A Perishable Business

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Five decades after Lower Manhattan’s produce market was relocated to the Bronx to make room for the new World Trade Center, the fate of Hunts Point’s family-owned operations is once again uncertain.

“We’ve got a great view of Manhattan out here,” says Matthew D’Arrigo, first vice president of the Hunts Point Produce Market, the southeast Bronx site that is part of the world’s largest wholesale food distribution center. One bright Tuesday morning twelve years ago, as D’Arrigo climbed onto the market’s roof to take in the vista, the New York City skyline was transformed by heavy swells of smoke that streamed out from the Twin Towers against an otherwise cerulean sky.

Then, they fell.

Before construction of the World Trade Center began in 1966, space had to be cleared, and people and commerce moved. Among them were specialty purveyors of meat, fish and produce, many of them family businesses that had fed New York City from Washington Market in Lower Manhattan for 155 years. But commercial quarters, particularly of the produce trade at Washington Market, had become outmoded and unsanitary and in need of a modern restart. So the city built a new home just for the wholesale produce trade in Hunts Point, and more than a hundred family businesses, including the D’Arrigos’, were obligated to move. As a result, the Hunts Point Produce Market officially opened for business in the Bronx in 1967, and the Twin Towers opened on its former site in 1973.

When the WTC buildings were demolished on 9/11 and subsequently cleared, Ground Zero was formed: a symbolic space in both void and regeneration. D’Arrigo, 54, a third generation owner of D’Arrigo Bros. Co., took it all in atop the Bronx market—the outlying, albeit living memory of the storied New York fruit and vegetables trade. Now a new World Trade Center is rising on the very land upon which the D’Arrigos’ and more than a hundred other businesses—the royal families of produce, as it were—were built. The Hunts Point Produce Market, now 46 years old, remains hot as yearly revenues stampede towards $2.5 billion. But the market has reached a tipping point—one reminiscent of the very conditions that prompted a move to the Bronx in the first place— and family businesses such as the D’Arrigos’ could soon be on the move once again.

A four-lane vehicle entry into NYC Terminal Market in Hunts Point in the Bronx.
A four-lane vehicle entry into NYC Terminal Market in Hunts Point in the Bronx.

In order to match the ravenous demands of the New York metro area’s growing population—which has boomed from 16 million when the market opened to 23 million today—the facility’s round-the-clock operations have put a political and environmental strain on the Hunts Point neighborhood. Freight trucks headed to and from the wholesale markets cause major pollution in the area. According to a 2006 N.Y.U. study, Bronx children are twice as likely to attend a school situated near expressways where they can breathe in soot from diesel exhaust. As a result, the child asthma hospitalization rate is two to three times higher there than in other boroughs, prompting community groups to raise discussions about tearing down the market’s main traffic artery.

Issues remain inside the market as well. Despite its commercial success in the Bronx, the Hunts Point Produce Market, which rents space from the city, is in need of a much larger and more modern facility. A newly minted wholesale produce market in Philadelphia has begun to steal business because of its proximity and advanced facilities, while the nearly half-century old market has worn its current space down to the bone.

“We’ve been bursting for twenty years,” says D’Arrigo, a key cog in negotiations with city officials that will decide the Market’s future: stay put in the Bronx, retrofit and expand, or move—again.

And so, the produce trade in New York City is anxiously staring once again into the eye of change.

*    *    *

Poster image #1 of 3 Andy Boy Broccoli.[courtesy of Matthew D'Arrigo]
Poster image #1 of 3 Andy Boy Broccoli.[courtesy of Matthew D’Arrigo]

Billy Joel croons from above inside the D’Arrigo Bros. offices. The wood paneling in the waiting room is decorated with framed articles about the family business, particularly of Matthew’s father, Stephen D’Arrigo, patriarch, founder and CEO, who passed away at 79 on Independence Day, 2003. He was “first vice president” of the Market, a title his son holds today after stepping down as president this June. On the opposite wall, and protected by glass, are three large-scale print advertisements for the D’Arrigo-owned Andy Boy Broccoli label. The Rockwellian posters, designed by Matthew’s father and Boston advertising guru Harold Cabot, are Americana. In one, a young boy holds a bouquet of broccoli while kissing a girl on the cheek as she looks away, her hands resting at her hips. The tagline reads, “Fresh!”

“Those were [some of] the first advertisements ever on the subway,” says D’Arrigo while we sip morning coffee. “They date back to 1927 and I believe [it] was the first branded vegetable.”

D’Arrigo is of Sicilian descent, an embodiment of a storied lineage of Italian and Jewish families who have long dominated the New York City market scene.

Poster image #2 of 3 for Andy Boy Broccoli.
Poster image #2 of 3 for Andy Boy Broccoli.

“I consider Jews my cousins,” D’Arrigo says with an ear-to-ear smile. “An Italian and a Jew: there’s not enough air in the room for everybody to talk.”

In 1904, Andrea D’Arrigo, Matthew’s grandfather, then 16, emigrated from Messina, Sicily, to Boston via Ellis Island. His younger brother Stefano soon followed. Both learned English, earned engineering degrees and fought for the U.S. during World War I. When they returned stateside the brothers found work at a roadside produce market. In 1925, Stefano traveled to central California during a wine grape-buying trip and observed firsthand the land’s fertility. The brothers came up with an idea to expand business: broccoli. A year later Stefano sent 28 acres worth of broccoli 2,800 miles from San Jose to Boston via train—the first ever cross-country railcar of California fresh vegetables in U.S. history—and the Andy Boy label was born. On July 4, 1948, a third and final location for the D’Arrigo family business was established at 308 Washington Street in lower Manhattan, site of the now defunct Washington Market.

For more than a century and a half, Washington Market, named after the country’s first president, fed New York City. The heart of the market ran along Washington Street on the west side of Lower Manhattan, although its sprawling boundaries ran roughly from Murray Street on the South side, north to Canal Street, and extending from West Broadway at its easternmost point, all the way to West Street along the Hudson River. According to the official market history of the Hunts Point Terminal Produce Cooperative, the market dates to the turn of the nineteenth century, when food peddlers could be found selling in the Washington Street vicinity. From inside the antiquated stalls that lined the cobblestone streets, and from pushcarts and wagons, merchants sold butter, eggs, game, strawberries, fish, beef and much more.

Long lines of trucks being loaded with produce at Washington Market, New York City. (Photo by Al Ravenna, courtesy of Library of Congress.)
Long lines of trucks being loaded with produce at Washington Market, New York City. (Photo by Al Ravenna, courtesy of Library of Congress.)

By the mid-nineteenth century the area had become a filthy, manic health hazard and struggled to keep pace with growing demands for fresh produce. In the 1877 issue of Scribner’s Monthly, William H. Rideing noted that store owners would burn spoiled produce, such as lettuce leaves and rotten oranges, along with pieces of crating and piles of excelsior in barrels, in order to stay warm throughout the winter.

Congestion was also a major problem. Deliveries made by rail and ship, and intended for Washington Market as a final destination, were scattered at locations throughout Manhattan, Brooklyn and New Jersey. Items were then unloaded and re-packed onto delivery trucks headed to Washington Market. Deliveries typically occurred at the fronts of stores, which shared the street and often competed with heavy cross-town traffic, making these exchanges even more hectic. “Miraculously,” writes Gordon, “New York got fed.”

The market was rebuilt in 1880, and again in 1915, which allowed for improved flushing of sewage, storage, air circulation and sunlight. Yet even with these updated facilities, the market remained unsanitary and disorganized. The city continued to take on the market’s yearly deficit of $8,000.

Bronx Terminal Market was erected in 1929, which made deliveries to and from Washington Market easier. In 1941, the Market was modernized yet again, but by 1956, then-City Markets Commissioner Anthony Masciarelli said that shifting produce operations to the Bronx Terminal Market was “a most logical and centrally located point for this industry,” in large part because the Major Deegan and Cross Bronx Expressways provided roadway connections to Queens and New Jersey, and there was direct railroad access for shippers.

The final death knell for Washington Market came in the form of a plan to build a massive center of commerce in Lower Manhattan. To make room for the Twin Towers, 487 produce merchants from Washington Market were offered a new home in Hunts Point, then described by The New York Times as “a marshy no-man’s land on the shores of the Bronx River.”

On August 21, 1965, during a visit to Washington Market, Markets Commissioner Albert S. Pacetta said to a crowd of both supporters and detractors that a move to the Bronx would save the city more than $10 million a year on spoilage alone. A New York Times article printed the next day offers an account of fishmongers and marketers shouting in disagreement at Pacetta as he was leaving the market, warning, “Count your fingers.”

But by then the multi-storied buildings that housed Washington Market’s food businesses were “so decrepit that 80% of their assessed valuation was the value of the land on which they stood,” writes Gordon. It was a foregone conclusion: Washington Market and the area once called “Hell’s Hundred Acres” by deputy mayor Edward F. Cavanagh would give way for the lucrative skyscrapers that would come to symbolize downtown Manhattan.

On March 6, 1967, the New York City Terminal Market was officially opened and America’s largest fresh fruit and vegetable wholesale distribution center was born. The market gave New York’s economy a boost because taxes and employment were anchored to the city, while the new facilities enabled larger and faster trade and less waste. Additionally, competition was fierce: by concentrating the economic forces of supply and demand in one area, quality and price were assured.

“We had 125 people in the beginning,” says D’Arrigo. “The fruit auction didn’t move. They thought they were going to survive without the wholesale market. A year later they moved up here but they had already lost the thread and that went bye-bye. Strength in numbers.”

D’Arrigo speaks with an alternating blend of drawn-out emphases and staccato assertions. He’s fit and bald with a hint of the actor Stanley Tucci and often arrives at his office when nine-to-fivers are just waking up. He dons a headset while operating two landlines, a cell phone and a desktop.

“Hang on Big Al,” he says into the headset, picking up a second line.

Matthew D'Arrigo in his office at the Hunts Point Market.
Matthew D’Arrigo in his office at the Hunts Point Market.

“You’re babysitting the stuff, D’Arrigo says of his product. “It’s cheap, it’s perishable, [and] takes up a lot of room.”

He offers me a pallet of blackberries—that’s one ton—for free. It’s tongue-in-cheek if only for his assumption that I’m not driving a semi. A shipment of strawberries, one with more longevity than the “older” blackberries, was on its way in and he needed the room.

