nyc – factorycandy

September 21, 2024September 25, 2024

Sneak Preview: “A Night at the Automat”

For many months now, I've been struggling with what to do with this website. I've spent the past ten months working a (no longer new) regular Executive Assistant job while plodding through this novel I've been trying to get written.

What's that, a novel I'm writing? Yes indeed, I've been working on my debut novel, which I'd like to somehow complete within the next three months. I could go on about my writing process, but instead of making a pitch right now, I'm just going to share an excerpt that I'll call A Night at the Automat:

I’m constantly hungry but I never enjoy eating. By the time my weekly binge rolls around I’m starved and I stuff myself as soon as I get home. Tonight, Friday night, is no exception.

Amidst the neon-lit labyrinth of Midtown, lies a sanctuary of indulgence, both clandestine and conspicuous: today’s reinvented Automat. Not too far removed from the Horn & Hardarts of the previous century, this place encompasses the modernity and spotlessness, but also the seediness, of those archaic culinary establishments that shuttered long before I was even born. With its bright, eye-catching signage and sleek, minimalist façade, it is an aesthetic oasis amid the concrete shitpile. Inside, rows of gleaming, glass-fronted compartments stand sentinel, each harboring tantalizing treasures veiled in mystery and abject craving.

The Automat is a place I come back to time and time again. On Friday evenings I go to this location in Turtle Bay. It’s on the opposite side of the island from my office, and far enough from anyone I know that I’m comfortable enough to go in. Once I finally make it to 1st Avenue, I like to look out onto the East River and stretch my legs as I pass the United Nations building.

I spend the bulk of each week navigating the sterile corridors of corporate servitude, my hungers suppressed, my desires buttoned up tight. But come nightfall, when the city’s pulse hits a different rhythm and inhibition unravels, I surrender to the siren call of excess. As I hurriedly walk eastward from the office, I pull out a dark grey Uni Qlo hoodie from my handbag and put it on as I walk. As I get closer to my destination, I pull the hood up over my head.

Friday nights have become my bacchanalian pilgrimage, a ritualistic descent into oblivion which commences with a feast. I descend upon the Automat with a feverish hunger, my senses heightened by frenzied anticipation. My resolve begins to crumble like the multiple single servings of tres leches cake I will soon be indulging in.

The items on offer this evening sing to me from their gleaming glass cells, culminating in a symphony of temptation, each morsel a sin waiting to be savored. At long last, I succumb to the allure of comfort and familiarity, looking through the windows at the teensy trays laden with decadent delights: crispy fried chicken tenders, gooey macaroni and cheese, and black slices of chocolate cake beckoning with promises of euphoria.

If I were truly honest, I’d be able to own the fact that it is not merely the act of unbidden consumption that seduces me; it is that the act is one of rebellion that really gets me hot and hungry and oh so bothered. Each bite drowns out the cacophony of self-doubt and guilt, replacing it with a fleeting ecstasy, a momentary reprieve from the suffocating weight of my pathetic existence. In these moments I choose to defy the constraints of societal norms, of decorum, of my personal demons.

Beverages, too, play their part in this hedonistic symphony. I wash down my indulgences with the effervescent kiss of full-calorie cola, the sharp bite of caffeine-laced elixir fueling my nocturnal escapes. Each sip is a balm to my aching soul, a fleeting respite from the relentless march of time. I fill up a 30-ounce cup and then push the tray with my items toward the self-checkout. In addition to the gratis water and condiments, a major perk of the Automat is the self-checkout terminals. I can be here and not interact with a single other person. It feels… safe.

I pay and discreetly place my items into two gallon-sized Ziploc bags that I close and tuck into my purse. The anticipation has gripped me tightly now; hungry, thirsty, sleep-deprived and worn, I call an Uber and head home to stuff myself silly. I feel a tingle in my toes as I ride to my building in a well-maintained royal blue Honda.

