The Ladder

Some people live in a New York City swaddled in silks and Cartier jewelry. A rodent-sized dog slung over one arm, Italian leather bag with gold detailing adorning the other, they spend their days lounging on rooftop terraces sipping frozen margaritas. When the orange autumn leaves give way to another unforgiving New York City winter, they find sanctuary amidst folds of chinchilla fur and minibreaks to Cabo and the South of France. Christmases and New Years’ are spent skiing and snowboarding, carving ice trails down the side of mountain paths packed with coarse artificial snow. Summer weekends are spent finding solace from the relentless humidity poolside in the Hamptons, discussing extra-marital affairs and breast augmentation. On spring afternoons, they sit in outdoor SoHo cafés sipping Diet Coke and browsing the menu for entrées that adhere to low-carb lifestyles. Dinner conversation takes place at trendy three and a half star restaurants decorated with hard furniture in retro geometric shapes and bold, primary colors. When the sun sinks into another city night, persistently illuminated with the glow of high-rise windows, they throw themselves into the welcoming embrace of opened velvet rope arms drinking fruit-infused martinis and slipping into cramped bathroom stalls to snort illegal substances.

A lot of people escape their suburban sprawl, family-owned businesses and small-town limitations to pursue this New York, a New York fictionalized on movie screens and splashed across tabloid pages. They don’t realize that this city exists only to a select few, deemed society’s most profitable or beautiful, the bankers and lawyers and the women who fuck them, the socialites and heirs, the few models and actors who achieve the level of success necessary to finally remove “aspiring” from their title. The rest of us are left to fight for the wilting husks of trendiness they leave behind—empty shells of once-exclusive clubs and bars that have outlived their stint in the limelight and are forced to open their doors to the likes of you and me.

Some manage to achieve a watered-down version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s New York. They meet someone who provides an in—a free pass to view this side of the city, perhaps even latch onto a B-level celebrity and secure a spot within. I’ve known some people who managed to get me inside, and as much as my eyes lit up at the spectacle of this inaccessible alternate world in my own neighborhood, I could never bring myself to stroke an ego, fawn over an entourage member and fix a place for myself within.

I like to consider myself rising above this shallow world, but for the reason that I’m not welcomed there, I find myself oddly infatuated with it. The simple fact that it isn't available makes it desirable. I feel a twinge of envy at another’s mention of finding a way in, even if their methods clearly involve debasing themselves. And, while my pride won’t let me attach myself to someone purely to snake inside, I consider it a goal of mine to independently raise myself to that level and storm the gates. I want to have a place in that world so I can decide that I didn’t really want to be there in the first place.

-L