*   *   *

The fresh food supply for 23 million metropolitan New Yorkers depends on three fascinating and goliath facilities: Hunts Point Produce Market, Hunts Point Meat Market—which had spanned Washington Market and Gansevoort Market in the Meatpacking District before moving to the Bronx in 1974—and the New Fulton Fish Market, which relocated to the Bronx in 2005 after 183 years along the East River at South Street Seaport.

The Grand Central Station of Broccoli, as the market was deemed by New York Times reporter McCandlish Phillips shortly after opening, supplies 8.4 million New York City residents with 60% of their daily fruit and vegetables. Typically everything that comes into the wholesale market is moved out within 24 to 48 hours.

“The make-up of a berry,” says D’Arrigo, “is to not let it sit around for more than a day [once] it gets here. You want it in and you want it out.”

For New Yorkers and their food, “local” means “Bronx.” Far from fancy Manhattan bistros, display merchandising and coined marketing, these massive food complexes remain an unseen and unknown commodity for most New Yorkers.

This mystery begins along Food Center Drive. Out the window of an empty and idling Bx6 bus—the necessary transfer from the 6 train in order to arrive at the market—a Delta flight rises from LaGuardia Airport through a peaked sun above the East River. Below it is the Vernon C. Bain Correctional Center, a 100-cell, 800-bed, medium- to maximum-security prison barge, an extension of New York City’s main jail complex on Rikers Island, just a stone’s throw away. The Hunts Point Produce Market remains the largest employer in the Bronx where, according to the 2010 U.S. Census, 28% of residents live below the poverty line, almost double that of New York City’s population as a whole. According to D’Arrigo, around 7,000 people work here, either for the market, for the firms based here, or as part of what he calls “the buying crowd.”

Street signs next to NYC Terminal Market at Hunts Point.
Street signs next to NYC Terminal Market at Hunts Point.

The neighborhood does not have the best of reputations, in part because a bevy of news and entertainment outlets portray the area as ridden with crime, poverty, drugs and prostitution. Beginning in 2002, HBO aired the documentary series “Hookers At The Point,” which depicted the lives of prostitutes, many who were struggling with drug addictions, and their experiences with a range of clientele. HBO ceased its broadcast in 2010 after the Bronx borough president complained to network executives that the series presented an unrealistic and outdated image of an area long in the process of an environmental and cultural revitalization. That recent revitalization has included efforts from organizations such as The Point Community Development Corporation, which aims to empower at-risk youth. Also planned: dedicated clean air and water treatment solutions, and the South Bronx Greenway, a long-reaching series of natural habitats and parks along the East River, several components of which have already been completed, that will link the Hunts Point neighborhood to the waterfront.

As I step down from the bus to approach the produce market compound, the driver wishes me goodbye, aware of my intentions to see what this place is all about. “They see you snoopin’ around in there,” he says, “it’s no good.”

Dunk-height walls encase the market, barricading it from the airy industrial landscape outside. The walls run for miles, lining the market in alternating shades of faded concrete and striated sheet metal. Atop the barriers, thick plastic knots caught in chicken wire ripple in bursts like bugs gasping in futility for attention in a spider web. Across the street the affect of cartoon murals, perhaps painted to enliven the atmosphere, have aged into faded neglect, usurped by graffiti and swallowed into the tarmac surroundings. Junkyards, auto body shops, waste-processing facilities, parking stations, strip clubs, prisons, delis and pizza parlors—neighbors of the produce market—are open for business, many 24/7. I spot “Hoffa 2006” stickers plastered to signs and lampposts.

Graffiti fills the walls across the street from NYC Terminal Market in Hunts Point. Right: A visitor takes the pedestrian entrance into the market.
Graffiti fills the walls across the street from NYC Terminal Market in Hunts Point. Right: A visitor takes the pedestrian entrance into the market.

Next to the pedestrian entrance a mustached man idles, his boot kicked against the wall. His arm rests on a stack of boxes stamped “SWEET FUYU PERSIMMONS” that are branded with an instructional motto: “Eat Hard Like An Apple.” He puffs a cigarette, stamps it out, and loads his take into the back of a friend’s SUV before driving off.

As I approach the access booth, an 18-wheeler zooms by from the Sheridan Expressway, the market’s primary traffic artery. From behind glass, a security officer informs me that there’s no entering the premises unless I know with which wholesaler I’ll be conducting business.

I don’t know. A truck whizzes behind her.

“A & J Produce,” I say.

“A & J?”

“Yep. A & J.”

“I need your ID and three bucks. It’s number two twenty-three.”

And I’m in.

An MTA-like turnstile lets out onto an expanse of sun-bleached asphalt. To the left, a tollbooth serves as a main entrance for motor vehicles. Each year, 130,000 trucks come in and out of the Bronx behemoth. The terminal market was constructed to primarily receive rail and can accommodate 400 railcars at a time. Aged but functional rusty Union Pacific cars can be seen idling. According to Joel Fierman, the sleepy-eyed former president of the co-operative, the market facilitates visits from about 1,000 vans on a large day and 400 on a slower one. Produce arrives by boat and air from 49 states (all but Alaska) and 55 countries.

There’s an ordered chaos to parking, as security vehicles, employee cars, semis and small trucks abut like a transportation melting pot. As a result, the market looks more like a vehicular depot than the urban produce forest I had romantically envisioned.

Employees cleaning up the loading dock area where trucks were lined up just hours before.
Employees cleaning up the loading dock area where trucks were lined up just hours before.

Drivers have complained about ankle-deep puddles that form during rainstorms at the foot of the market’s lots due to uneven surfaces. Along the perimeters, pigeons can be seen waddling in small muddy piles of rotten or spilled produce and the vestiges of morning cigarette fixes. Consequently, the complex is cleaned on a daily basis. Market sanitation involves the picking up of wet waste on the streets, including produce, plastics and pieces of wood. Magnets attached to street sweepers pick up the rest, such as the nails that fall out of pallets during movement to and from the market’s 18,000 pallet positions.

“Years ago flat tires were all the talk of the market,” says Myra Gordon, the executive administrative director for Hunts Point Produce Market. “Not so anymore.”

The terminal produce market sits on 113 acres of land. Wholesale business operations occur within four main buildings—rows A through D—with the produce trade occurring along the platform floors, which run parallel to one another like the tines of a fork. The office corridors are narrow and mostly sunless, and metal doors are painted dark, separated by cool-to-the-touch off-white walls, reminiscent of a plain and impregnable detention ward. Traipsing down the deep, Shining-like hallways is disorientating. I get lost while searching for Gordon, an employee of two-and-a-half decades, who occupies an office above the Row A platform. I’m told she’s the one to go to—about everything.

Fifty yards away, a small woman charges in my direction, her shoes audibly commanding the tiles below. Mrs. Gordon’s eyes beam upward and lock onto mine. “Are you looking for me?”

Gordon runs the administrative duties for the market and has been here 27 years. She reminds me of my grandmother—a person whose eyes communicate wanting-the-best for you; who’s perhaps graying; whose pressed lapels showcase a lineup of shiny brooches; who gracefully  gets it done. Her default expression, as seen during periods of virtuous listening, is an open-mouthed smile. I wonder how long she’ll keep it up.

“At some point, in order to be fair to this place, I would not be able to do this humongous job,” Gordon says. “[It] really should be someone who’s a specialist in workers’ comp, general liability—I do all of that—[and] someone who is a specialist in public relations.”

Gordon’s office, much like the hallways, is stuck in time. It smells of kitty litter and vintage perfume. Papers are strewn this way and that. There’s a typewriter. And resting in the corner is a tan fabric couch fashioned with two pillows, each with its own sewn-on vegetable design—one eggplant, one carrot.

She makes a phone call.

“…[C]orned beef sandwiches with lettuce and tomato. No mayonnaise. Now read that back to me.”

A fourth role, apparently, is taking charge of catering for an upcoming meeting.

“It’s a cacophony out here,” Gordon says as we walk the Row A platform together one afternoon. “The faster you get [produce] in here, the faster you get it sold. It’s like the running of the bulls.”

Indeed it is. Manual pallet cars and forklift trucks own the space. The siding of one is fashioned with a bikini-clad centerfold ripped from a magazine and plastered onto the hard metal. At times it’s ankle-severing traffic. People are everywhere. Signs warn NO JACK RIDING! In places the concrete flooring is relatively clean. In others, where it’s wet and grimy, a dark slime outlines footprints and wheel marks—crisscrossed impressions of the processes at work, of people fed.

In total, Hunts Point Produce Market boasts one million square feet of interior space. Along the four platforms are 270 store units, each 1,500 square feet, the same size they were at Washington Market. According to D’Arrigo, whose family company is the market’s largest lessee, what was originally 125 merchants is now 41.

Produce is everywhere. Most fruits and vegetables look familiar, although I’m reliant on box labeling to identify some, such as rutabaga. The leafy greens are plush-to-the-touch and full of color; strawberries, plump and plentiful; persimmons, interesting and shiny; the Andy Boy-brand broccoli boasts stalks like redwoods trunks.

Employees work around stacks of boxes piled up in in front of an A&J Produce logistics booth.
Employees work around stacks of boxes piled up in in front of an A&J Produce logistics booth.
A small section displaying various items next to a logistics booth for A&J Produce.
A small section displaying various items next to a logistics booth for A&J Produce.
An employee at the A&J Produce section.
An employee at the A&J Produce section.

“New York has a very sophisticated eating population,” says Gordon. “There are 23,000 restaurants in the city but the average consumer doesn’t know. Kids in New York think their produce is grown on the shelf of the supermarket.”

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a box of what I would learn are cassavas.

“That’s a root vegetable,” she says. “A poor person’s item.”

Inside the warehouses are remarkable displays of specialized produce and processes. One Fierman Produce Exchange unit contains huge stacks of onion and potato sacks—items referred to as “hardware” because of their long shelf life—climbing nearly to the warehouse ceiling, requiring a forklift to bring them down. Inside the E. Armata tomato facility a long stainless steel machine manned by a handful of employees sorts the fruit based on their size and stage of ripening as they’re conveyed up a ridged metallic ramp. The process of separating the green tomatoes from the orange-pink, and yellows from the reds, enables a wholesaler to provide a more consistent product to match the demands of different types of clients. Delis, for example, require a particular size and color of tomato for slicing.

“Five-six is the [size] of a bigger tomato. Six-six is smaller. Six-seven is small,” says D’Arrigo. We only handle five-sixes here. This market only handles big size fruit. It doesn’t like small fruit.”

