Everywhere is New York
It tastes like chicken.
(Image: New York City skyline, www.architecturaldigest.com)
It was a complete success. The world’s envy became standard practice. Skyscrapers bursted high above rice paddies. Swamp birds ran headlong into their window reflections. Paris tore down the Eiffel Tower to build a full-scale replica of the Empire State Building. Democrats built a Freedom Tower in Afghanistan. Athens replaced their marble streets with concrete. Suddenly, we were all New York.
It was simple. Merchants along the Northern African coast had a harder time picking up the “FUCK YOU, I’M WALKIN’ HERE” attitude that precipitates so much of New York’s luster. The cost of travel became so extraordinary, the speed of transportation expedient, that it made common sense to turn the popular tourist destination into a mold. Before the switch, it already was the blueprint.
It tastes like chicken.
Condé Nast writers bit their editors for an opportunity to travel to another New York, Turkey. Another writer body slammed another for their assignment to go to New York, formerly known as Rotterdam. They wanted to see how the Dutch had done it.
The pizza is never right, as how could it be? The water is different all over the globe with different levels of plastic byproducts left lingering on your lips. At least the cheese is good. Some countryside New York’s with more access to the surrounding farmland had fresher produce, the farmers upset at the rising cost of arrangements. Soon Brooklynites swarmed the Australian countryside, Aboriginals having to dig yuppies out from snake pits and administer warnings with their healings. Williamsburg just looked too cute to not spray paint over cave walls.
People’s dreams of living in New York were fulfilled. That faded New York poster featuring the Twin Towers hanging over the lonely pharmacy counter in Athens told of a different tale, the original New York different, yet the same, that had cropped up over the young pharmacists’ city. While she acknowledged it was nice to be able to Carnegie Hall, Rockefeller Center, and the Statue of Liberty in her own backyard, she recognized she missed the temples torn down for her modern fantasy. There was something missing as she tapped the counter, waiting for the mother before her to pull up her child’s prescription on her phone.
“I swear I thought I had a print out copy,” the mother rifled through her hefty purse.
“Take your time.”
The woman had on knock-off Gucci sunglasses, a pressed blonde hairstyle, and a nude manicure. The pharmacist noticed her chipped orange nails and hid them under the counter. The woman smiled sheepish and looked up.
“Oh, New York! Have you ever been?”
“To the one right outside our door,” the pharmacist shrugged.
“No, the real New York. Oh, you have to go! The culture, I swore I was almost run over by a man driving a pink bicycle taxi.” The woman pulled out the paperwork with a flourish.
“That sounds like something I can get right here,” the pharmacist fixed her eyes on the prescription. She clocked the allergy medicine and spun her back, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.
“Still,” the woman continued, shoving the contents of her purse off the counter. “It’s worthwhile to travel while you still can.”
The pharmacist turned back with a white bottle.
“What’s the point in going when everything’s the same.”
“There’s little differences,” the woman prattled. “Each copy’s got to have its own variations.” She went deep into her bag in search of her wallet.
“I miss the world,” the pharmacist splurged. “I used to think that all I wanted was New York, and now that everything is New York, I want to see what used to be. How people used to live as their own country.”
The woman looked at her blank faced.
“You could at least be grateful for what New York has given you. Your job wouldn’t pay you at least half as much as you’re making now if Athens was still Athens and not New York.”
“I wouldn’t be paying as much either,” the pharmacist muttered. The woman scoffed and flipped her blonde dyed hair over her shoulder.
“Someday you’ll see that modernization is what we need.” The bells twinkled overhead as she sashayed out the door.
“At least I value customer service!” the pharmacist shouted too late. She sighed, turning back to her poster. At least there was always New York.