New Amsterdam: Tess
Read New Amsterdam: Tess Online
Authors: Ashley Pullo
© 2015 by Ashley Pullo
eBook Formatting by Erika Q. Stokes
Cover art by Molly Van Roekel
Proofreading by Marla Esposito
Paperback cover design by Nick Fantini
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.
“Life is the flower for which love is the honey.”
—Victor Hugo
To the Humans of New YorkIn the summer of 2010, photographer Brandon Stanton began an ambitious project – to single-handedly create a photographic census of New York City. The photos he took and the accompanying interviews became the blog Humans of New York (St. Martin’s, 2015).
New Amsterdam:A Brief History
Beginning in the early 16
th
century, explorers crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of the elusive Northwest Passage, but instead found an inhabited island full of beavers and wild natives. Beavers were all the rage in Europe, especially with their waterproof furry pelts, and perfumed anal excretions used in fancy colognes. It wasn’t India, but this new land offered something better – commerce.
Who would be the first to settle this new empire?
Following Columbus, some European dudes with really long names set sail to find a shortcut to the land of silk and spices, only to return to their homes with boring tales from the sea. However, these explorers lent their names to several hot spots in New York City – Hudson Bagels, Verrazano Community College, and Cartier Cupcakes on the Upper East Side.
Several years later, the Pilgrims attempted to settle New York but failed miserably. They desperately wanted to trade with the Native Americans and sail along the Hudson River, but the Mayflower wasn’t equipped with a working GPS, and their supply of snacks were running low. Therefore, the Pilgrims made a pit stop near a big rock and decided to call it home.
Enter the Dutch.
With their colorful detailed maps and European goods in tow, Dutch businessmen settled at the mouth of the Hudson River on the southern tip of Manhattan (knowing that this would be prime real estate for future yuppies.) Wanting all the beavers in all the land, a team of orange swooped in and opened the port for business. During the grand opening in 1621, the Dutch West Indian Company resurrected Holland law – kicking out all the previous private traders and expanding the territory for a Dutch settlement.
What American history lesson doesn’t involve the fear of attack by European powers and the Mohawk-Mahican war?
So in 1628, the Dutch built Fort Amsterdam from clay and sand, crammed all the settlers into the area, and then planted five-hundred tulips to keep things pretty. The construction of a protective
wall
was also ordered, but the iconic bronze bull and Gordon Gekko won’t appear until the late twentieth century. To further safe-guard their new settlement, Mr. Minuit purchased the land from the Lenape Indians for sixty guilders of goods – a few fake Rolexes, some pashmina scarves, and a couple of snow globes featuring the first Thanksgiving.
Uh oh, here come the British . . .
Sailing into the harbor with four frigates in 1664, the British demanded that the newly sustainable area of New Amsterdam be relinquished to the Duke of York (huge fan of the beaver pelt!) The Dutch settlers were booted off the island of Manhattan – some settled along the north shore of Long Island, and others found peace as hipsters in Brooklyn. Alas, New Amsterdam was officially renamed New York, and the colonization of North America was in full effect.
On a happy note, one of the most important things to survive from the first settlement of New York City was the Castello Plan – a rudimentary mapping system of Manhattan. As centuries passed, and men’s fashion evolved, the beaver trade was considered a frivolous activity for sissies. But thanks to the Dutch and their snazzy cartography, generations of visitors can pick up a five-dollar map of Downtown at any corner bodega.
PrologueIn its defense, the man wearing the expensive plum blossom aftershave had it coming.
As the days stretch longer, and the humidity rises, New Yorkers rely on various distractions to cope with the summer heat. Traveling is an adventurous option, but escaping the City requires an attractive destination and expendable cash. Spontaneous sex can be an effective diversion, although the result is often stickier than a sweat lodge in the Mojave Desert. Free events with air-conditioning are great resources on a budget, except mass transportation prior to the event can trap a person in an air-tight tuna can for hours. So as the temperature spikes, and the smell of the warm garbage lingers, the only refreshing solution is to stumble into the nearest happy hour for great conversation and even better libations.
Rooftop bars in Brooklyn are the newest trend, serving mojitos in mason jars, and staging
Fuck You, Heatwave
screaming contests. But like most trends, rooftop bars are only as cool as their next hashtag. Of recent, the Village has had an influx of speakeasies – but who wants to drink moonshine in a dark basement with a penny farthing propped in the corner? Tourists.
But the truth is, New Yorkers ache for simplicity – packaged and delivered with tradition.
And so it’s Lower Manhattan that holds the rarest treasure, a place where people can congregate on cobbled streets and absorb the cool breeze from the East River. A gathering place for hundreds of years, the Seaport is the pearl of the City – the apex of New Amsterdam.
And this neighborhood is where the story begins . . .