In front of the wholesaler warehouses are several logistics booths wherein orders are filled and sales are made in all directions: from suppliers to wholesalers, or from wholesalers to buyers, such as specialty purveyors, supermarkets, restaurants or even the sidewalk merchants who populate intersections across Manhattan. Depending on the size of the load, merchandise is transported from warehouses by hand, or (more commonly) mechanically across the platform, and reared into open-ended vehicles, some of which exhibit tags from NYC’s lower echelon of spray paint talent. From there, it’s marketed and resold amongst the general population.

One of the sales sections at D'Arrigo Bros. Co.
One of the sales sections at D’Arrigo Bros. Co.

“This is a night market,” says Gordon, waving to the rows of workers who greet her along the Row A platform. The healthy pace of the busy afternoon market we walk through pales in comparison to the fervent market activity that occurs from around 10 p.m. to sunrise.

“[It’s] a true marketplace,” says D’Arrigo—pure supply and demand—and there are no posted prices. As a result, it’s buyers versus sellers. Prices are generally higher earlier in the evening, and fall off after the highest-quality produce has been sold.

“You don’t sell your older product at ten at night,” says D’Arrigo. “You’re selling off the fresh stuff cause that’s what they want.”

As night turns to day, vendors look to see what haven’t sold, and why, and prices shift downward. “You’re doing your inventory control,” says D’Arrigo. “You’re troubleshooting, and you’re pushing stuff out. That’s when you see prices drop down, because it didn’t work at the market price so you gotta get it out of the door at a lesser price. Produce doesn’t [just] go from good to bad. It goes from good to not so good and then to average and then to, ‘Oh well we’re in trouble here.’ And then at the end you’re going to the guy at $3 who gets it out and repackages the whole damn thing and it ends up on a pushcart on Madison Avenue.”

“We are the number one salvage seller in America by far…by far,” says D’Arrigo. “People run to New York to get rid of it. They send us the extras. We’re the biggest in terms of selling waste product and cheaper product because of the peddler’s trade that’s in the marketplace. In Detroit or somewhere else—buyer’s markets—they throw it in the garbage. Those are firm price markets. We’re a very gray area market.”

Matthew D'Arrigo goes over sales receipt at one of D'Arrigo Bros. Co. logistics booth.
Matthew D’Arrigo goes over sales receipt at one of D’Arrigo Bros. Co. logistics booth.
Matthew D'Arrigo takes a bite out of an apple from the fruits section of D'Arrigo Bros. Co.
Matthew D’Arrigo takes a bite out of an apple from the fruits section of D’Arrigo Bros. Co.

Much of that overflow goes to local charities like City Harvest and NYC Food Bank, as well as to numerous schools in Hunts Point and around the Bronx.

“There are 250 charities in the Bronx [and] we probably donate to a good percentage of them,” says Gordon as we near the end of the tour. “If a school is having a Christmas party at the end of the year, they’ll come to us.”

“I have a rule of thumb,” D’Arrigo adds. “If I [donated produce] last year, I’m doing it again this year.”

*   *   *

Once again the Hunts Point Produce Market has reached a historic identity crisis, this time fraying at the seams of LBJ-era modernity. The 45-year-old facility has been pushed to the brink for a number of reasons, and the opening of the Philadelphia Wholesale Produce Market, just 100 miles south in January 2011, offering typically-Hunts Point customers a shiny geographic alternative—and a picture of what could be—applies even more pressure.

Neighborhood politicians have continually lobbied to demap the Sheridan Expressway, which, according to D’Arrigo, brings in 90% of the Market’s traffic, in order to build parks, develop real estate, and improve public health. In 2011, the U.S. Department of Transportation gave the city $1.5M to research potential outcomes of tearing down the mile-and-a-quarter long connector. “If we remove the Sheridan [truck drivers] have only one other way to go,” says D’Arrigo. He explains a circuitous route that involves the Major Deegan Expressway, I-87, the GW Bridge, “double-backing” and an extremely difficult ramp turn. “Plus, it’s a bad idea locally.”

In 2004, a study was conducted to assess opportunities for waterborne freight as a major shipping option in Hunts Point—which would shift transportation of food throughout the city from the roads to the rivers.

D’Arrigo says this isn’t a viable option, as it would add another day to shipments. “It can’t be for time-sensitive stuff,” he says. “A boat doesn’t move as fast as a truck.”

The Sheridan handles about 50,000 vehicles on a daily basis, most of which are doing business with the produce market. In 1998, a six-year-old girl was struck dead by what one Hunts Point community member has called, in The New York Times, the “killer trucks.” Last spring, in an apparent negotiating tactic, D’Arrigo inferred that if the Sheridan were razed it would be added incentive to move market operations elsewhere. Shortly thereafter the city nixed the usage of federal money to investigate tearing down the expressway.

There have been some efforts at compromise, such as the Hunts Point Clean Trucks Program, an initiative led by the New York City Department of Transportation. The program aims to replace older trucks that do business with Hunts Point facilities, with more modern, eco-friendly vehicles that adhere to cleaner engine emission standards.

D'Arrigo inspects a box of Tiger Figs
D’Arrigo inspects a box of Tiger Figs

Most pressing that the truck situation, however—at least for those who work at the market— is the fact that the Hunts Point Produce Market quite simply needs more space in order to serve the demands of the ever-growing population of greater New York. There are two apparent choices on the table: stay in the Bronx, where merchants currently pay the city $4.5M in annual rent, or go elsewhere.

To remain in the Bronx, an estimated $320M deal is under discussion that would renovate and retrofit current structures—and build more—but talks between New York City Economic Development Corp. and HPPM officials have continually seesawed.

“I would say we’re in a dormancy,” says D’Arrigo.

Renovations would ameliorate the Market’s current rail system, expand refrigeration operations, and add more pallet spaces to facilitate the movement of produce in and out of the market.

“[We’d] build row E and F,” D’Arrigo said in early 2012, “which would hold about 30,000 new pallet positions (for nearly 50,000 in total).”

The City, which owns the 105-acre plot of land on which the market operates, had originally agreed to put up $150 million from a variety of city, state, and federal sources and in September 2012, pledged another $25M, bringing its contribution to roughly half the cost of the proposed overhaul. In January 2013, the market’s merchants rejected a 10-year deal to remain in Hunts Point, in part because, as D’Arrigo told The Packer in March, “we feel we haven’t had the most crucial issue to us addressed properly by the city, [which is] the future role the Business Integrity Commission will take in regulating our market.”

Following this, New Jersey Lt. Governor Kim Guadagno said in a statement: “I look forward to continuing to work with Hunts Point to persuade them New Jersey is a great alternative to their cramped and outdated facilities in the Bronx.” In 1960, before the move to Hunts Point, New Jersey had attempted to woo New York’s produce vendors to Jersey City, as they faced similar conditions.

“[N]o one knows what the future will bring,” says D’Arrigo.

The Business Integrity Commission (BIC) was created during the Giuliani years as a trade/waste commission and then became an organized crime and control operation. It generally acts as a regulatory watchdog for the market, keeping vigilance on the inner workings of market activity, including employees, but the co-operative has stated that it believes BIC is overreaching on its authority. One point of contention, according to D’Arrigo, is that the commission would like to potentially regulate the market’s hours of operation and, according to a 2012 Times report, produce operators complained the commission was “showering delivery and storage trucks with parking tickets.”

Matthew D'Arrigo in the fruits section managed by his brother, Michael.
Matthew D’Arrigo in the fruits section managed by his brother, Michael.

A 2006 BIC investigation called “Operation Rotten Apple” linked eleven people to a sports betting outfit that generated an estimated $200,000 in profit yearly. The Police Commission, and ultimately the press, pinned the gambling ring to a mob-backed wholesaler at the produce market. This in turned shined a negative light on the market, displaying it in ink as corrupt and chaotic. “It wasn’t even a co-op member,” says D’Arrigo. “[The press] was very misleading. They called this guy ‘one of the largest wholesalers’ up in Hunts Point and he’s not even a wholesaler in the market. He’s a purveyor customer who delivers delicatessens. They slimed us.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I’ve been here 27, 28 years. There are no mobsters here. I always say there’s disorganized crime in the market.”

While BIC has been a thorn in the market’s side, the co-operative can surely appreciate a desire to maintain order. The urgency of the experiences during 9/11 has instilled a deeper need to ensure safety for the food distribution processes at hand. Since then the market has taken precautions, among them the retraining of Department of Public Safety officials who now carry pistols, employing NYC Peace Officers, and instituting a special counsel for building risk management.

“Delivery was a nightmare [on 9/11],” recalls Joel Fierman, a fourth generation owner. “Trucks would get stopped and inspected everywhere [and] come back 12 hours later. Shippers would call and ask, ‘What do you need?’ and I would tell them, ‘I’m not sure I need anything.’”

D’Arrigo calls it “a paradigm shift in thinking.”

Matthew D'Arrigo with his brother, Michael, who handles the Fruits department at D'Arrigo Bros. Co.
Matthew D’Arrigo with his brother, Michael, who handles the Fruits department at D’Arrigo Bros. Co.

The existence of food systems such as Hunts Point means that we don’t have to forage for ourselves anymore. In times of hunger, we shop, not garden. So what would have to happen to change the way we view our eating realities, from a passive standpoint—i.e. how we are fed—to an active, even carnal one, i.e. how we feed? One answer: crisis. The wholesale distribution facilities at Hunts Point are concentrated, more or less abutting each other, so what ills affect one could likely strike its neighbor(s). The lessons of 9/11—here, of the potentiality of the destruction of an entire food complex—are stark. In times of emergency, if the system collapses or the well runs dry because of evils—disasters natural or otherwise—are we prepared to fend for ourselves as a society, a city, a borough, a family, an individual? Gordon guesses that there’s enough food supply in New York City to last anywhere from 2.5 to four days. How will countless New Yorkers be fed after that’s been tapped?

Gordon offers history and a different type of crisis—war—as insight. “During World War we didn’t have the ability to feed a major population because your farmers were off dedicated to the effort,” she says. In turn, families planted “victory gardens” (aka “war gardens”) at home or in public parks to ease the pressure on the public food supply. The Department of Agriculture marketed these self-supported gardens as morale boosters; “green” propaganda for the greater good that today, in a sense, takes on the rhetorical and ethical shape of “sustainability.” The New York metropolitan area, however, is not the farmland it once was. Furthermore, the average New Yorker’s understanding of growing produce extends perhaps just beyond a grade-school ability to place a seed down a Dixie cup and water on occasion.

