These Are The Days
Magazine Non Grata Launch & Children In The City
Day 1
Random people will come up to you and tell you these are the days. They will look at your children, aged one and four, and tell you to cherish every moment. They will do it in public, they will do it private, they will do it while your kid screams bloody murder on the streets of New York covered in snow. You will look at them as if they have five heads, a hydra of misinformation, because you are in it and you don’t understand what is so special about your child violently refusing to wear a jacket in 30-degree weather. You have been walking for an hour attempting to get to Rockefeller Center and you can’t feel your fingers or your toes, and your kids have had enough of the day in the city. They liked the hotel. They liked to watch the falling snow from the warmth of a king size bed. Now they are over it. And so are you. But these are the days…
What brought you to this moment was a little shindig in the Lower East Side courtesy of Magazine Non Grata . It is your first time being published in a magazine. Your wife knew there was no way out of this one. You were going and the only question was how you would get there. Would you drive? Maybe, though that would hinder your persona as the guy who likes to have a few pops. Would you take a train? You could, but you would have to take a train from Red Bank to Penn Station and then from there take a subway to the Lower East Side, and then do the entire charade back to good ol’ New Jersey. A solid two hours both ways. And then there is the little trouble of snow in the forecast. There is supposed to be a lot of it starting around midnight. What to do, what to do?
“How about we spend the night in the city?” your wife asks. “It will be perfect. The girls can wake up in the morning to a snow-covered New York City and you can keep up your cool-guy-drunk persona to people you have never met before except through dm’s on Substack you fucking loser.”
What a woman you married. She gets you. She sees right down to who you really are. She understands you at the atomic level. You love this woman with all your heart.
So you book a hotel room, a very expensive hotel room at that, because your wife will not be slumming it at a Motel 6 in a neighborhood with a high murder rate while taking care of two children as you go play act your little dream of being a writer in the big city. She also refuses to go to any hotels that are not exquisitely decorated for Christmas.
“If we’re going to the city in December,” she says, “we are going to do it right goddamnit.” Luckily, you have points to soften the blow to your bank account.
The madness of getting the girls packed up and out of the house is something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. You will always forget something. As long as you don’t forget a child or your wallet it doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. You’ve been watching Home Alone with your daughters in a whole new light since having kids. You understand now that this movie is not fantastical. It’s hard to keep track of two kids in the house let alone the McAlister’s five on their way to Paris. Now add on cousins, aunts, and uncles? Forget it. Kevin getting left behind was just a matter of course.
In a weird cosmic irony, you watched Home Alone 2 with your daughter just the night before. She has been begging to go to New York City ever since watching it the first time. She detests Marv, finds him terrifying, but likes Harry. This is how you know you raised your kid right and in New Jersey. Your four-year-old intuitively knows that Joe Pesci is a real one.
Somehow you succeed in your mission of getting everyone in the car by 5 PM. You even packed everything in one suitcase, which is a feat for your wife. Even if it’s for one night and one day in New York City, your wife needs choices. She could wear a sweatshirt and jeans and be the most beautiful woman in the world, but boy do you cherish watching her get dolled up. Sure, you’ll be late to an event or two in your lifetime, but it’s worth it. One piece of advice you could give to any man is to let your woman enjoy getting ready. Even if she acts like The Grinch getting ready to go to the Holiday Whobilation, she’s partly doing it for you.
She wants to look good in your eyes. She wants to be seen by other women, of course, but she wants your eyes to bulge and your heart to pound when she walks out of that bathroom. So let her pack the bag to the brim. Let her pack an extra three pairs of shoes if she needs it. Ten dresses? Who cares. So what if you have to carry an extra bag or five on most vacations? Your wife will at least look hot whilst you look like Cindy Lou Who.
In the car your four-year-old has the excitement of a puppy. She loves hotels. She’s always loved hotels. Watching Home Alone 2 didn’t help. You know your bank account will have a problem with this one. She likes dresses and makeup too. She is your beautiful first born and if your wife doesn’t make you go bankrupt, this one surely will.
Your second born is a lunatic who is napping. A nap at this hour, from this child, will surely ruin your wife’s night because this one is simply recharging the psycho batteries to deploy them on your hotel room when she wakes up. She will surely hurt herself and break something of value in the hotel room. You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you will not be getting your security deposit back because this little one is along for the trip.
