I moved to NYC on St. Patricks Day with $50 in my pocket and dreams of superstardom. I gave myself 3 years. I was a broken hearted Utahan that day and poured my heart out to an elderly couple on the plane. They insisted I ride with them in their limo from JFK. Haaayyyy! Champagne and a limo! I’m on my way.
But when we arrived near where I was staying the limo driver said this is as far as I can go because of the holiday. They dropped me of on 46th street two long blocks from Times Square and wished me well.
I rolled all my belongings in the world two long blocks through green vomit and crumpled shamrocks and waited two hours on the street outside my pals apartment while she got off work.
Drunk men dressed head to toe in green gave me half empty beers and shots of Irish Whiskey which I didn’t drink because they were strangers. And then my friend showed up with a full bottle and we went to her rooftop overlooking the chaos and toasted to friendship and the future.