“The consumer today is not the consumer of yesterday,” says Gordon. “Don’t forget we were very much an agrarian economy a hundred years ago. My father came from a farming family in Farmington, New Jersey. When I first moved into my house [he] came up and was going to tell me how to weed. I was pulling these weeds and he [said], ‘That’s shav!’ and I said, ‘no, it’s a weed, it’s killing my lawn!’ When you were poor you could pick shav, this little green thingie that grew along the roadways, and make soup with it. It’s very nourishing.”

Matthew D'Arrigo at a storage section of D'Arrigo Bros. Co.
Matthew D’Arrigo at a storage section of D’Arrigo Bros. Co.

As D’Arrigo and his coworkers are well aware, crisis could always be just around the corner. During Hurricane Sandy the Market’s parking lots were flooded, but the cement platform and warehouses were protected because the base of the market’s buildings are four feet high and serve as a sort of architectural moor

Perhaps a more pressing issue than flooding is the possibility of a power outage. D’Arrigo says emergency generator power is being discussed as part of the talks with NYCEDC, as losing refrigeration for an extended period could cause tons of produce to spoil.

Poster image # 3 of 3 for "Andy Boy Broccoli" ads.
Poster image # 3 of 3 for “Andy Boy Broccoli” ads.

Despite any disasters that come their way, the Hunts Point Produce Market continues to feed the City That Never Sleeps with consistency. This is in large part because family businesses like the D’Arrigos’ have operated seamlessly in different locales for over one hundred years.

One of the vintage Andy Boy ads in D’Arrigo’s office shows a strawberry-blonde-haired girl in white tights and a flower-print dress watering a potted head of broccoli that comes up to her waist. In her right hand is a dirty trowel. The tagline reads: “The only way you can get it fresher.” Indeed.

D’Arrigo speaks vulnerably of his “quite eccentric” mother who, at 87, still walks five miles a day and recently took her twelve grandchildren on a five-day camping trip along the Colorado River. “After the move to Hunts Point, my mother drove over to the old [D’Arrigo] offices at 308 Washington St. where my dad’s old building was, took bricks from the torn-down building, [and] packed it in the back of [her] station wagon. With a little cement mixture we built this little terrace in the backyard. It’s still there.”

*   *   *

Jonathan Zalman is a New York-based journalist, editor and teacher. His work has appeared in the Wall Street Journal, Produce Business and on ESPN.com. Connect with him on Twitter @ZalmanJ, or email him at jonathan.zalman@gmail.com.

Emon Hassan, Narratively’s Director of Video & Multimedia, is a New York-based filmmaker and photographer. He is also a contributor to The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and The Atlantic. You can follow him on Twitter, Facebook & Google+.

Emma Sulkowicz is More Than “That Mattress-Toting Sexual Assault Activist”

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She earned worldwide fame for her campus protest. Now this empowered 24-year-old is getting into S&M – and taking on the art-world establishment.

On the third floor of a Midtown Manhattan office building, a line of guests stretches down a cigarette ash-colored hallway. In an adjacent kitchen area, a captivating, gray-bearded man wearing a black suit and a white tie with WHITNEY printed in block letters splashes cold water on his face. Two younger guys congratulate him on his work this evening. They think they’ve witnessed the end of a performance piece starring the sharp-dressed man and Emma Sulkowicz, the 24-year-old artist most famous for protesting an alleged rape by lugging a mattress through the Columbia University campus for the duration of her senior year. But tonight’s work, conceived by Sulkowicz and titled The Ship is Sinking, is still going.

“Mr. Whitney,” as Sulkowicz refers to him in the piece that debuted last Saturday, is portrayed by the bearded man, an S&M film star known as “Master Avery,” whose Kink.com profile describes his body type as that of a “swimmer” and his cock girth as “thick.”

“So, what was that all about?” one of the guys asks Mr. Whitney, who a few minutes ago tied a bikini-clad, pink-haired Sulkowicz to a seven-foot slab of wood and raised her to the ceiling of the gallery one floor below, while verbally and physically assaulting her.

“Well,” Mr. Whitney begins casually. “I had to kick her ass a little. She’s lazy. I can’t have her thinking she can be an artist.”

The two guys don’t know what to say next. Mr. Whitney keeps the conversation going, asking, “Do you think I was hard enough on her?”

“Mr. Whitney” (left) chastising Emma Sulkowicz (right) during her performance art piece Saturday night in Manhattan. Sulkowicz, in character, is eager to show Mr. Whitney she “has what it takes to be an artist.”

A few days earlier, I sat with a friendly, nervous Sulkowicz at lunch and talked about her latest offering, part of the Whitney Museum of American Art’s esteemed Independent Study Program. “At this point I’ve read enough theory and I’m confident enough in myself as an artist to know that I can only maintain an art practice if I’m doing stuff that’s kooky, wacky and fun,” she said, “and that’s why I’m really excited about this piece.” Revealing that she would be dressed in a bikini while hanging from the ceiling in the position of a female figurehead on a ship’s mast, she giggled, adding. “I’m definitely going to be the most naked person in the room.”

Sulkowicz’s carefree demeanor betrays the depth of thought and preparedness put into The Ship is Sinking. It’s inspired by a 1935 Bertolt Brecht essay, “Writing the Truth: Five Difficulties” – in which Brecht compares the Great Depression-era United States to a sinking ship. In taking the abuse from “Mr. Whitney” in her piece, she is questioning her value as an artist while posing the question: “What good is art hung on the wall of a sinking ship?”

During the performance, Mr. Whitney uses heavy-duty ropes to bind the submissive Sulkowicz, clad in spiky, sparkling heels. Drops of sweat trickle off the tip of his nose as he muscles the ropes around her over and over again. He burns her skin while she moans as the tightest of knots is executed. As he raises her off the ground, she maintains a show of stoicism; then Mr. Whitney goes back to perusing the financial section of The New York Times in a nearby chair.

“Mr. Whitney” – portrayed by S&M performer “Master Avery” – ties Sulkowicz up during her performance piece.

Sulkowicz says the piece is part observation on Donald Trump’s America and the place of art within it, part critique of the art establishment, and part personal exploration of her own boundaries as an artist.

“If our country is falling to pieces and you’re like, I’m going to make political art!, you’re just kind of weighing the ship down,” Sulkowicz says. “The only art that’s really going to fix things are going to happen outside the walls of the institution,” meaning, in this case, the Whitney.

Nevertheless, “Every one of the artists in the room that night asked to be a part of this structure, we all want to be bound to the institution,” she continues, referring to her peers in the program. “In spite of all this pain, we still want it.”

“Mr. Whitney” ties Sulkowicz to a seven-foot post that will be raised to the ceiling.

As Sulkowicz hangs several feet above the performance space’s floor – with pink tufts of pubic hair sprouting from the top of the bikini bottom and from her armpits – a woman pushes through the gallery goers. “Do you want me to get you down?” she asks Sulkowicz, looking up at her.

“No, it’s O.K.,” Sulkowicz says. “I have to show Mr. Whitney I have what it takes to be an artist.” She’s repeated that phrase over and over tonight, even as friends greeted her upon arriving, not realizing that the performance had already begun.

“Excuse me!” Mr. Whitney shouts at the concerned woman, jumping out of his chair. “Is she bothering you?”

Quickly turning his attention to Sulkowicz, he says, “Did you say something bad about me?”

Sulkowicz playfully denies any wrongdoing, but Mr. Whitney’s not having it. He unbuckles his belt and removes it. The audience can guess what’s coming next.

Another woman in the crowd says, “Oh my god,” and Mr. Whitney smacks Sulkowicz’s rear end repeatedly with the belt. As pink welts rise on her right butt cheek, Mr. Whitney asks the crowd if they “think she can take it.” Some nod, one gives a thumbs up, and others remain stone-faced. The woman who offered to rescue Sulkowicz looks on, horrified.

Audience members look on as Sulkowicz continues her performance.

This isn’t the first time Sulkowicz has infused assault into her work. Weeks after graduating from Columbia – and famously walking her mattress across the stage to accept her diploma – she released Ceci N’est Pas Un Viol, a video performance art piece in which she filmed herself engaged in a sexual encounter that turned violent from four different angles. She says that work, meant to display in raw detail just how seamlessly sex can turn into rape, was the first time she had to confront the particular ways in which she was harmed while being sexually assaulted in 2012. (The man she accused has denied any wrongdoing, and has repeatedly filed court actions charging Columbia with gender-based discrimination.) In the video, her co-actor strangles and sodomizes her, like she says her attacker did. “I was gearing up for the shoot date so much in my head and [thought] ‘these things trigger me, but on this day I’m just going to have to deal with it,’” she recalls. “This is the most corny thing ever, but art enabled me to face my fears.”

Sulkowicz says that for a long time if anyone touched her neck, she’d be triggered, and become upset. But in part because of Ceci N’est Pas Un Viol, and the psychotherapy she’s engaged in for the past year, her neck is no longer off-limits.

Since graduating, Sulkowicz has offered commentary on the rape case through a collection of silkscreened images and newspaper clippings, and dressed up as a doctor and played the role of therapist to see how “art heals in ways that medicine can’t,” as she told The Daily Beast in January. She hopes to restage this collaboration with Master Avery in other venues, and is “always working on something” art related.

During the performance last weekend, after taking a few lashings from Mr. Whitney’s belt, Sulkowicz finally gives in and asks to be taken down.

“Oh, you’re giving up?” Mr. Whitney taunts. “O.K.,” he continues, lowering the wooden post. “I guess you don’t have what it takes to be an artist.”

A silent Sulkowicz lays on the carpet a good ten minutes while Mr. Whitney unties the knots wedding her to the wood. Once she can stand, Mr. Whitney returns to his newspaper.

The attendees offer Sulkowicz a mix of praise and condolences. One girl asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Sulkowicz says, undoing a knot. “But I’ve just got to get back up there and prove to Mr. Whitney I have what it takes to be an artist.”

“What’s the bar for that?” the girl asks, oblivious that Sulkowicz has broken free of the wood post, but not yet of the confines of the piece. “How long do you have to stay up there?”

With a straight face, Sulkowicz stops toying with the rope, flips a wrist and says, “I mean, like, forever.”

The girl stares at her blankly.

An eager Sulkowicz attaches the wooden post to the makeshift pulley system hanging from the ceiling, approaches Mr. Whitney and pleads with him, again, to “make me an artist.”

