I fucking hate New Yorkers. Elio thought to himself as he sat down in the subway —eyes trained to his Emily Brönte book, peering at the man sitting down in front of him as he chatted up the girl beside him. The girl, who looked like she was both disgusted and wildly uncomfortable, merely stayed silent despite the ‘compliments’ the guy was throwing at her and Elio wanted to punch him — or at least tell him to go fuck himself but he was a bit terrified to interfere, especially when the compartment was filled to the brim with other stupid fucking New Yorkers and when the guy started to get touchy, Elio stood up.
“C’mon, man, hands off.” Elio stated — sternly, his book discarded somewhere on the disgusting subway floor and the guy, who was all smiles and compliments, looked like he wanted to throw a punch at Elio for calling him out. “Move or I’ll move you.”
The creep merely snickered at the threat, he was bigger and taller than Elio and he looked like he worked out every day of the week — Elio’s work out only consisted of walking from his apartment in Brooklyn to the pizza joint down the street and then to the Brooklyn Bridge Park. He knew he could fuck Elio up if he wanted to.
“You’re not from around here are you? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” He stood up as well, towering over Elio who just wanted to get out and have some coffee — not fight a 6 foot white guy who was oozing with white privilege and his dad’s college trust fund. “Move or I’ll move you, what kind of fucking bullshit?”
“Leave the woman alone,” Elio stated — eyes trained to the guy’s piercing blue irises, “or I’ll call the fucking cops.”
He chuckled again, “Call them then and what are you gonna tell them? I complimented a woman who doesn’t know how to say thank you?”
Elio looked at the guy’s briefcase, a paper with a very familiar law firm office logo peeked out of the front — giving him a little idea of where the guy worked or who he was affiliated with.
“Yeah, then I’ll call my lawyer, he might be interested that one of his junior associates spends his free time harassing women in the subway.” He said. It was a long shot but he knew his mom had ties with said law firm, his family was invited for dinner once in the apartment of the Managing Partner on Upper East Side — a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Was ages ago but he knew the man was a family friend.
The creep’s expression changed instantly, between disbelief and fear — he looked at Elio’s outfit but there was no indication that he knew his boss. However New Yorkers — much like those stuck-up LA fuckers — had a thing (and fear) for their social metrics. If you’re caught harassing someone, might as well be in the bottom of the food chain, scraping for food from the sewers or the subway rail tracks. So rather than taking his chances and losing a job that he so desperately loved — because he had a thing for power — he chose to stand down.
He put his hands up in mock surrender and grabbed his briefcase, walking away from Elio — but giving him a generous amount of spit to his shoes, fair play considering that Elio blackmailed and embarrassed him in front of a lot of people.
The woman stayed silent through it all and Elio didn’t really need a thanks — something he learned from living in New York for 3 whole years, people never really had the courtesy to say thank you or please as a lot of them had everything handed to them on a silver platter. And when the subway stopped in 66 street Lincoln Center, he boarded off.
New York had a very very distinct smell — Elio had always thought that it was a mixture between sewer, garbage and literal human feces but after 3 years, it all just kind of melted away. It’s also not always sunny, it rains hard and sometimes the flood gets to your thighs that you’d rather stay home all weekend but you can’t because you have jobs to seek and rent to pay so beggars can’t be choosers, especially in New York City.
Elio grabbed his cigarette box from his pocket, lighting up a single stick as he climbed the stairs from the underground station and breathed in the (not) fresh air Broadway Street. He inhaled his cigarette, feeling the smoke filling up his lungs, and exhaled it slowly through his nostrils as he crossed the road. Once he reached Lincoln Center, he felt something tug his wrist and he was about to tackle whoever it was to the ground before he turned around and recognized the stranger as the woman in the subway.
“Hi,” she said timidly — knowing that she must’ve spooked him a little bit, “I’m sorry I tried to call for you but you didn’t really hear, I think, and we both stepped out on the same station so I might as well say thanks for saving my ass back there.”
Elio nodded, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, “Don’t worry, it just fucking bothered me that no one wanted to help.”
“I know, welcome to New York.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, “What’s your name?”
“Elio.”
“I’m Julie, you’re not from around here are you?” Julie asked — the fog forming in front of her lips when she opened her mouth, the temperature was getting colder despite the fact that it was already February.
“No, I study here though.” Elio replied before inhaling his cigarette once more, “You?”
“Same, Columbia.” Julie replied — smiling.
“Jesus,” Elio laughed, “Where you from?”
“Indonesia.”
Then he finally let out a roar — hearing the oh-so-familiar country name and realizing why she seemed so familiar, because they’re from the same place. And after taking a good look at her he wondered why it didn’t register beforehand. The Louis Vuitton handbag, the Dior sneakers, the Gudang Garam cigarette box peering out of her jacket’s pocket. She’s Indonesian through and through.
Julie raised one of her eyebrows in confusion, “What’s with the laugh?”
“Gue juga orang Indo, Jul. Gue British dulu, lo?” Elio smiled.
There were 5 seconds of silence between them — she needed time to process the information being handed to her. What are the odds that an Indonesian guy stood up for her? In New York City of all places? “Anjing, bilang dong dari tadi gue kayak orang bego ngomong in English sama orang Indo juga. Gue dulu JIS, lo kenapa ngga Columbia?”
“Lo asumsi gue pinter apa gimana? Makasih loh,” Elio laughed again, “Too dumb for Columbia, too untalented for Juilliard, so voila, NYU it is.”
“Lo mau kemana? Apartemen lo di deket sini?” Julie asked — looking around Broadway, knowing that it’s impossible for a college student to afford an apartment that close to Manhattan, especially an Indonesian college student.
“Engga, temen gue ada exhibit di sini dan kebetulan gue mau nonton aja. Apartemen gue di Brooklyn.” Elio pointed at the building behind him, Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. Ten had a small exhibition with some of his friends and Elio had nothing better to do that Friday night and that’s how he ended up in New York City.
“Boleh liat ngga? Gue juga ngga tau mau kemana, I’m getting bored of seeing all the animals in the zoo and didn’t get tickets for the show tonight.” She was referring to the Broadway Show, Wicked, where Idina Menzel headlined. Tickets sold out pretty fast — Elio had been asked a couple of times by some of his mom’s friend if he wanted to see and he always replied with a no.
He looked at the girl in front of him, slightly shivering from the cold — her pale nose had a red tint on it and all the blood had rushed to her cheeks. He knew they just met but the undeniable bond from being essentially foreigners in a country thousand of miles away from their home had been established and made that day. He didn’t know what to call his chance meeting with Julie — fate? destiny? something else?
“Boleh, Columbia.”
“Shut up, NYU.” She rolled her eyes and smiled.
Something else — she is something else.