The Holland Tunnel is mesmerizing to your girls. They cannot comprehend that you are underwater but the lights, THE LIGHTS, are magical. Pair that with Christmas music and it’s like they have been transported into a dream of their wildest making. Meanwhile you are having war-like flashbacks of your days living in Hoboken, riding through this tunnel in the back seat of a cab seeing 12 lanes and way over tipping the driver while profusely thanking him for getting your drunk ass home in one piece.
“Just wait until we get into the city,” your wife says. “Now that’s lights.”
Once out of the tunnel, between ooo’s and aaa’s at the glory of the city, there is one incessant question, if we’re in the city…why aren’t we there yet? Your four-year-old asks at least five times during the circle post tunnel.
“Three miles girls,” you say.
Those three miles will take about 30 minutes to venture through. You leave that part out.
The check-in is tame, though you do get a few nasty looks from what must be members of the Jameela Jamil fan club. You don’t give a fuck whether people want kids or not but don’t look at the future of the entire world as if they are merely loud inconveniences. You, yes you, were a piece of shit child once and someone put up with you. They might have even loved you. The horror! Since having children, you have now started judging every person on earth based on how big they smile when they see your children (or if they smile at all). This will go on for as long as they are young and adorable. You don’t expect anyone to smile at them when they are asshole teenagers.
Mixed in with the utter contempt from New York’s snobbiest looking visitors were a few smiles and laughs as your oldest daughter begged to ride your piece of luggage like a horse. One woman told you, unsolicited, for the first time on this trip, that she wished her kids were that old again. That it was the best time of her life. That these are the days. You nodded, smiled, then chased after the one year old who was about to rip a page out of a very expensive looking coffee table book.
Within thirty minutes you are on the road. Kids are safe. Wife is safe. They’ve ordered room service burgers, chicken fingers, and fries that will cost you an arm and a leg and they have all changed into pajamas and put on Home Alone 2 again and you wish, for a moment, that you could just stay in with them. A party can’t beat this even if it is your first time being published, even if you are going to be chatting with a bunch of writers, even if Adam Pearson got his ass here from Louisiana. You still think, for a very small, fleeting moment, that you would rather just stay in bed with your wife and kids on a cold December night in a New York City hotel.
Oh please…
Don’t fool the readers.
You were chomping at the bit to get out of there. A party. A literary party. With your name under your words in a printed magazine! You couldn’t fucking wait to hit the liquor store to procure a bottle of gin you planned on taking to the dome. You couldn’t wait to hobnob with people you’ve never met before. You couldn’t wait to see your friend and editor Adam Pearson. You couldn’t wait to ear beat some unsuspecting victims about your own book. You wanted out of that hotel the minute you checked in.
So please…
Don’t fool the readers.
You hold the bottle of gin like it’s the baby Jesus in the cab ride to the gallery. It’s very important you crack this open right away because you’re nothing without a drink or two in you. You think about cracking it open right then and there, in the cab, and taking a swig, but your better angel narrowly wins that battle. You can wait the two seconds it will take for the bartender to open it up and pour you a drink.
And that is all it takes. Two seconds. You walk in to the Space LES Art Gallery and go directly up to the bar without saying hello to anyone that is already at the party, place the gin bottle and tonic waters on the table, and ask for one without even introducing yourself. Good thing Sudana Krasniqi has manners and asks you your name. You tell her and then she pours you a drink and then you both start fawning over The Wayback Machine, the novel and the man, upset that he will not be attending due to unforeseen circumstances.
While chugging sipping your drink you receive a big and gracious hug from the man of the hour, the man who has made your dream of seeing your name in print come true - Anthony Marigold himself. You’ve never met before, but you feel like you have known this kindred spirit for a long time. You started following him after his review of Bright Lights Big City, one of your favorite novels ever and a big reason why you started writing, and you have been watching his trajectory ever since. You’re not a homosexual but you can appreciate his flowing locks and chiseled jaw, and you know that if he keeps at this writing thing he will eventually have a throng of female fans. You are also a wee bit upset that he went on a lengthy and well documented binge the past two months abroad and is on an alcohol hiatus. He sips on a N/A beer, something you would make fun of anyone else for doing. But not him. Not tonight. He then mentions in passing you will be reading your piece out loud tonight. You become a bit nervous. You play it off as best you can. There aren’t that many people here, you tell yourself. Everything will be fine. Then you remember the night is young and the event is sold out.