“You know it’s going to hurt,” Mr. Whitney retorts.

“I know what it takes now,” she says, steadfast. “I know what to expect.”

Mr. Whitney goes to work again, but much more fiercely this time, grabbing Sulkowicz harder, tying the knots tighter, making her moan louder.

He moves quicker this time, once again positioning her like a figurehead atop the gallery. He pulls Sulkowicz’s hair, slaps her face, and invites an audience member to join – a heavyset dude, dressed in a black tee and torn black jeans, wearing some lipstick and face powder. He’s been here since the doors opened, and now he and Mr. Whitney are both slapping her ass.

As the clock strikes eight, the gallery’s lights go out, signaling the end of the performance. But Mr. Whitney continues the onslaught, pinching Sulkowicz’s nipples.

Onlookers fire up the flashlight function on their iPhones, once again illuminating the gallery corner.

“Mr. Whitney” continues his verbal assault on Sulkowicz as she hangs from the ceiling.

Shortly thereafter, Sulkowicz “gives up” again. Mr. Whitney takes her down and continuously chastises her as he unravels the knots.

“Ah, this is a waste of my time,” he suddenly ejects. Then, addressing the crowd says, “Why don’t you all untie her instead?”

Audience members untie Sulkowicz at the close of her performance.

Eight or so people surround Sulkowicz as she lies on the ground and pull at the ropes. In a couple minutes she’s free, and everyone applauds.

As the crowd thins, Sulkowicz and Master Avery embrace. With her eyes shut, she smiles widely.

This Graffiti Fanboy Steals Priceless Street Art Under the Cloak of Darkness

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On the prowl with the Thomas Crown of the New York City streets.

Tommy is a bit jumpy. The six-foot Queens, New York native, his closely cropped, dirty blonde hair covered by a black hoodie, just downed a Red Bull in his car. It’s well after midnight on a weekday and now he’s ordering a can of Coke with two extra-spicy chicken tacos from a food truck.

Tommy, who asked that his name be changed to protect him from retaliatory acts, knows this Bedford Avenue corner in Williamsburg, Brooklyn is not the ideal location to commit what many in the street art community consider a crime. The fire engine red food truck has a scrawling LED sign advertising its menu, and there’s light pouring onto the sidewalk from a bodega. But a police patrol car just sauntered past and continued down the block, so Tommy knows they won’t be back for a while. Plus, earlier, New York endured a three-hour downpour, softening the glue behind an indeterminable number of posters affixed to walls by some of the most respected street artists in the world. And directly across from the food truck is one wall with pieces by two of Tommy’s favorite artists sticking to it…at least for now.

As I place my own entrée order, Tommy takes two nimble steps back toward the wall, looks left, then right. He flips around and his fingers go to work on a poster signed in white stencil by the local street artist “SacSix.” Tommy has already claimed a few pieces by SacSix since he began hoarding street art a year ago.

The woman in the truck giggles as she watches Tommy, and I turn to see the outstretched arm of a dancing Mike Tyson being pulled off the brick. Wearing a black-and-white striped shirt, the body of Iron Mike is buckling its knees and striking an Elvis Presley “Jailhouse Rock” pose. Tommy carries a box cutter and a heavy duty, pump-action spray bottle filled with water for assistance on these excursions. But because of the day’s rainfall he doesn’t need either of them now, and once Tyson is secured, Tommy starts on the eight-inch-tall Paris Hilton dancing in line next to him.

Hilton succumbs to Tommy even quicker than Tyson. “Normally it takes me five to ten minutes to take a piece down,” Tommy explains. “But on a great, rainy night they come off like butter and I almost feel guilty. It’s too easy.”

Tommy removes a work of street art posted in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

The gritty New York graffiti subculture of the ’70s and ’80s was effectively wiped away by the ’90s, due to the city enacting new aggressive train- and wall-cleaning policies. Since then, street art – the more elaborate and nuanced version of the medium – has infiltrated New York, and cities around the world. More recently, high-end galleries and auction houses have included street art among their offerings.

Michael Doyle, director of business development at Julien’s Auctions – a West Hollywood auction house that sells a wide variety of art – says street art, and its acceptance as a legitimate commodity, is here to stay. “It still has that rebel, fringe, controversial” side to it, he says, “but nonetheless we’ve seen a strong, steady increase in demand as well as prices.”

But because of the illegal nature of their work, street artists rarely see direct financial returns from their efforts – unless they’re formally commissioned. Like the London-based, world-famous Banksy, most street artists are anonymous, and the pieces that end up in public galleries and formal auctions are typically served up by lucky building owners who’ve had a noteworthy artist choose their wall as a canvass, or by an art dealer who brokered an agreement with such a building owner. Spray-painted walls targeted by respected street artists have been relinquished from buildings, and more elaborate installations have been plundered. In 2013, when Banksy embarked on a widely chronicled New York residency, he placed a Sphinx statue made of cinderblocks in Queens, and then disappeared as he always does. Soon, several men began to deconstruct the statue and load a truck with the blocks. The majority of Banksy’s Sphinx is now in the Keszler Gallery on Long Island, awaiting a buyer. Portions of its base, though, are in a storage unit rented by Tommy.

Such outcomes irk documentarian Colin Day, whose “Saving Banksy” chronicles the fate of a mural the artist painted in San Francisco. “It’s wrong if street art is removed for the intent of profit,” Day says, adding that, if someone does sell a piece taken from the street, they should at least try to track the artist down and give them a portion of the booty. He also feels it is important that a piece of street art placed on a wall remain on that same structure and, somehow, stay within the community the artist presented it.

A wheat paste poster attributed to SacSix in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Distinct from the ritzy galleries and auction houses, a street art black market has also developed on sites like eBay where authentication isn’t required. There are people who tour city streets, finding the right moments – and practicing the most efficient methods – to remove art.

But Tommy doesn’t consider himself a thief. He says he does not sell the artwork he confiscates from the streets, under any circumstances, and does not intend to do so. His collection is approaching four-dozen pieces, but he wishes to keep them all for himself, simply because he’s a fan.

Propped up next to the Sphinx slabs in Tommy’s storage room are works by New York street artists SacSix, Cost, Dee Dee, Dain and others, as well as the Frenchman known as Invader. There are stickers – some still on city street signs Tommy cut away, others carefully pulled off – and tile designs. Most of his collection is made up of posters known as “wheat pastes” because a flour-based glue is used to put them up.

“I know it looks selfish,” says Tommy, who works as a freelance graphic designer. “But I feel like I’m capturing a moment in a really artistic time. I wish I got my start sooner. It turned into a big hype thing, and now the big artists don’t want to put up wheat pastes because they know they’re going to be torn down and sold.”

* * *

An hour earlier, Tommy and I stood outside one of Brooklyn’s many fenced-in construction zones. On the far side of the plot, fixed to the wall of an as-yet demolished building, was one particular piece Tommy desperately wanted: a cutout poster of the iconic skull logo associated with the horror-punk band the Misfits, except the top half above the jawline more resembles the ’80s World Wrestling Federation star Andre The Giant. Tommy hypothesizes that the piece is by Shepard Fairey, who rose to prominence in the early ’90s by posting tons of stickers depicting Andre The Giant above the word OBEY, then in 2008 found worldwide fame for his Barack Obama HOPE poster.

“I’m going to ask permission [from the construction workers] to save it,” Tommy said, staring at the Misfits-Andre mash-up. He added that many nights he’s thought of breaking into the construction zone to retrieve the piece, but is afraid of being arrested for trespassing. “They’re going to put this building up in front of it and then it’s going to be gone,” Tommy said. “And that bothers me.”

“I’m saving it from its ultimate doom of getting defaced, and, probably, people are going to try and take it and they’re going to take it the wrong way,” he continued, insisting that most others would casually peel off small portions of the poster, possibly on a dry day. “Piece by piece it’s just going to start disappearing.”

Tommy shows off a New York City street sign he removed and the stickers by long-time street artist Cost that remain on the back.

SacSix doesn’t see Tommy’s actions as “saving” street art.

“There has been the occasion where I’ve seen a wheat paste that is essentially off and I’m taking it back to my apartment,” SacSix said during a recent phone interview. But then he added: “I would never go up to a piece that I know is securely wheat-pasted and try and tear it. If you have to wait for rainy days and you gotta go out there with blades and tools, that’s not really rescuing. That’s more stealing.”

He insists a “weathered” poster can be even more alluring than a freshly pasted one, and deserves to endure a complete lifecycle. “Colors fade, corners tear,” SacSix says. “Let it be beautiful in its decay.”

Not all street artists are so strongly against what Tommy does. Los Angeles-based Paige Smith – who goes by “A Common Name” and is best known for her “Urban Geode” street art project – says she quickly came to terms with the fact that people were going to claim her art for themselves. “I kind of consider people forces of nature on this planet. They destroy things; I expect it,” she says. “If anyone is walking through a forest and finds a gem or an arrowhead, they take it. I think it makes sense that they take it.”

Fellow Los Angeleno Illma Gore, a veteran street artist who is best known for her rather unflattering nude portrait of Donald Trump, says, “When you do something in street art, in the public domain, you’re giving it up; you’re saying, ‘This is for you. This is for the public.’” But Gore also feels that, financially, “It’s getting harder and harder to be a living artist, so there’s only a certain amount of art that street artists can give out for free.”

A piece of street art signed in stencil by local artist SacSix, now in Tommy’s possession.

Back at the Bedford Avenue wall across from the food truck, with Elvis-Tyson and -Hilton completely removed, Tommy eyes a neighboring two-by-four-foot poster attributed to Dee Dee. The haunting piece has a soft, pastel purple background with a flock of bats flying behind an Asian woman wearing green and yellow cat ears and a black ball gown. Tommy says he’s prized the poster for months after spotting it on a drive through the area, but the glue Dee Dee used has been too up to the task for peeling. As Tommy scurries to put the SacSix dancers in his car he says, “That Dee Dee is coming down tonight.”

“I appreciate the love for my work, it is very flattering,” Dee Dee wrote to me in an email. “However, it is placed in public for everyone and at a personal risk to myself. I would hope people would consider that.”

Tommy begins to peel off the Dee Dee poster, pulling the bottom corners up. Within seconds the artwork is his, rolled up into a ball and on its way to his car. Later we’ll find a dancing Mel Gibson piece by SacSix as well, and at home, Tommy will unravel them all and let them dry. Then he will mount and seal the pieces in frames.

