I’m on the phone, (long distance, hey boss) – and I’m speaking with my old roommate, Joel, out there in Chicago. Joel works as a programmer for a small company in town. Lives in one of those apartments that you could get lost in. Quiet, diverse neighborhood. Korean BBQ and Polish coffee shops that got lost on the way to the 1990’s. A slice of old Chicago.

Joel is sitting at home, sipping a good Bordeaux, taking in some jazz. Joel lives in a nicer apartment than I’ll ever have unless I leave this town. Joel also knows this, and likes to rub it in. Joel makes less per year than I do. He also doesn’t have to go to work at midnight. He’ll watch a little TV, maybe read something, eat, go to bed, wake up bright and early, exercise, off to work with the rest of the midwest – that faithfully 9-to-5 old city, that Chicago. Streets that roll up at 9PM. Soulful city on the lake.

It could have been mine, that old town – but no, I knew better – I wanted the fast life, the action, the color, the energy. And all that, I got, let me tell you. And it was good.

But there comes a time, when you begin to wonder why you’re paying too much for nothing, and working your life away in order to pay for it. Not to mention that old bugaboo, stress, that we’re so famous for epitomizing. God knows we’ve got too much of it.

So, whither the Big Apple? It’s a struggle. One could move to the midwest, but no doubt, fast become bored. But it’s not stressful. That’s one thing it’s got going for it.

Joel and I are discussing: Do we know anyone in Chicago that works two jobs? I lived there three years – he 15, he a man about town – knows no one. On the other hand, we can’t remember anyone we know in New York that doesn’t work two.

It’s a nasty business, this. But it’s the price of admission. We can either stomach it and hope for better days, or we can pack our bags and move back to wherever we came from.

At what price? We are the only ones who can know why we ever left – our families and friends certainly could never relate. It is our own dilemma.

Do we throw in the towel and risk losing all face? Or do we grit our teeth and work 16 hour days, 60 hour weeks, Sundays. Days that don’t exist.

Ultimately, we must be sure that the end will justify these fragile means. Or we’d be better off having never showed up at all.

But on those days where we can forget life’s hassles, it’s stresses, we can breathe deep, plant ourselves in the park, in Times Square, at a downtown café, on the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge. And we can thank fate we are here.

Because we’re where so many people are, and so many want to be, and never make it. We are New Yorkers. We will be something. We will not go gently. We will not go through life as a shadow of success. As a nobody. We will make it big.