You don’t know what you were expecting in quality for the physical magazine but it turns out she’s a glossy little minx. Not thick, but heavy. High quality shit. You feel lucky to be the first person to test the QR code, purchasing a few copies for yourself and your wife and for anyone who walks into your house going forward.
“Read my mind-blowing, generation defining, white rice recipe piece to enter,” you think.
You are then introduced to Brandon Westlake who just recently reviewed your novel and you want to give him a big hug and kiss for liking your book but instead you talk shit about the Blue Jays to him. What better way to thank someone? Brandon is very soft spoken but for some reason you can tell he’s seen some shit. You find out later this is exactly the case. Biker gangs, boonies, brothers – he’s got stories for days from that great country up north. You wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who gets up at three, three, AM to write, blowing your 4 AM and Lillian Wang Selonick’s 5 AM out of the water. You make ask him to read your piece in the magazine to see if it’s read out loud at a party worthy. He says it’s not bad. You’ll take it.
Even though, again, you are not a homosexual, you fall in love with a man. Lillian is great and all, you love her writing and her wit on Substack and in person, but have you met her husband? Sheesh. He’s an ex-United States Marine, who also originates from Canada, and he has so many interesting stories you are jealous of Lillian’s proximity to such a person. If he asked, politely of course, you would ditch the party and leave with him to hear more stories about how he and his family grew up off the grid. They had a well for water. They didn’t own a TV. They used candlelight. You ask, if the zombie apocalypse were to begin, if he would take you and your family in and bring you all to this cold Utopia he speaks of. He says yes. Your man crush grows.
Adam Pearson waltzes into the party like he belongs here. Though he hails from Louisiana, has a southern accent he denies, and has only been to New York one other time, he just looks like he is meant to live in the city. If he used his face as his own Substack profile picture the tension in the room would be high. He is the true chronicler, the real documenter of what can only be called a budding in-person Substack scene. You know he will surely write a piece about tonight’s events which makes you want to say something really offensive, in lieu of something interesting, to be included.
You haven’t seen him since his last trip to the city and you’ve missed your conversations like Nathan Algren and Katsumoto.
You will not commit seppuku on him tonight, but you will try and get him as drunk as humanly possible like you always do. If this writing thing doesn’t work out, you will have to find a way to get paid to coax people to enjoy too many drinks. You have a special knack for it.
You return to the bar for your third refill, and you realize this party is packed, young, vibrant, and Sudana has poured almost your entire bottle of gin out to undeserving guests. You beg her to save some for you, you will need all the fortifications imaginable if you are to read out loud to a packed crowd, and she graciously obliges. You have a grudging admiration for the people who tapped your bottle. Between vodka, whiskey, and beer, they chose wisely. Gin is an underappreciated beverage that deserves the respect it had in yester year.
Mingling is easy now that you are well on your way to being drunk. You and Adam scan the room, getting into random conversation with random people, some who have never even heard of Substack, some who are well known on Substack, some who make you crack the fuck up in person and on Substack (Sam Frank Jr.). This is the hallmark of a good party, literary or otherwise. This isn’t a circle jerk. It’s real.
Two legends of Substack, Ross Barkan and Mo_Diggs, walk in like kings fresh from a separate conquest. Or like a comedic duo ala Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. They both, along with Adam, tell you you only look Dominican when you are wearing your New York Yankees hat. You take this as a compliment.
The party, like all parties, is a string of vignettes. Little scenes. Small conversations. You wish you could remember them all but you’ve drunk enough to kill a small horse and writing about the night accurately is Adam’s job. The joy of the night comes crashing down when the reading is about to begin. You run to the bar to get another gin, not knowing you have polished the remainder of the bottle off. You grab a cold Coors Light, something you weren’t expecting at such a hip party in such a hip city. You respect the hell out of it. Cold over craft any day of the week. You know Pearson is somewhere fuming they don’t have any real beer, so you grab an extra to force down his southern gullet.
When Annalisa begins reading her very funny Post Nut Clarity on the J Train you are laughing at her words and laughing because you are nervous as hell. Do you have to go next? How do you follow this? You start formulating something witty to say as she wraps up.
As a man with two daughters, I condone nothing of what was just read.
Fellas in the room, if you want to be the exact opposite of the men in that last piece, follow this White Rice Recipe I’m about to read.
Relief washes over you when Marigold declares there will be no more readings. This man clearly understands how a party works but you would’ve loved this information an hour ago.