Tommy takes down a piece by Dee Dee in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

A bit of a loner, Tommy says he works long hours in graphic design to make ends meet. He doesn’t show his art collection off much, but says he may commit some of the posters to the walls of a new workspace he’s renting. Of these late nights on street art hunts, he says, “This is the only excitement I have in my life right now.” Typically, he goes out looking for art by himself, though in the past his girlfriend joined, and even assisted him. (One time she videotaped Tommy taking a Sawzall drill to the side of a SoHo building in what would prove to be a jarringly loud and sheepish effort to procure a famous Invader mural depicting the Ramones, which had been whitewashed in paint.) However, he and his girlfriend recently broke up, and Tommy confesses that his obsession with street art may have cut into the time he should have been devoting to her.

Tommy admits to getting an adrenaline rush when he takes street art for himself, dating back to his very first heist. Though he says he’s been a fan of street art since the early ’00s, it wasn’t until May 2016, when Tommy noticed a fluorescent wheat paste posted on a door in Greenwich Village, that he began to build his collection.

“I went to take it,” Tommy recalls, “and some guy asked me not to because ‘some spots are hard to get.’” Tommy interpreted that to mean that busy intersections like that one are marked by law-bending street artists with great caution. Tommy says he respected the message, and let the piece stay put – for a few days. He returned with his girlfriend, placed a large wood board on the ground underneath the poster, and began peeling. Another man approached Tommy and asked him to stop. When Tommy refused, the man took his picture. Then, Tommy stuck the poster to the board, went home and noticed the piece was signed by the artist Dain. He Googled the name and saw scores of pictures of Dain’s work, all of which Tommy loved. “I was just happy to get a cool piece of street art,” Tommy says, “and then the next day the post went up on Instagram and I was devastated.”

The Instagram user @themuseumofurbanart posted the picture of Tommy removing the Dain piece and captioned it: “A thief caught in the act of steeling {sic}.” Liked by more than 1,200 Instagram users, the picture’s comments are overwhelmingly critical of Tommy. There’s a suggestion that Dain should hire a security detail to watch over his work. More than one user wrote “Boooo!”

“I don’t think so much of my work that I’m bothered by it,” Dain responds. On the one hand, he feels complimented when a guy like Tommy takes his work. Still, Dain does admit he would prefer to “get some life” out of a piece and see it remain where it was placed for a time. Should someone truly covet a poster that’s already on the street, so much that they’re willing to go through the trouble Tommy does to remove it, Dain offers: “Just contact me and I’ll try and give you a good price on a piece.”

Looking up through the rain at street art in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The top set of tiles is attributed to the French artist Invader, while a wheat paste by Cost occupies the space below it.

Tommy recognizes the thought and effort put into street art, and tries to absolve himself of personal guilt by surveying the work over some time before pulling it down. “If it’s new, I usually won’t take it,” Tommy says. He claims he’ll only remove a piece if it has been up for some time, and has already garnered some attention on social media.

Several of the artists interviewed for this article agreed that if their work has been posted to social media, they don’t mind as much if it’s removed, either by rain, a building owner, a city worker, or someone like Tommy. New York-based Hanksy – well known for his “Dump Trump” mural depicting Donald Trump in the form of a gigantic turd – says, “We live in this day and age where everyone has a pretty capable camera in their pocket, so now you can take a digital picture and have [your artwork] spread around the world in a second.”

Hanksy also says, though, that he understands why some, perhaps because they’re from the old school of graffiti writing, would object to premature removal of their work. “Back in the day you wanted a high-visibility spot and you wanted your work to run a long time to get eyes on it.” However, he points out that, today, “a piece can get taken down a day after you put it up, but if you have a nice, digital, colorized photo of it, then it lives forever.”

Prolific graffiti writer Adam Cost, whose work dates back to the late ’70s, firmly disagrees with that contemporary take. “When the focal point of being a street artist is getting a photo of your work and throwing it on social media as your exposure, that’s just not good,” says Cost. “Really, what comes into play is where your work is, the vibe it gives off [and] the way people are interacting with it in the public.” He adds that a photograph will never convey such aspects of the street art experience.

Tommy frequently uses a razor blade to cut through glue behind a street art poster. Here, he demonstrates his method of removing street art in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Dain says he’s consulted other artists, including Cost, on measures that can be taken to thwart thieves as best he can. They include avoiding posting on mailboxes – because when they get wet, the piece will slide right off it – as well as wood billboards, fences or doors that can be easily removed altogether. Dain also now refrains from signing his street art, which makes authentication far more challenging for black market sellers.

Cost says that when he’s on the streets he’ll place posters in higher, harder-to-reach places; use a stronger homemade glue; and “blanket” an area with numerous identical posters, so that if a fan takes one, plenty more will remain.

Tommy remembers once coming across nine Cost posters placed on a wall, all in a row. “To a person like me that’s like Christmas!” Tommy says. “I went one day with my work ladder. I sprayed them all and I just took them down, one by one. They’re all framed and they’re all sexy.”

Cost questions the sincerity of Tommy’s claim that he’ll never sell the artwork, postulating: “He’s gonna put his kids through college with this stuff, potentially.”

Getting upset, Cost says of people like Tommy: “They’re stealing a part of me, actually, and I didn’t give them authorization to that part of me.”

Still, he recognizes his work was never destined to be permanent, and a moment later he adds, calmly: “The only way you can have any solace with it is in the end you say, ‘well, at least my work is being preserved…for better or worse.’”

 

 

This “Old Guy With a Sign” Protests Trump Every Single Day

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Gale McCray has never been politically active, but since the election he’s become a fixture at a Fort Worth, Texas, intersection.

Most days, 74-year-old Gale McCray putters around Fort Worth, Texas, doing odd jobs and errands – like delivering cookie bouquets – for extra cash. He also spends his time standing at a busy intersection with a homemade anti-Trump sign that simply says, “Trump, that boy don’t act right.”

For 21 years, McCray worked as a mailman for the United States Post Office. He admits he was just as the stereotype suggests: disgruntled. Unhappy and unfulfilled for the better part of his career, he finally quit and took out his entire retirement fund. After blowing through the money over a period of two years on marijuana and “craziness,” McCray was left with $500 to his name. It was then he realized he had a “problem” and he wanted to address it.

“The best thing about America is that you get multiple chances at life,” McCray chuckles. “So, I took another chance.”

McCray went back to school and got a degree at the age of 43, then worked for ten years as a recreation therapist, working with alcoholics and addicts – something he felt called to do. He would teach leisure education classes for patients in treatment centers, and talk to them about participating in activities and how to be out in the world, such as going to a movie or engaging in swimming exercises. Then he drove a school bus for six years before officially retiring in 2008. Over the past nine years, McCray has become more vocal about his political views though he says they aren’t based on politics, per se, but on common sense, human decency, and kindness.

Gale McCray poses with his sign.

Now, the sign he holds for at least two hours per day in front of passing cars and curious eyes is the result of a tipping point. One that McCray didn’t even know was coming. The downhome, country phrase written in big, black letters on the sign just popped into his head, McCray says. He heard it often while growing up in a working-class household in Oklahoma during the forties and fifties.

“It’s country talk, that’s all it is. The full phrase is, ‘That boy just don’t act right. God bless him,’” McCray explains. “Like, I’m a big baseball fan so I’d say this about a player: ‘That right there is a really good ball player, but the fact is that boy just don’t act right. God bless him.’”

Once he found a piece of cardboard large enough to fit his message, McCray focused on the destination. He says he didn’t put a whole lot of thought into it, but ideally had two specific requirements: within walking distance of his home, and a lot of traffic. So, he chose an intersection that fit the bill, with a four-way stop and an island off to the side for him to stand on.

“A few years ago, I made a different sign,” McCray says. “It said, ‘Help, I watch too much Fox News. Can’t tell truth from lies. Need therapy.’ But I was just being silly. This right here is different.”

When asked why it was different, McCray pauses. He speaks in a heavier and much more somber tone than the lighthearted, jovial one he’s been using.

“After the election I was just amazed, I couldn’t believe [Donald Trump] got elected,” he says. “I remembered seeing a guy with a sign once shortly after Bush took us into Iraq. And he was a Middle Eastern guy. He had such resolve on his face, like he knew he wasn’t going to change anything but that he had to get out there and do something. And that’s kind of how I felt.”

McCray stands with his sign at his preferred intersection in Fort Worth.

McCray maintains that he isn’t political. He isn’t angry and he isn’t trying to make a grandiose statement. He’s just “an old guy with a sign.” But the motivation seems deeper than that. After the recent election, McCray became politically active for the first time. He called Congresswoman Kay Grange, visited her office and spoke with one of her representatives about the travel ban. But it just didn’t feel like enough. Then protests broke out all over the country, including the Dallas Fort Worth Airport. And it affected him deeply.

“I saw mothers and grandparents on the news getting separated from their families and I got kind of emotional thinking about it and thinking about my own family,” he says. “There just wasn’t any compassion as to how it was implemented. So, I don’t know. It was all of that, really. I mean, this isn’t the America that I know.”

While standing alone on the cement-lined, grassy island, McCray has heard it all – boos, car horns, cheers and, of course, his fair share of ‘fuck you.’” According to the New York Times, 51.7 percent of Forth Worth residents voted for Donald Trump, which isn’t an overwhelming number, but enough to garner some unpleasant reactions to his sign.

Some people have called the cops on him, others hold up the peace sign. One person shouted at him to “get a job” while another asked, “Who’s paying you to do that?” An older woman even slowed down traffic just enough to roll down her window and tell McCray with all sincerity, “You’re stupid.”

“What I notice the most is how a lot of the people are just so angry,” he says. “It makes me sad to see them get so angry at me. I don’t feel anger towards them. And they look like they’re going to have a heart attack over this. You can’t take it so seriously. If I took what people said seriously, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

McCray waves at passersby.

McCray says he often thinks back to that Middle Eastern man that he saw with a sign all those years ago. No one beeped at him. No one slowed down. They just saw him standing there and wondered what he was doing out there with that sign.

“That man had a big effect on me,” McCray says. “I made up my own story about him, about who he was and why he was doing what he was doing, and how he had to get out there and just do something – anything. It has stuck with me. I imagine people are doing the same with me. And maybe it will stick with them.”