Centuries ago, the Seaport was developed as a trading post for commerce, and that same vibe still exists today. Designed as a festival marketplace, businesses and food markets occupy the original mercantile buildings, while upscale restaurants and salty dive bars claim the piers. One hideaway in particular, known for the citrus cocktails, expensive gin, and fresh seafood, is Dunbar’s Oyster House. An area-favorite servicing the Downtown crowd, as well as tourists enjoying a relaxing meal in the historic district, Dunbar’s promises a simple menu with magical views. But on Friday afternoons, as the Italian loafers from the Financial District stumble into the South Street Seaport, Dunbar’s transforms into an expensive bar serving never-ending bottles of Nolet Gin and platters of raw, chilled oysters. And until last call, the entire Seaport is crawling with thirsty Wall Street capitalists demanding more.
The finance jabronis aren’t all bad, and some even exhibit self-control with the female wait staff. But the guy wearing the pastel-colored Canali shirt and expensive plum blossom aftershave? He’s the worst kind – engaged, handsome, rich, and arrogant. His ridiculous, OCD behavior, and the tone of his adenoidal voice are minor quirks in comparison to his need to pinch the ass of every woman that has the unfortunate task of being near him.
Leaning back in his chair and snapping lazily at the waitress in the tight T-shirt, he gutters, “Tonic. Three orange slices.”
The waitress, a former reality TV star, nods with a devious smile, perhaps wondering what would result in her bringing only two orange slices as opposed to three. Her smile fades as the man evaluates her legs, making no attempt to hide his wandering eyes. She frowns, grabs the empty glasses from the table in a swift swoop, and then stacks them on a tray.
Under strict instructions from management to divert all sexual advances into consuming more alcohol, she quickly repeats his demand with a wink. “Gin and tonic with three orange slices.”
With hooded eyes and parted mouth, the man runs his index finger up the side of her exposed leg. “Delicious.”
The waitress fidgets slightly, but then rasps, “Would you like something to eat?”
Stalling at the hem of her denim skirt, he taps his finger on her thigh and grins. “Are you offering?” he asks, his mouth practically watering.
The waitress lowers her head and laughs into her chest. Six months ago, she lived on an uninhabited island in the Maldives, feasting on barbecued beetles and showering with monkeys – surely she can handle the forward presumptions of a drunken idiot.
“Something raw, or something sweet, Paul?” Her reply is fluid yet snarky – and of course she knows his name – Paul Holbrook’s Amex is in her back pocket.
“Mmm, surprise me,” he snarls.
As the waitress glides back to the main kitchen purposely swaying her hips, Paul removes his phone to text his fiancée. He doesn’t have the slightest chance with the waitress, but sometimes, flirtatious hope is all a dick needs to get off.
Paul pecks at his phone with squinted eyes, pausing briefly to swat at a hovering insect. His creative excuse this evening:
Important client visiting from Hong Kong. Staying Downtown.
Paul Holbrook works in the European division.
But his fiancée doesn’t fully understand what he does at work, or that he has a key to a corporate apartment on Front Street.
Her naive reply:
Trader Joe’s is out of Brussels sprouts again!
Rolling his eyes, Paul drops his phone into the pocket of his striped dress shirt just as an associate from his firm plows into him. Unintentionally, the man spills a clear drink down Paul’s arm. Pissed, Paul jumps from his chair and shoves the other man into an empty table. “Garrison, you prick!” Paul squawks.
Startled, Garrison replies, “Calm down, Paul. It’s only seltzer.” Regaining his balance, Garrison takes a step toward his group of middle-aged buddies. Jokingly, the men raise their glasses to toast the alpha-male entertainment unfolding before them. Amused, Garrison takes a bow, but Paul grabs his arm, knocking the seltzer glass to the ground to shatter into a dozen pieces.
“Come near me again, and I’ll fucking kill you, faggot,” Paul grates while rolling his neck.
Garrison Barker, a widower and father of two, is not a homosexual. But his beloved younger brother is openly gay. Certain words are triggers, and although Garrison’s brother doesn’t engage in retribution or violence, Garrison prefers to defend his loved ones with an aggressive approach.
Clenching his fists into whitening knuckles, Garrison shifts his weight to an offensive boxing position he learned in college. He’s ready to throw the first punch, a left jab to Paul’s smug face, but surprisingly, Paul slaps his own cheek.
Distracted by the overwhelming humming sound, Garrison mumbles, “What the . . . ?”
Straight from a horror movie, thousands of yellow and black insects circle the restaurant, dipping as a spherical unit to investigate the sweet smells lingering on the tables. The growing mass buzzes and swoops, causing patrons and employees to panic. Hands are flailing, and white cloth napkins are used to surrender, as the crowd runs from the waterfront restaurant dialing 911 from their phones.
Only a few seconds pass before the panicked hysteria becomes a contagion of silence. Due to shock or curiosity, every bystander within a one-block radius whips out their phone to document the disturbing sight thrashing before them.
#attackofthebees #seaport #swarming
Covered from head to toe in a buzzing, black cloud of honeybees, is none other than the lying, cheating, sexist, perverted, homophobic, anaphylactic asshole, Paul Holbrook.
He had it coming.