Tonight’s menu is comprised of two mac & cheese krokets, one cheeseburger slider, one chicken pot pie, one roast pork bun, two pizza dumplings, one cup of glazed donut holes, and two slices of the tres leches cake. Plus, my Coca-Cola, the supreme beverage of bingers everywhere. I can barely contain my glee as I rush into my apartment like the fool I am.

And so, I feast and falter and fill myself to bursting, trapped in the vicious cycle of deprivation and excess, loathing and longing, never climbing down from the precipice of restraint and release. In the shadows of the city that never sleeps, I am both predator and prey, seeking salvation in the embrace of consumption, only to find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own desires… Every. Single. Time.

March 15, 2023March 15, 2023

Alice Doesn’t Work Here Anymore

I did it. What did I do? I bailed. Skedaddled. Flew the coop. Escaped, some might even say.

Putting it plainly, I quit. I quit my corporate job after six years working in Finance in the heart of Manhattan.

I handed in my letter of resignation on Monday, January 17th, 2023. The word that I was leaving spread like wildfire, and reactions were something like this:

The reactions I got were frankly quite flattering. People were genuinely shocked that I was leaving, especially after I told them why. Before I met with boss in the afternoon, I had a private conversation with my closest and very beloved coworker (who for the sake of this article we will call “Jane”) to share the news with her. It was pretty excruciating, and I started crying. Jane had been my work bestie, my confidante, and my biggest advocate since my very first day at the company. But alas, it was time for me to move on from my fancy-schmancy corporate job in the Financial Services industry in New York City.

So, why did I quit? Sometime in November I decided that I would like to relocate to Europe for an indeterminate length of time. Now that I am a full-fledged citizen of Poland (in addition to being a citizen of the United States of America), I do not need a visa to work or stay indefinitely in the European Union. It took me some time to gather the courage to pull the trigger on this decision, but I am going to go stay with a friend of mine in France for a while as I figure out what I want to do with myself in the long run.

The choice to leave what is commonly thought of as an almost stereotypically cushy job was a difficult one to make. I was never a fish out of water in the corporate world; on the contrary, I fit in well and navigated that environment with relative ease. However, I grew bored with the drudgery and the 24/7 demands of someone in my position. Although I thrived within the confines of my role, it became clear over time that there really wasn’t any room for me to grow and I frankly didn’t want to remain in NYC anyway. Ultimately, I realized that I want to make a name for myself and spend much more time working towards goals in other arenas. I have enormous gratitude for having been able to hold down a demanding corporate job and accumulate enough savings to move overseas. While I don’t know what the future holds for me, I do want to keep writing and put my energies toward more creative pursuits.

I have been fortunate enough to accumulate some savings, and I intend to travel a bit throughout Europe over the summer and into the fall. The clock is running out on my time in NYC, and I am going to be moving in early May. I still can’t believe that this is actually happening, but indeed it is. I have not posted a new article on this site in two years because I have been so busy, but going forward I would like to write a new article at least twice a week. I think I do have potential as a writer, and I would like to explore that further.

I still struggle with a lot: depression, dropping the weight I put on during the COVID-19 WFH days, financial anxieties, and more. That said, I am actively working on myself and I intend to accomplish a lot over the next few months. I will be sharing a lot of what I am going through on here, as I think it might be useful to document my journey. Additionally, I am working on an article about obtaining and eventually leaving a corporate job on the best possible terms. Perhaps that will be useful to someone someday.

Thanks for reading. More to come soon.

~GCL~

March 19, 2017March 19, 2017

The Socially Relevant Anomaly That Was PBS’ Ghostwriter

In the afternoon hours of October 4, 1992, a new children’s program premiered on PBS. The series was designed to teach reading and writing skills to elementary and middle-schoolers, but for me (the child of an English teacher and an editorial proofreader), its impact had nothing to do with improving my grammar. What struck me from the very beginning was that it depicted kids like me (albeit several years older than I was), living in my city, in a neighborhood just a few miles from my own.