McCray has since started taking the sign with him on his travels. He’s recently been to Oklahoma, Florida and South Carolina. A musician he met in Oklahoma even wrote a song based on the sign’s catchphrase. It’s called, you guessed it: “That Boy Don’t Act Right.” And on more than a few occasions, McCray has struck up conversations with people just to hear their thoughts and views no matter who they voted for. He’s not trying to change anyone’s mind, he says, or convert political beliefs. But he hopes that some people will feel motivated to go out and do something – anything – to make them feel as if they are doing their part. Maybe they’ll see the sign and think about voting or taking their own course of action. In the end, that’s really what McCray says he’s trying to do – inspire action.

“I still don’t feel like I’m doing enough,” he says. “Like I said, I’m just an old man with a sign. But at least, for me, it’s something. At least I’m doing something.”

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

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Michael Stahl is a freelance writer, journalist and editor living in Astoria, New York. He serves as a Narratively features editor as well. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelRStahl.

Casey Roonan is a cartoonist and cat person from Connecticut. Follow Casey on Instagram: @caseyroonan

 

 

A Super Strange True Love Story: My Disappearing Fiancé

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After years of avoiding love, I found a match that seemed almost too perfect. We were practically walking down the aisle before I realized it really was too good to be true.

“So let me get this right. You’re Italian but you’re a resident of India.”

“Yes.”

“And your fiancé is Canadian. Resident of Canada.”

“Yes, but he lives in India.”

“And you’re having a Catholic wedding.”

“Yes.”

“In Italy.”

“Yes. But he’s Jewish.”

“That doesn’t matter to us. It’s a parish matter, they take care of the paperwork. Did you discuss it with your Italian priest?”

“My parish is in Delhi because I am a resident here. Anyway yes, we have permission to have the ceremony in Italy. We still need the bishop’s permission for the mixed religion marriage, but that should arrive soon.”

“So all we need is a certificate that says your fiancé has never been married before. A nulla osta. And then we can process the documents.”

“See, that’s why I called. Canada doesn’t really have that certificate.”

“Did you check with the Canadian embassy in Rome?”

“Yeah. They say they have nothing to do with this.”

“Mmmh…I actually have no idea then.”

The lady at the Italian embassy in Delhi wasn’t able to help. She’d never seen this before. Our wedding was just like us: Unique, unconventional, and a little all over the place. It looked impossible. Four months from the day and nothing was confirmed.

“It’s not going to work. Nothing’s ready.” I called him in a panic as soon as he woke up, in Canada. In India, it was evening already.

Amore mio, that’s not true,” he replied. “Everything’s set. We’ll get the paperwork done.”

He was right. We had a venue, a fairytale-like villa on the Amalfi Coast. I had a dress — an expensive affair that looked just understated enough: When I tried it on I teared up immediately, surprising my cynical self at the belief that it was “the one.” The invites, designed by a talented friend, were about to be printed. Save the dates were sent — all our favorite people couldn’t wait to be there.

We had even received our certificate from the church after a two-day intensive course instructing us on how to start a good Catholic family. Not that we were going to be a Catholic family, but the course was compulsory to get married in a church —which I wanted, not for religious reasons but because I liked the tradition — and he had accepted to do, to please me. The course was on the outskirts of Delhi, and for two days we stayed in a nunnery with other couples, sleeping on different floors (the men upstairs, the women below) and attending classes on family values and conjugal duties. A foreign couple wasn’t the norm, and we were the center of attention — particularly when questions about sex came up and everyone assumed, despite our amused protesting, that we knew more about it than the teachers.

“So, where does sperm come from? Maybe you know?” I was asked.

“Nope. No idea.” I’d reply as the class burst in laughter. “Maybe he does?”

He looked at me smiling, shaking his head. “Why would I know? I don’t know!”

We were warned that the Holy Spirit was not going to attend the ceremony since we weren’t both Catholic, but then his being Jewish — as opposed to Muslim or Hindu, which was the case for other mixed-religion couples there — gained the staff’s sympathies. He was labeled “almost Christian.” We joked that we didn’t have money to feed the Holy Spirit anyway.

I needed to calm down. It was all working out.

But we did need the papers. And we didn’t know how to get them.

“Maybe it’s a sign? Maybe this wedding thing is a bad idea?” I whined. I was tired, and insufferable.

He laughed. “Aaaamore,” he started, in a sing-songy way. His funny accent on the few Italian words he knew would lighten up the darkest rooms of my soul. “Listen. Getting married is the best idea we’ve ever had and we’re going to do it. It’s all going to work out. I promise.”

* * *

He was so certain about us. He had been unfailingly so since our engagement, which caught me by total surprise. We had been living together for a couple of years in India — where I had followed him looking to start a career, and finally be with the man I loved — when he proposed.

Before moving in together, ours was the erratic, long-distance relationship of two people who never seemed to be in the same place. We met in Italy, fell in love and spent the summer of our lives on intense weeks together and long stretches apart: He worked on a photography project that took him to Alaska, Japan, Congo; I went to Kosovo, volunteering and looking for stories, then moved to Paris to complete a master’s. His work took him there, too, and we spent a couple blissful months together. For the first time since I could remember, I felt beautiful; I was loved and desired. We’d dress up and walk out in the middle of the night to have French onion soup in 24-hour restaurants. We shared a studio that was too small for one, let alone two plus too many cameras.

Before I’d met him I kept joking that “love is overrated.” But it wasn’t; It was perfect. When he had to go back to India, where he’d been living for years before moving to Italy, I worried it’d be the end.

It wasn’t. We spoke whenever we had a free minute. It was never enough. We were so different that our attachment was a mystery to both of us: I loved studying, he had hardly finished high school; I was all about manners and rules, he recognized none; I worried about everything, he never did. At times, our love for each other seemed to be the only thing we had in common.

And it was all we needed.

On spring break I went to see him in India. I landed, terrified and drenched in mosquito repellent, in the fog of Delhi’s February nights. In the arrival hall, he was waiting for me in the neon light, holding a sign, just like the hotel chauffeurs. It read: Amore Mio. My love.

Everything in India frightened me. The smell. The noises. The light, so different from anything I had seen before. Even the peacocks, flying on the rooftop terrace from the park nearby, were wonderful but so foreign. I followed him to Calcutta on assignment. In the teeming backstreets, electrifying and overwhelming, I looked upon poverty and dirt, equally horrified. Once I cried a whole night about not being able to afford anything better than a filthy guesthouse. I returned to Paris relieved.

We managed to meet wherever and whenever possible. In Paris, London, Italy. In New York — where we both thought we’d eventually end up. We spent Christmas together, my family now his. He had been estranged from his parents for many years, and while on my insistence he had resumed contact with them, it didn’t look like there was real hope of saving their relationship. They had been demanding and cruel to him in his teens, kicking him out of home before the end of high school, and still refused to acknowledge it, let alone apologize for it. As someone who counted on her family for anything, it was impossible to even imagine how hard that must have been, so it filled my heart with joy hearing him call my mother “mamma.”

A year after my first visit, I moved to Delhi. I planned to stay a few months, but I began the adventure of a lifetime.

We got an apartment and decorated it with colorful fabrics. I struggled to keep the dust out of the house, struggled with everything that didn’t work, struggled with the scorching summer heat, struggled to get work. I struggled, struggled, struggled. I packed my bags at least twice, shouting at him that I was going back home. He’d been in India so long he could no longer remember the hardship of the beginning, and he was traveling so much for work that I was often on my own. I got mad at him — now that we could be together he was off to Africa or China or wherever, prey to a wanderlust I failed to understand.

All I wanted was for him to be around for me, because when he was, things were pretty wonderful. We had so much hunger for time together that nothing seemed trivial: We’d explore the city on his motorcycle, go on holidays to remote places, turn any and every bit of daily life into an adventure.

But a couple of weeks here and there were not enough. I felt like all I did was wait for him. Finally, shortly after he came back from a long trip to visit a dear, sick uncle, I broke down. I felt horrible — this trip was not for fun, how could I get mad about it? — but I just couldn’t help it. I told him we’d better split up, that he had no space for me in his life. I screamed, he screamed more, the neighbors came to check if I was O.K. In a country where women are common victims of domestic abuse, it was hard to believe that it was me who always raised her voice first. We resolved that we should part.

* * *

I was on my way to work, late and unspeakably sad, when I realized I did not want to leave him. I wanted to stay. I loved him, and our life.

I went back to our apartment. He was sitting on the couch, exhausted as I was from so much fighting. I hugged him, sat on his lap.

“I’m sorry. This was terrible,” I apologized. “I don’t want to go away. Never.”

“I don’t want you to go away either. I want to be with you forever.”

“Yes. Forever,” I said, and I meant it. Yet I was shocked when I saw in his eyes the resolution of a question I didn’t know he had in him, and I wasn’t ever expecting him to ask.

“Then… Will you… will you marry me?”

“What… You don’t… You don’t have to — I’m not going anywhere. You need to think this through.”

“But I have! I have. Look—” he reached for his backpack, me still sitting on his lap, and took out a small box. “I even have a ring! I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well this is pretty right,” I joked. “So how did he propose? Well, we had a massive fight and nearly broke up, but got engaged instead.”

“So. Will you marry me, amore mio?” He was serious.

He was ready.

It was a gorgeous ring, an Art Deco family heirloom — Canadian, as guilt-free as diamonds can come — and hard not to notice. People did notice: the excitement about our engagement was so genuine and overwhelming, everyone pointing to what a romantic story we had.

It was, indeed, the most romantic story I had ever heard.

* * *

It was all unbelievably sweet, yet I couldn’t shake the looming sensation that something was going to go wrong. It came out in my dreams. The fear of losing everything would turn into nightmares, and cropped up at every big step we took.

I loved him, and the unexpected certainty that he, too, truly loved me gave me a happiness so enormous it frightened me. My father had died too early for me to believe happy endings were possible, let alone feeling that I was destined for one.

I looked everywhere for signs of an impending disappointment. We had to leave our apartment, and our landlady insisted we owed her several months of rent. He was in charge of making the deposit but couldn’t find the receipts to show we had paid — that was enough to infuriate me. He was irresponsible, I said – how could he be ready to be a husband? We should call the whole thing off.

We looked for a new place, and I cried like a spoiled child when faced with the reality that his priorities were different from mine — he wanted to save money on rent, and on everything really, to be able to invest in his work. I saw myself as shallow and materialistic for wanting a place that was nice and comfortable. Again told him, “See? This is why we should not do it.”

I would cast doubts over us and our future, which I so wanted and so feared.