The relief turns to sadness because the party is over. Sudana does you one last solid by bringing a bottle of vodka to you with about a shot left and asks if you want it. You take one last swig before saying bye to everyone.
Yes, you must say bye to everyone. Even though others have plans for an after party, even though you could go all night, even though drinking into the wee hours is something you were built for…you must say bye. You have a wife and two kids waiting in a hotel room for you. Turns out you are not the cool-drunk guy anymore.
You float through the hotel lobby as if you are Benicio Del Toro getting arrested. You have three copies of a magazine with your words printed inside. Underneath those words is your name. It is surreal. And, above all, you are coming home to your wife and kids in room 205. You’re drunk too. Dance, you lucky bitch. Dance.
When you open the door you realize, much too late, that you smell like a gin distillery. Your wife, who has graciously stayed awake for your triumphant return, asks how many drinks you’ve had and you double down on your Benicio Del Toro.
She laughs in your face, says yea right, and wants to hear all about your night but the girls are fast asleep, and your voice is booming when you’re sober and deafening when you are drunk. You try to whisper as best you can but you wake up both of your daughters at least once in the next hour as you and your wife look over the beautiful magazine that has your name in it. You both laugh quietly, hug quietly, kiss quietly, are proud quietly, and your two daughters sleep quietly. It is a perfect moment except for one small issue; you know your hangover is going to be a real kick in the teeth in the morning and you have a lot of walking to do...in the snow.
Day 2
Your wife tries to let you sleep in knowing you will be needed in top form all day. Sleeping in is about 7:30 AM at home and about 6:45 AM in a hotel room where there is no way to ignore the child sleeping in between you. But the early wake up is worth the wonder in your children’s eyes when they open the curtains to a fresh white layer of snow on the New York City streets with more falling.
“I can’t believe it daddy! Wearing my pajamas inside out really worked!” your oldest says.
“Dadaaaaaa, no!” your youngest musters up.
No means snow.
At one point in your life breakfast in bed sounded like the peak of relaxation. Now it is pure chaos, and you feel bad for any hotel worker who is charged with cleaning your room. There is syrup on the pillow, eggs under the covers, a pile of breakfast potatoes on the duvet, and, somehow, a wad of butter in your glass of water that you desperately need right now. Your mouth is sandpaper. Your throat is hotter than a furnace. Your head feels like it’s being squeezed by a juicer. Even flipping through the pages of Magazine Non Grata and showing your kids your name in print can’t cure what you’ve done. But these are the days…
Check out time comes too soon. You’d like another day in watching movies, being doted on by room service, laying under the covers and rotting your hangover away. None of that is in the cards. You have quite the day planned. You will labor through the tundra of New York to show your kids the magic of a big Christmas tree, a big toy store, a big church. You will give them a day they will never forget, you say to yourself. It doesn’t occur to you that you don’t remember anything from your childhood before the age of seven.
You never saw kids until you had them. You mean this literally. There was not one time you noticed a mother walking with her child or a father throwing his in the air. You did not acknowledge them out in public and very rarely encountered them in private. Now, you cannot unsee them. When you’re at the grocery store you laugh at one sitting in the shopping cart trying to put a raisin up his nose. When you’re at the gas station you notice one drawing with the condensation on her window. When someone is struggling in public with an unruly youngin’, you laugh and try to ease their worry – we’ve all been there.
As you push a two seat stroller through the slushy sidewalks of New York City you notice many a child and many a stranger notice yours. Yours are very cute, all bundled up in jackets, gloves, and hats that constantly fall over their eyes. But the façade begins to crumble fifteen minutes into your walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral when your oldest says she’s hot.
It’s 30 degrees out. She’s not hot. But she wants her jacket off anyway. Which only leads to the younger daughter following suit, trying to rip her own jacket off. You were going to stop in and check out St. Patrick’s but this little scene has turned both of your children into menaces you’d rather not present to the Lord. There is crying. There is glove throwing. There is hat tossing. You haven’t even gotten to the tree yet. It’s not even noon.
You finally make it to the tree and your oldest is cold now. This back and forth will go on for the remainder of the trip but the younger one has eschewed her jacket for good and refuses to put it on, even when her cheeks are blood red and her hands are purple. This is not child abuse, you tell yourself. It’s meltdown prevention.
But the hour it took to get to the tree finally hits paydirt. Both girls are in awe of the tree for…about five seconds until they move on.
“I want hot chocolate,” the oldest begs.