The name of this television program was Ghostwriter.

ghostwriter_3

There are many things to potentially write about in reference to Ghostwriter: its well-crafted mysteries, its enduring educational value, its eponymous “ghost” which was really just a weird ball of light rendered by cheap, ’90s CGI… But I’m not interested in discussing any of those.

Ghostwriter is generally considered one of the most diverse children’s programs in television history. It didn’t focus on issues of race or social status, but it didn’t avoid them either. It was a complex show that possessed a remarkable verisimilitude that is as exceptionally rare today as it was back then, almost 25 years ago.

Images of the upper crust of American society have dominated our television screens since the early 1980s. The soapy sob stories of shows like Dynasty and Beverly Hills, 90210 were attractive, sensational, and easy to digest. Their realities were always picturesque and promising, even at moments when characters were placed in the most perilous scenarios. Simply put, they were pretty.

Ghostwriter was a children’s show through and through, but it was never pretty. It was very atmospheric, and the backdrop of a raw, unembellished New York City often seemed to function as a character in and of itself. There was an underlying layer of social commentary that presented itself visually, rather than through spoken dialogue. The streets were strewn with garbage and the junior high school seemed to get vandalized regularly, but those were not problems that needed to be tackled onscreen. That was just reality, and it was the reality that I grew up in as well. The characters on Ghostwriter were like me: poor latchkey kids, roaming the streets of a pre-gentrification Brooklyn.

Deciding whether to enter the shady garage…

The homeless man on the corner has gone missing

Vandalism strikes the school yet again

Ghostwriter was set in the neighborhood of Fort Greene, and was unique in that it was shot on location. Many of the show’s settings were concentrated around the thoroughfare of Myrtle Avenue, which back then was known to us locals as “Murder Avenue.” To shoot a children’s program, or any production really, in that area, was atypical at the time.

It may seem strange, but although Ghostwriter was a harmless kid’s show, I have a difficult time watching it because it hits a bit too close to home. I can’t seem to sit through an episode without flashing back to my tender years, which were spent living in a housing project in a far corner of Brooklyn, attending a crappy, underfunded public school, and being the youngest member in a volatile household that often relied on food stamps. Unlike many other “millennials,” I do not have nostalgia for my childhood.

The PJs (not unlike where I spent my early childhood)

Personal crap aside, Ghostwriter is a great go-to if you’re ever searching for an unvarnished, but accessible, portrayal of Brooklyn in the early nineties, before all the hipsters and high-end boutiques poured in. It’s also just a great vestige of the decade in general, and the show has aged so poorly that it’s almost impossible not to snicker at it. The outrageous MTV-inspired attire is just cringe-worthy now. There’s also a “very special episode”that evokes memories of those ludicrous anti-marijuana PSAs, such as the ones produced by the Partnership for a Drug-Free America, that were everywhere throughout the nineties.

ghostwriter_18 — Alex’s friend pushes him to try marijuana, which is presented as a “gateway drug”

Ghostwriter was canceled in early 1995, due to lack of funding. It’s unfortunate, as it received widespread critical acclaim and garnered high ratings for PBS stations across the country. The series was imperfect but smart, and it dealt with real issues facing relatable Brooklyn youth. It possessed a variety of family-friendly grit evocative of the early seasons of Sesame Street and the original The Electric Company. It utilized a science fiction premise in the pursuit of greater truths. It is a striking relic from a bygone era, and it’s definitely worth a gander.

Thanks for reading.

~GCL~

March 3, 2017March 3, 2017

Photo post #3: Signs & Storefronts I

I love old things and I love quirky things. Old AND quirky is ideal.

Here in NYC, I occasionally go around and take shots of old and/or notable signage and storefronts. I guess you could say that it’s a hobby of mine. I really should do it more often; it helps me cope with the massive, decades-long wave of hyper-gentrification that continues to destroy everything I know and love.

I hope you like some of these shots. More, better quality ones to come (at some point)

*NOTE: A couple of these photos were taken in places other than New York City, and are captioned accordingly.