Call of the Wild

Drowning in drinks and other ways one gets lost in New York City.

Illustration by Gabby Schulz

There is a command you hear all the time in New York. We’ve all heard it and we’ve all probably said it. I had been here less than six months when I heard it for the first time. My eyes were still wide and the idea to go out in the Meatpacking District didn’t yet seem like a terrible one.

Just after midnight, I found myself in front of the club that Andy, my roommate at the time, said to meet at. Twenty yards away a car door opened and Andy stepped out. He called my name and waved me over. I got in.

In the back seat with Andy was a fast-talking music executive, who I’ll refer to as Chris, and the second half of a joint. Andy introduced me to the former as I shared in the latter and found myself entering a situation that could only ever happen in New York.

Chris was on the hunt for “the next” female rapper. Andy, a musician and producer, made beats on his beloved MPC2000 and Chris wanted to use them in his quest. We were in the backseat of a black car sitting b…