Webslinging the Homesickness Away

I moved out of New York City, to Oregon, right before the pandemic began. I didn’t realize how much I missed it right away. This homesickness burned through my blood slowly, radioactive and toxic. Sitting alone in my nowhere home and my nothing-to-do town, the mind wanders towards friends, family, but mostly the city. My routes, my landmarks, my screens, and my murals.

Right before I left, I was playing Marvel’s Spider-Man, and my dad noticed me swinging by Madison Square Garden. He asked me to navigate towards the huge post office across from it, round a corner, and cross a street. He was looking for an Irish pub he used to drink at on that block. And there it was! It didn’t have the name of his pub, but it was an Irish pub, at the exact location.

When my blood ran hot enough with longing, I remembered this little exchange. I grabbed my pre-owned PS4, inserted the disc, and then –

———

I am Spider-Man, and I’ve been fighting crime away from home for a long time. Big, world-ending stuff, you get me? I’m from Earth-TRN707, and this is not my Earth. I spun through a portal fighting Doom or something, but I recognize these buildings anywhere. New York City! And I’m in it! Home, sweet home.

The first thing I do is check out Central Park, it’s the fastest way to check for differences. The path I always walked on my unmasked days? Perfect. Each boulder is placed precisely where I remember them being, right where I can scale them with ease and look out on pathways ahead. The jogging track around the lake is perfect, and turtle pond is just as relaxing as I remember.

Belvedere Castle is just a tiny bit smaller than I remember, but it’s still beautiful. There’s this one spot, a little balcony tower, that is exactly as I remember it. One of the best dates I’ve ever been on reached its climax right here. I plucked a leaf that Gwen wanted, but couldn’t reach, and she screamed cause there was an ant on it, and launched it off the balcony.

Times Square is mostly as I recall it. Fewer performers maybe. The screens are placed as I remember them. The red stairs draw my eye, though. The magazine I used to work for owns these stairs. I scale them, weaving between a few obvious tourists. The ticket booths on the other side are still there too, but they’re closed. I dunno, maybe there just aren’t Broadway shows playing today.

The big museums are still around as I expect them to be. Enormous and beautiful. But speaking of enormous and beautiful? St. Patrick’s Cathedral rests solitary amidst the midtown glimmer and glass. My principal organized for us to have our graduation right in this building, even though the insides were being gutted and the outside was in the middle of construction. No scaffolding here, though. Just beautiful little spires.

Of course, I gotta save the best for last. I’ve been to the big boy so many times that I’m on a first name basis with him. Ol’ Big’n’Pointy. Mr. Empire. The view from the tip of the spire, you gotta see it. The sun sets, shimmering rays off the skyline glass. Swing on down to the street below. There’s this game shop that I love to hit up, right on the Empire block, and I’d love to –

It’s not here. I am sprinting the whole block round and round, but it isn’t there. Sure, okay, that’s fine. It’s not quite my New York anyway. But when I’m swinging around trying to clear my head, it all starts popping out at me.

I’m on the hunt for 87th Street, to find a familiar restaurant or the movie theater. But the whole street is gone. There’s 89th Street and there’s 83rd Street, nothing else. Every moment I’d ever spent here lit up vivid behind my eyes, but my eyes were lying to me about the spaces I knew I’d lived in. This was still the closest to home I’d been in years.

I scramble around Manhattan on the hunt for landmarks. I’m looking for that monolith, The Tombs, but I find nothing. The weird janky-ass Jenga Tower isn’t here either. I find theaters I recognize, the big ones. But all these little theaters where I spent my college years with friends watching experimental plays and musicals that are hard to summarize? Of course they’re not here.

The Javits Center? Nope.

The Intrepid? Sunk, I guess!

MoSex? Nah, forget it.

That magazine I used to work for? Sorry, those stairs just exist, the magazine never happened!

I’m swinging uptown chasing along the Harlem River, and it occurs to me that I cannot see Yankee Stadium across the water. I cannot see any of The Bronx that I recognize, any of my home. And then I hit the very edge of Manhattan’s uptown. It’s Harlem here. Where the fuck is Washington Heights? Inwood? Did we just nuke The Cloisters? Dyckman Street?

I go as far as I can go, right up to the northern peninsula where 220th Street should be. Right across that bridge is where my old neighborhood is supposed to exist. Harry’s just eight blocks away. My old apartment is like twenty blocks. I’m staring into that blue haze and silhouetted squat buildings. This is my city, but it is not my Earth. I’ve fought so many things, but I am scared to face this. It pains me to be home, but for home to not be with me. I’m crouched atop a light post. All it would take is one web hooked onto one train and I’ll be there instantly. But I just can’t bear it. If I could only –

———

I shut off my PS4.

———

Justin Joyce is an NYC-born, Oregon-based writer and game designer. His work has appeared in Dicebreaker, Polygon, Destructoid, and elsewhere. Keep up with his ramblings on Twitter @RadioAirHyper.