8 Million Stories: Do or D.A.R.E.

WHEN I FIRST moved to New York City with my boyfriend, Tamas, our adopted mantra was, “If you can make it in New York City, you can make it anywhere.” Fresh out of college, both with a bachelor’s degree in English, we set lofty goals for ourselves to publish our poetry in prestigious journals, start a band that gained a local but loyal following and eventually make our livings by making our art.

Instead, I got a job working for a hospital in the Bronx writing articles on obesity, safe sex and the importance of breastfeeding for a population hit by poverty, homicide and drug abuse. Tamas got a job as a bus boy at a fancy Belgian restaurant in the Flatiron, where he carted away tubs of smelly shellfish as his managers snarled at him in desire and revulsion.

Half-heartedly, we joked about following in the footsteps of Langston Hughes and wondered: If and when you survive the ravages of living in New York City, how much of yourself do you really have left?

Take honesty, for example. In a city like this one, where you work and pay more for everything that you enjoy, it’s especially tempting to “sample” gummy worms from the candy store, or movie hop when a single ticket can cost over $12. As a child, I remember learning about honesty through the D.A.R.E. program at our elementary school. “What do you do if you find a wallet on the street?” asked the pudgy cop. “Do you turn it in to the proper authorities with cash and credit cards intact, or go and buy yourself something nice?” That invaluable lesson vaguely floated through my mind as I knelt down to pick up a grimy dollar outside our tiny, one-bedroom apartment. The only other apartment on the floor belonged to a cellist who was never around because he toured with the emo-rock band Evanescence. “He must be back in town,” I thought as I stuffed the dirty bill into my pocket, planning to spend it on a chocolate chip cookie from Bird Bath Bakery. Unabashedly, I devoured the tainted sweets and ended up feeling guiltier about the calorie count than stealing from a fellow artist.

Months passed with more chances to redeem myself. I found another dollar or two in our hallway, which I nonchalantly kept and considered good luck—until one day I found a crumpled five-dollar bill on the steps.

“Blood money!” I scowled as I threw the sullied greenback to Tamas. He sheepishly smiled. The guilt was starting to pile up, but instead of politely knocking on our neighbor’s door to ask if he had dropped some money, we ended up spending it on scoops at Chinatown Ice Cream Factory. Amidst creamy licks of taro and pumpkin pie, I was able and willing to forget the moral dilemma.

Eventually, our neighbor was evicted for not paying over $3,000 in rent. Movers threw out his couch and his meager belongings, but left his old mattress sitting outside the back of our building. We watched it mold and sag from our bedroom window through spring and into summer, when it was finally removed, along with all traces of the wandering musician and his misplaced bills.

Relieved, I went about unperturbed, saving loose change to fund my sweet tooth until a few weeks later when I was put to the test again. Only this time, the stakes were higher.

“P!” shouted Tamas as he rode up the escalator in the massive six-floored Barnes & Noble at Union Square. He pointed down beside me where two orphaned $20 bills lay helplessly on the ground. I looked around for any sign of an owner, but saw only strangers bustling by stately columns and the New Fiction section. So I crouched down to snatch up the booty before wildly motioning for Tamas to come back. Waiting for him to ride down the escalator, I giddily thought to myself, “20 bucks each!” But then my conscience nagged.

I thought of that smug D.A.R.E. cop sporting his hip holster and hypothetical question, and it occurred to me that I may have somehow been responsible for the evicted cellist who was probably in handcuffs. “I hate dealing with these things,” I said when we reconvened, and reluctantly stuffed the cash into Tamas’s hands.

“We’ll just give it to the Customer Service desk and leave our information,” he assured me. “If they don’t find the owner, then we’ll get it, right?” The happy outcome seemed doubtful and B&N would most likely keep the cash. But I followed Tamas to the help desk anyways.

“Thank you,” said the clerk, slightly baffled, after we explained the situation. “That’s very honest of you.” We watched him take the money and seal it in an envelope with the acute sense that an opportunity had presented itself and we naively let it go.

Walking through the Union Square Greenmarket, I eyed the homemade cookies and overpriced peaches that I could have bought with $40 until I realized that money couldn’t buy me an easy night’s sleep. After living in New York City for two years, I’d like to think that I could make it anywhere with my integrity still intact and my D.A.R.E. badge only slightly tarnished.