He’s ready.

Reality slaps Justin in the face like a cold December wind.

He misses the bus into the city by mere seconds, and of course the driver won’t wait even though she clearly sees him running and wildly waving his bags, and he has to wait forty-five minutes for the next one. The subway system map can only be described as a lunatics maze, and he gets lost twice before finally emerging into a freezing drizzle six blocks -- six long blocks -- away from the address scrawled in Daphne’s handwriting on the slip of paper he clutches in a now white fingered grip. He walks with his head down and his eyes averted from the people on the dark grey streets. He finds the key to the apartment hidden above the doorjamb as September promised. It’s only when opens the closet to hang up his sodden jacket that he realizes that the ’closet’ is actually his room.

Justin hates New York.

It takes him ten minutes to fold his clothes into the drawers of his bureau and to find room for his few toiletries in the bathroom. He spends his first day in the city huddled on the sofa, staring out the window and watching the storm strengthen from drizzle to gust to downpour. His sketchpad sits facedown on the coffee table, mocking him. Everyone told him that New York would stir his senses, but he’s never felt so uninspired in his life.

Justin wakes up to the sound of the blaring stereo in the living room vying with the traffic rumble outside for decibel supremacy. He squints at the clock and blinks when he sees it’s only 6am. He finally manages to stumble out of bed and get reacquainted with September.

“We totally should have kept in touch after high school,” she says, already dressed in her crisp Upmarket Coffeeshop uniform, bright red lipstick and heavily lashed eyes, smiling around a cup of tea. Justin is used to warm fingers on his thigh, soft lips on his chest, and silence, silence, and he simply cannot respond to perkiness so early in the morning. He grunts and reaches for toast, and wonders how long it’ll take him to save enough to get his own place.

He trudges through the city on his second day, putting on his best I-Am-A-Talked-About-Artist face at each of the galleries Lindsay has recommended. He gets one “you’re quite talented young man see me when you’ve put together some more of your work” and three outright dismissals. The fake enthusiasm of Gallery Owner Number One bothers him far more than the disinterest of the other three.

Justin hates New York.

On the third day, he calls Brian at Kinnetik. He pretends that everything is going wonderfully, and Brian pretends to believe him. He hangs up after fifteen minutes, knowing that Brian never has fifteen minutes free on any given day and especially not on a day when a big proposal is due, and then he stares at the receiver, willing the phone to ring, willing Brian’s voice on the other end, willing that voice to say “Quit bullshitting, Sunshine, and come home.”

The phone doesn’t ring, and Justin hates New York.

On the fifth day, Justin is scouring the classifieds for a decent diner job when something outside the window catches his eye. He’s not sure what is was -- a reflection in the shop window across the street, the tilt of someone’s umbrella -- but he finds himself reaching for his sketchpad. His pencil flies across the page. And another. And another.

He spills out onto the street, taking his pad and some pencils and charcoals to the stoop. He finds a bistro two blocks away with a tiny street side patio and spends several hours sucking back cheap coffee and laying the groundwork for what he thinks could be a whole new series of paintings. He meets an out-of-work actor who gives him tips on the job hunt and a musician -- not a violinist -- who tells him about a great club just a few blocks away.

That night he calls Brian and spends an hour on the phone. Later, in his shoebox of a room, in the silence that no longer feels oppressive, he mentally admits that he may have been gushing. He gives Brian credit for not saying “I told you so.”

Justin hugs his arms to his chest. He’ll be back in Pittsburgh for the fourth of July, and until then there are phone calls and email and instant messages. In the meantime, New York is waiting for him.

He’s ready.