But for all my questions, he had answers. “It’s us, amore,” he’d tell me, his voice always so calm and kind. “I’m not letting you get out of this.” His certainty seemed to grow as mine withered, and the way he dealt with my actions, minimizing my fears, showed me time and again the depth of his love.

We finally found a place that worked and bought new furniture. We didn’t have much money — I worked as the editor of a small online publication and had been supporting both of us on my Indian salary while his work was slow. He had a few personal projects to pursue, and I was determined to help him see them through. His assignments had always been sporadic, but a day of his work often paid ten of mine, and something always came through when our funds were nearly gone.

But this time seemed different — I was worried we wouldn’t be able to afford the fairytale wedding that I, who had never actually thought I’d get married, discovered I wanted. My mother was covering most of the costs, but I insisted we at least pay for a few things: The flowers, the invites, the favors. As the weeks, then the months, went by, I grew worried we wouldn’t have enough.

One thought, in particular, made me panic. If he didn’t get any work soon, I’d even have to pay for his suit and his ticket to Italy for the wedding. I’d have to pay for my own bouquet. Something about the image of me buying myself my own wedding flowers was unbearable to me: Was this the life I was signing up for? What if he never actually had a breakthrough? I looked up what would happen if we divorced, if I had to pay him alimony.

I was disgusted by my own thoughts.

I hesitantly suggested he look for assignments from publications less prestigious than the ones he usually worked for. He was hurt, and saw that as a lack of belief in him, pointing out that he could have gotten work in Africa had he been free to move there, but I didn’t want to leave my job to follow him around — that had its costs.

But my faith in his talent was blind — it was destiny I didn’t trust.

* * *

We were over the rough patches, though, when the issue with the papers came up. It appeared we were in a bureaucratic loophole and none of the puzzled officials I contacted were able to figure our situation out.

“That’s why we’re so special,” he said. It was a fact.

He had gone to Canada to renew his visa — his trip home drained my account, but some work had finally come through for him and he was going to be paid soon. We were back on our early-days routine of long-distance phone calls. For the first time in our many goodbyes, I hadn’t cried when he left. As he told me that he’d be right back, his happiness was so visible it gave me goose bumps, and a newfound feeling of safety.

But then, when I tried to reach him the day he was meant to go see about our documents, I couldn’t get through to him. He would not pick up his phone. He was not online — which he almost obsessively always was. I emailed him. No reply.

Something was wrong.

Whether it was some sort of sixth sense or just my constant fear of the worst, I started to worry. I called the friend he usually stayed with, trying not to sound paranoid; after all, it had only been a few hours since I had heard from him. He was not home. As the night became morning in India, a day was passing in Canada. I called, and called, and laid awake waiting. Sleeping was out of the question.

Finally, I got a two-line email. He said he loved me. And that he needed space.

I was paralyzed.

The following days were a game of waiting. I checked my phone and my email compulsively. I stared at the screen to see if he was logging onto Skype. No sign of him. I told myself I should not try to contact him, that he needed to be left alone, though I did write to him that we could postpone the wedding if he wanted to, and that whatever problem there was we were going to work it through. I knew we could.

I blamed myself for having so many doubts. Had I ruined everything? I kept going to work to be around people, but I was numb.

As the date of his return trip approached, I tried to be calm and focus on the fact that I was about to see him again. We had never been out of contact this long, and I missed him terribly. I tried to be patient, but when I saw his name go online on Skype in the middle of another sleepless night, I couldn’t resist.

Amore mio,” I typed. “I am so happy you are coming back next week. We’ll make things right, I promise.”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a lot of work to do but we can make things right. Things will be right.”

But he was not coming back. Not yet anyway. His birthday was coming up, and he didn’t want to spend it with me.

“I don’t want to resent you,” he typed.

He wasn’t going to discuss it further, but I convinced him that he owed me an explanation. He promised to get back online soon, and he did.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, sweetly, when I answered the video call. “I missed you.”

He looked beautiful, too, in his light blue collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves and messy hair.

He started explaining what was going through his head: He needed to be free to travel and work, and I wanted security — we were just too different, there’s no way it was going to work.

As he was speaking, gently, his words started losing meaning to me — it all became white noise, and I interrupted him.

“Oh my god,” I said. “You cheated on me.”

Something in his gaze hardened. “Yes,” he replied.

“No, not again,” I begged. I knew it was true, again.

I hadn’t thought about it for years — the memory of betrayal buried deep under the illusion of the most wonderful story that had ever happened to me. I had found out about his infidelities before I moved to India, when we lived apart. Infidelities and lies: a girlfriend hidden from me when we first got together, who he moved back in with after he left Paris; an older woman he had even thought he was in love with; adventures around the world as he traveled for work.

But we had worked through it all. He had begged me to stay with him when I found out, told me I was the love of his life and the last chance he had of having a happy life, of changing. He had blamed distance and so had I, and it had worked for years — so well, too well. I had worked so hard to get past his infidelities that I had actually forgotten about them — the truth, of the past and the present, felt heavy on my burning sternum.

“Yes, again,” he said, suddenly cold. There was something in him, something in his voice I could not recognize. He was a stranger.

“But this time it’s different,” he continued. “I found her.”

I swear I heard my heart break.

He told me he’d just met her. A few days had been enough to know. He had given up thinking he could find the one. But there she was. They were going to travel together, see the world and be nomads, as he wanted. And she wanted. And I never did.

“I bet she dresses terribly,” I said, heart yolk leaking from my smashed chest, making an ugly mess already.

I became a monster; I could barely speak, filled with anger as I told him, shocking myself with the violence of my own words, hissing at him, shaking, that it was not true that he felt sorry — that he felt good and not sorry, that while fucking this woman he didn’t know, in and out and in and out of her, he did not think of me.

“You want to make me feel guilty because I am in love.”

He was moving in with her.

“Are you going to marry her?” I was crazy. It was crazy.

“We’re not planning to get married at the moment.” He was crazy, too.

The conversation lasted through the night, through bouts of anger, tears, words of love. At the end, I asked him if this was the first time that he’d be unfaithful since we’d been living together.

“No.”

“Is it because I was not enough?” Isn’t that what every rejected lover dreads?

“Yeah. I was always looking for something better.”

“Something or someone?” I couldn’t stop digging.

“Something, someone, I didn’t know. I thought it was as good as it got, with you. Now I know it wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not in love with you. I don’t think I ever was.”

Outside, it was dawn. The sounds of India waking up were a loud sign the conversation had to end. We — “us” — had to end.

“I will miss you so much,” I muttered before I hung up. I wanted him desperately. But he was unrecognizable, someone else. Happiness and love were a dark force in his gaze. They were pulling him away from me, taking him some place frightening and far, a place my arms couldn’t stretch to.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel anything other than terror. Who was he?

* * *

When I landed in Milan I was a ghost. I hadn’t eaten in days; I had no feelings other than sorrow. My sister picked me up from the airport, and as she hugged me, without saying a word, I cried. I cried when I saw my mother. My grandma was visiting — usually the simple sight of her would be enough to put me in a good mood, but I just kept crying, incapable of anything else.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was all I could say, whisper really. I was sorry I had trusted him, that I had followed him, that I had brought him home. I was sorry I was so embarrassingly heartbroken. I was sorry I messed up, sorry I failed, sorry about the embarrassment of a wedding to cancel. That he had not only lied to me, but to my family, caused me unbearable pain. I blamed it on myself — all of it.

I was infinitely sorry. And so sore.

I walked straight into my mother’s bed and laid there crying for days, getting up only to check my emails for signs of him, and sit at the table for lunch and dinner, unable to touch my food.

As I stared into my plate, the Italian mothers of my life — my own, and my mother’s — discussed me, and him, as if I weren’t there.

“She isn’t eating.”
“I can see that.”
“What are we going to do about this one?”
“I don’t know, I can’t force her.”
“Look at that. Not one bite.”
“I know, Ma. She doesn’t feel like it.”

My belligerent grandma had been through a lot — her father dying as a kid, the war as a teenager, her husband leaving her a widow in her early thirties, an earthquake destroying her home and her town in her late forties — far too much to concede to a romantic heartbreak.

“That guy had always been a bit strange,” she offered. “Remember how he stopped eating meat?” She had always treated his vegetarianism as an exotic disease.

When I finally had the strength to leave my bed, I started trying to put together the pieces. I was obsessed with understanding, and the more I obsessed, the more it all seemed terrifying.

I went back to Delhi, leaving behind a family worried sick about me, determined to save the salvageable: A job I loved in a country that was going to save my life.

My pain was enormous, kept alive and stinging by a succession of small new wounds.

I had to cancel the wedding, let all the guests know on my own, as he was far too busy with his new life to even tell his own family — who called me seeking explanations, unable to track him down.

* * *

In all of this, and despite my rational self, I still madly loved him. I hoped he would come back. Once I woke up convinced I heard him ring the bell in the middle of the night. It was a dream.

A recovering patient, I put one day in front of the other, waiting for my love to go away. Like a famous Italian poem says, it was like quitting a vice. Come smettere un vizio. It was a daily exercise in abstinence — from calling him, wanting him, loving him.

Before I knew it, it had been a month since I had last seen his face, on a computer screen. Then two, then a whole summer.

On August 26, when our wedding was meant to be, the sun was shining over the Amalfi Coast, but I spent the day in rainy Kathmandu, Nepal, on my own, hanging out with the monkeys at Pashupatinath Temple — the Temple of Shiva.

I was glad there was a god I could thank for destruction.

For a long time afterward, I was obsessed with this story. Obsessed with his lies. I uncovered countless more: about his family, his past, our relationship. The more I found out, the more the hurt gave way to relief.

I wrote to the woman he had left for me way back when — to let her know it didn’t work out with us. Somehow, I felt it was right for her to know, that I would have wanted to know, if I were her. She was understanding, forgiving, and helpful — knowing far too well what I was going through, she repeated to me countless times I had not lost someone worth keeping.

Years later, that’s what I told his wife, when it was she who wrote to me.

Read the Sequel: A Second Super Strange Love Story: I Was the Other Woman

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Annalisa Merelli is an Italian writer living in New York. She is a reporter with Quartz and tweets at @missanabeem.

Ayun Halliday is the Chief Primatologist of the award-winning East Village Inky and author of seven books, including “Peanut” and “No Touch Monkey! And Other Lessons Learned Too Late.” Follow her @AyunHalliday.