The Vultures

FIVE

The Upper East Side.

The green light across the dark dock. A world real enough to provoke torture, and yet so far away, it may very well be fictitious, a castle on the clouds that can only be accessed through the impulse of an inheritance.

Spreading from 5th Avenue to 59th Street, housing everything and more, the Upper East Side is not inly the most exclusive neighborhood in all of New York, but a symbol of wealth and power. If you're in the Upper East Side, then you're inside; there are no further tests to pass, no more doubts or concerns. Being there is belonging, once and for all and absolutely.

The Upper East Side is like a dream, a fantasy taken out of the most expert and distinguished mind. Famously hermetic and weary of strangers, this community is like a mirage, a generic dream everyone has at one point in their lives, before they abandon it and replace it with a more achievable and realistic one.

To me, this place is more than a dream, it's a challenge, a dare that often seems unreachable. It's not about the money for me, or acknowledgment, or success. For me, it's a matter of acceptance. I can triumph anywhere. Hell, I could go back to Mexico and I'd surely find success faster than in this treacherous and dismal city, but it would be a hollow victory. This place beckons me, as if it was tempting me, anticipating my failure. And I need this place, as much or even more than I'm willing to admit. There's no way my life will be complete, unless it's here.

I want in. I have to get in. I have to be one of them. Nothing can compare. It's a matter of pride, a struggle against my own limitations. It's a war on which I'm the hero and the villain, and the battle field is this, today and now. And the prize? The next year.

The next year, when I publish my novel and sell millions of copies, and all these people see me, at last, as an equal, as someone to be respected, and envied, and feared. The next year, when I have millions of Instagram followers and I sell the rights of my novel to a talented and up-and-coming producer that'll pay generously for them, and I buy my second house, a vacation spot on the Vineyard.

The next year. Or maybe the next. Or maybe the next. I'm sure it's before my thirties.

It has to be before my thirties.

My life has been more dream than life, and my mental health is proof that nothing good comes from dreaming your life away.

And with every dream, bright and sweet, reality becomes gray and bitter. Who'd want to live in meaningless Queens apartment when the dream is the Upper East Side? Even the best of the best turns to nothing when compared to the Upper East Side. I've known the penthouse that I wanted since I was fifteen and saw it on a magazine, photographed by Karen Eillings for Architectural Digest. A 5th Avenue wonder with five bedrooms, three terraces, ten chimneys and 1,900 square feet, with an unbeatable Central Park view, nine-foot-tall ceilings that let the glorious light in, eight marble bathrooms, rooms with French doors and a chef's kitchen that would make my late mother die again.

This place is the place.

My place.

I've known this is the penthouse for me since I was fifteen, and today, I'll visit it for the very first time.

This very night.

My vulgar identification tag lets me in through the glass doors, and the doorman smiles at me, sincerely, that feels like a slap to the face. We're not the same, buddy, even though it may seem that way, while we're both wearing the uniforms that identify us as "staff" to each of the invitees of tonight's party. In typical fashion, and after the numerous leaks the Upper East Side has suffered, I leave my phone with the people behind the table counter located just outside the private elevator doors. After giving them my name and making sure they've correctly labeled my phone, I take out my quill and paper, very old school-y, and I enter the elevator, ready and yet not.