She Works Hard for the Money

Personal Yummy #99

Approximately 10 months following my departure from my full-time job at the Wall Street firm where I worked for more than 11 years, my mom and I drive back to New York City on a chilly Tuesday in April of 2018. I had gone home to Pennsylvania for the Easter holiday. Our friend Bella, who enjoys New York City, and traveling in general, makes the trip with us.

The drive is nice. As I said, it is cold out, but fortunately not rainy, and the sun graciously appears every now and then, illuminating the stretching fields and farmland as we head east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

We get off the turnpike at the Carlisle exit and stop at the Iron Skillet Restaurant for a late breakfast, a tradition for us when we travel in this direction, whether we are going to New York City or to Lancaster, PA, to see a show at the American Music Theatre.

After studying the menu for some time, both Bella and I order French toast, and my mom decides upon eggs, over easy. They don’t have grits today, which my mom prefers for her side, so she substitutes them with a scrambled egg, which she gives to me. I am happy about this, because I can never decide on just one item and always prefer to have some variety.

While we’re eating, my dad calls to check on us. He had gotten up early to go to his doctor’s appointment and hadn’t officially said goodbye, but had left us a note on the kitchen table, on the edge of the local newspaper, in fact, which he decorated with sketches of happy and playful frogs.

We take our time eating and chatting, and then get back on the road when we are refreshed and ready, heading north on 81. We spend the next three hours traveling and chatting more, and we eventually see signs for the George Washington Bridge. Moreover, in the distance, the New York City skyline appears, which always gives me a mystical sensation, no matter how many times I’ve returned to the city.

Nonetheless, it’s been a while since I’ve driven back to The Big Apple—over the years I have gotten used to taking the Amtrak train called The Pennsylvanian from Altoona, PA—so I am surprised to find that it now costs 15 dollars to cross the bridge! When I first moved to the city—officially in 2005, after a few attempts—it was “only” six dollars…

But, I must share that, even though it is so expensive, I think it is worth it. In my opinion, and as many people who have roamed all over the world have told me, there is no place like New York City.

And wouldn’t you know it? My thoughts and feelings are confirmed once again. As we cross the GWB and then take the first exit onto the parkway, the sun comes out and is utterly brilliant and glittering on the Hudson River—it is all just so beautiful and glorious.

My mom comments, as she’s done on many other trips to NYC, that she just loves riding along the Hudson.

What’s more—almost like a talisman in the sky—there’s a gigantic billboard up ahead for The Donna Summer Musical, flooding my mind with remembrances of my dance classes at the Dixon Dance Studio in Cumberland, Maryland (in the Country Club Mall), where I danced over and over again as a child and teen, and with such freedom and jazzy style, to Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money,” thinking that I could never feel much better than I did right then.

And even now, after all these years, when that song comes on the radio I am instantly taken back to that formative time and place.

With these happy memories so present within me, I am in an even better mood, the three of us continuing to proceed along the Hudson. Surprisingly, there isn’t much traffic today; thus in no time at all we are turning onto Riverside Drive and then onto 86th Street, and then we are passing West End Avenue, and then Broadway, and then Amsterdam, and then Columbus, and then Central Park West; and then we are winding through Central Park, on our way to the East Side.

As we are approaching Fifth Avenue, with the majestic Metropolitan Museum of Art to our right, my mom asks me, “So, do you feel like you’re home?”

“Yes,” I quickly respond.

But I qualify my answer.

I confess to her that I always have a strange and overwhelming feeling coming back to New York City, no matter how long I’ve lived here—and especially if I’ve been away for more than a few days—and no matter how much I love it here…although this time it is somewhat easier because I am not coming back alone.