“Eat,” the younger one shouts.
There is a line the size of an Amazonian anaconda that even JLO and Ice Cube couldn’t survive for a hot chocolate shop. Your wife goes to wait in line and leaves you with the two starving and irritated little shits girls. You try and entertain them the best you can. You show them how to scrape untouched snow off a bush and eat it. Your wife would kill you if she knew you were letting them eat snow off a bush in the city but you’ll do anything to calm them down. It works for all of ten minutes when the complaints ramp back up.
“Where’s mommy?” the oldest whines.
“Mo-meeee,” the youngest chimes in.
“She’s getting hot chocolate,” you say.
“How long?” the oldest asks.
“Soon,” you say.
Who the FUCK knows you think.
Another meltdown is imminent.
But pigeons save you just like they saved Kevin McAllister. Two come right up to the stroller and start making funny sounds, pecking away at the plethora of garbage at your feet. They’re beautiful, which is odd. One has a purple velvety coat and the other looks like an Appaloosa. Your kids get a kick out of these pigeons more than anything the city has had to offer thus far. You think this is a metaphor for something. That all the man made things in this world are far less entertaining than what’s simply there.
An old man notices how much fun your daughters are having watching the pigeons and reminds you that this is the best age. It all goes by so fast. Don’t blink or it’s gone. You’re living the dream. These are the days…
What he doesn’t realize is that he’s scared the pigeons away and now both of your daughters are crying.
These are the days…
Your wife comes back empty-handed. The hot chocolate place doesn’t open for another half hour. You whip out snacks you’ve packed to hopefully quell the revolt your daughters are about to stage. These snacks give you five minutes of peace as you walk to your next stop, which is anywhere warm and anywhere they serve hot chocolate.
Thirty minutes later you finally find a coffee shop that has seats and heat and a bathroom. The simplest things in life will give you and your children more joy than a 100 foot tall Christmas tree. Your daughters are finally thawed out and happy and are dancing around the coffee shop to top 40 hits as if they own the place. You’ve ordered the hot chocolates and cookies and anything else that will make them forget that we have to trek another two miles to meet up with your mother-in-law, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew.
Your wife did her best to plan this day out so that we might get some assistance from her mom and sister while trudging through snowy city streets. Your niece and nephew are older and do not need the type of supervision your kids require. But it doesn’t work out like that. Nothing ever works as planned when you have children under the age of five.
You finally get a minute to relax at a rooftop brunch place you would never go to if you were in charge of the plans. Fru fru drinks, loud music, a tab that will surely eclipse $500. But it’s relaxing because when Ma (your mother-in-law) is around your kids want nothing to do with you. Grandparents are key to saving any sanity you have left as a parent.
You’re not sure how you survived the day as a family without her. Your watch says you’ve walked twelve thousand steps. It’s still 30 degrees outside. Your hands and your feet are still not thawed out. Your cheeks feel like someone has taken a cheese grater to them. But for the first time today you have a minute to sit and relax. It lasts about an hour because you are in charge of walking all the way back to where you parked your car, paying the astronomical fee, and driving back to pick up your family. No one stops you sans kids to remind you that these are the days.
But something magical happens when you get your girls in the car and start driving towards the Lincoln tunnel. There can be no other word for it besides magic. It must be something other worldly. Because as you and your wife start to talk about the day you don’t mention one awful thing. You don’t even remember one awful thing. And there was a plethora. There were meltdowns and tears and fits and cold and hot and walking and walking and walking and more meltdowns and tears and fits and if you looked at the day’s details you would think it was an abject failure. But that’s not what you remember. You remember your girls eyes light up when they got a side cup of marshmallows to go with her hot chocolate. You remember how excited the four year old was when her inside out pajamas actually worked to make it snow. You remember your youngest attempting forward rolls in bed between you and your wife. You remember all the good stuff.
As you make your way out of the tunnel and on to the New Jersey Turnpike your youngest daughter is already passed out. Your eldest’s eyes are slowly closing, she’s yawning, her eyes are as red as her cheeks. But before they close for good, before that sweet silence envelopes the car, she yells…
“Kevin! We forgot Kevin!” and starts cracking up.
You and your wife can’t remember the last time you laughed that hard.
These are the days.
Also when can we meet Mrs Muka, she sounds cool as hell
Stop telling people I have manners! I like to set the bar low and surprise them!
This was a great read, Muka. Let’s go Mets.