broadway

Veronica, like so many sincere-hearted dreamers before her, originally moved to New York City to be an actress—a successful one, a famous one, hopefully! That is what she told the people she left behind. It was easy for them to understand such a dream (or cliché, as a cynic might see it), so rooted in the American cultural mythology. It inspired them to throw her a going-away party with a personalized sheet cake and toasts where they said things like, "We'll say we knew you when!" and "Remember us when you're on Broadway!"

Three years later and at this very moment, Veronica is on Broadway (on the West Side, somewhere between 100th and 104th). With a quarter in her pocket, she's on her to see the guy at the fruit stand about a banana. And sometimes, while treading Broadway's expansive sidewalks one avenue over from her closet-sized studio apartment on the fourth floor of a five-floor pre-war walk-up, Veronica remembers, with a slightly muddled smile, the folks from home.

Sometimes, Veronica auditions—mostly for off-off-off Broadway plays and readings of off-off Broadway plays, as well as for the occasional comedic web series or ultra-low budget short film.

Mostly, she works as a background player on big-budget film and TV projects shooting throughout the New York metropolitan area. When Veronica's not working, she can often be found roaming the streets of the Upper West Side, lost in some imagining of the city's past, marveling over its architectural bones—those stately old buildings in the Beaux Arts style. Veronica loves to roam. Sometimes, she suspects it was more the urge to roam than a burning ambition to be an actress that led her to pack up and move to New York City.... Perhaps time will tell her what any of this means...

One thing Veronica feels certain of is that she couldn't properly roam the suburbs of Northern Virginia where she'd been trying to live, where she grew up—at least not in a way that helped her feel inspired about life. She'd tried, though her wandering ruminations often led her to feel mildly irritated at best, and on the edge of despair at worst; blocks of uninspired, lonely, newish houses and cars, dogs barking in their impotent ferociousness, smacking their big bay windows with their paws—perhaps as dying to get out of there as she was and envying what they may have perceived to be her brash display of freedom. Sometimes, as she'd walk alone on an empty, pristine sidewalk, she'd be shocked out of her slump by yet another unknown male in a moving car who would slow down just enough to yell "Bitch!" or "Slut!" before speeding off. Her Italian-American father didn't want her to move to New York City; he tried the old argument of it being "indecent," and when she scoffed at that, he said "too dangerous," for a young girl to live in the big city all alone. But if men were going to be a pain in the ass, randomly menacing perhaps at any turn, at least they could be so against a more interesting backdrop, allowing her to drink off any offenses with a good cup of coffee at a cozy café with views of people moving electrically through their lives...

"Not my problem," Veronica mumbles, shoving away that old haunting. She isn't back in the suburbs—she's here!—on a beautiful, blue-sky Manhattan spring day. She bought her banana from the guy at the fruit stand and ate it in three bites. Now, she carries the ripened peel one block more before tossing it in one of those trusty city trash cans found on almost every corner. Upon reaching the end of the next block, she stops for a moment to feel the spring breeze. She watches a flock of pigeons fly over one of her favorite old apartment buildings, its brown brick glowing orange in the late afternoon sun. It always thrills her to read the faded white lettering of a long-obsolete advertisement painted on the brick up near the roof just below the water tower: "Kirby Boardinghouse, Rooms to Let."

If only she could have lived back then in a room in the Kirby Boardinghouse... camaraderie with girls her age—actresses, dancers, poets, journalists—energetic and aspiring with no firm sense of home... a friendly hostess ("Mrs. Kirby"), who made good meals and charged cheap rent and always had a fire burning...

Veronica smiles dreamily and continues on, staring up at the old rooftops as she walks, allowing a slight skip to enter her step as she tries to commit to memory the order of the sculptured faces on the building facades—the infantile angel without a nose, the lady with the tendrils and chipped eyelids, the mischievously grinning man whose gray plaster eyes always seemed to be shining...

"Watch it dear!"

His voice is deep and strikingly smooth.

Veronica comes to a tip-toed halt.

He's of medium height—stocky—and has a little round gut protruding from behind his white T-shirt that's framed by a well-worn leather jacket. He has a nice big nose that reminds her of her Sicilian immigrant grandfather's, a full head of gray hair, a wrinkled, olive complexion, and eyes obscured by sunglasses.

"I'm so sorry," Veronica says, and moves to step aside. "I didn't see you."

He throws a hand up like a stern traffic cop.

"Not me—look down," he orders, pointing at the target of concern.

Veronica fixes her eyes on her feet. She's wearing new blue ballet flats her mom sent her for her birthday. They are daintily planted just centimeters away from a large and uniquely sculptural pile of excrement.

He looks at it, shakes his head, and continues on.

"Take care of those shoes," he calls over his shoulder. "They're too pretty for that crap."

Veronica watches him meld into the afternoon crowd. He's wearing blue jeans and struts like he's been strutting through decades of New York, his hips slightly the worse for wear.

His voice replays in her ears like jazz.