When we get to the street I live on, my mom finds a temporary parking spot just past the M31 bus shelter in front of my apartment building. This is fortuitous, allowing me to unload all of my Christmas gifts (which I had been storing at my parents’ home in a corner of the small bedroom I stay in while I am there) and all of the goodies I brought back to sell on eBay, compliments of my mom and dad (the trunk is packed!): shoes and sandals, clothes, postcards, sterling silver chains, and a sterling silver cross-cum-locket (which I may end up keeping), along with a wooden tea chest filled with various kinds of tea (I’m going to keep that, too; I’ve already started enjoying the many selections).

And, yes, I may be fooling myself, but I really hope I can make a significant amount of money on eBay, especially since I’ve been doing okay so far.

For example, I sold my orange sequined dance dress while I was in PA, and before that I sold a never-worn Adidas golf shirt with my former company’s logo on it, a swag item left over from a convention. I also have a lot of individuals who are watching and bidding on one of my ballroom dance competition dresses that I’ve worn too many times (at least that’s the verdict of the ballroom dance world): a sexy, form-fitting, partly see-through meshy black number with a heavily rhinestoned neckline and a ruffly skirt.

My dad has been extremely successful selling secondhand items at the various sales and auctions he frequents, so why can’t I do the same on eBay?

“Bid, bid, bid away!” I say.

In any case, it will take me a few hours to list all of the items online, but I am going to try to make a go of it.

I likewise know that it is going to take me a while to carry all of my things up to my fourth-floor apartment, so I get started. I go up and down the stairs, and up and down the stairs, lugging as many things as I can on each trip, as Bella keeps an eye on the remaining bundles in the foyer on the first floor.

When I first enter my apartment, it is super hot and steamy, the radiators greeting me with their whistling. Despite it being so hot, though, the heat is preferable to the cold; that is, as far as I’m concerned. Needless to say, I have experienced way too many heatless and freezing days in this particular apartment (and others!) over the years.

I also realize, however, that my mom and Bella will not appreciate the overly hot temperature. Therefore, the first thing I do after I put down my bags is to open a window in the bathroom, the bedroom, and the living room, allowing the invigorating air to flow inside.

My mom, on the other hand, heads to a nearby garage to get the car parked. This time she chooses just to pay for parking instead of riding around and around—for who knows how long—looking for a free spot on one of the side streets.

In the meantime, I finish carrying all of my treasures up to my apartment, and Bella and I finally get a glass of water and sit down on the couch to rest for a bit.

Not much later, my mom arrives, and she immediately tells us that it was no trouble at all to put the car in the garage just around the corner, but then she adds, shaking her head, “Wow, the parking attendant was certainly not in a good mood at all.”

“What?” I ask. “Do you mean he was nasty to you?”

I have no idea what to expect.

But as she lays her purse down on the round wooden table in my small dining room (the table used to be hers and my dad’s, come to think of it), she explains, “No…no…no… It wasn’t that exactly…”

She slips off her cushy, heather-gray mule Clarks in a corner by a pile of books and magazines stacked on the hardwood floor.

“It’s just that… It’s just that… He just seemed so bored…and so staid…and…and…just so unhappy and so jaded.”

She takes off her red furry coat and places it on the back of one of the wooden chairs, and then takes a seat in my white wicker chair, which she had bought for me when I first moved to the city, something light and easy to transfer from place to place in my apartment, if necessary.

“Oh, well, that’s really too bad,” I say.

Bella agrees, and then takes a sip of her water.

And I don’t say anything more, but, sure…I get it.

That’s precisely what happens to many in New York City.

The difficult aspects of living here—the high rent, the noise, the too-cold apartments, the too-hot apartments, the traffic, the trash, the rats, the crowded subway, the expensive groceries, the having to work so hard…you name it—rough them up and destroy their once-cherished resolve.

But I decide right then and right there to keep working hard for my money—and for my life in New York City—full-time job, part-time job, side hustle, credit card rewards points, a few bucks from eBay every now and then, or whatever helps…and never relinquish my New York City joy.

That’s what Donna would do; don’t you know?

And you can bid on that.