Clash of the Working Class

Sundays. For years, they’ve been my least favorite days. I’ve never been able to shake from the air of Sunday activities the knowledge that I was standing on the precipice of a new week full of ... stuff to do. Childish? Evading responsibility is what I do best. Like other nameless readers, I have made it into an art form.

For those wondering, I have, in fact, found work. It’s a temporary gig for the education department of the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism. The job is largely clerical on the bureaucratic side of providing Hebrew school materials for an array of “Joo skoos.” Like many a Hebrew school student, I too dread the work ahead.

Aside from actually having to work, the downside is that I have to get down to the USCJ. Sure, the office is in Manhattan (like me) and on the West Side (like me). BUT, it’s in Chelsea, which means: I have to take the subway! A cab is easily seventeen dollars each way. If you thought that the City streets were something else, consider the close quarters of the NYC subway system.

Walking down the downtown streets, I mentally organize impending tasks, anticipating the responsibility that awaits only blocks away. I’m not shocked when every other person on the streets of Chelsea is a gay man. I expect it. What does surprise me is the number of blue-collar people. (They prefer this term to others. I know; I asked.) They’re everywhere, schlepping or smoking on breaks outside of the restaurants in which they cook and clean. They flier; they gather around holes in the sidewalk. Wouldn’t they love to evade responsibility?

What to say? From what I can tell, the only nice thing about being a blue-collar worker today is the absence of the proverbial blue collar. How humiliating it must have been to always be in blue! The only uniformed New Yorkers I see now are public school students. How backwards! In Texas, one only finds privileged private school students so attired. Maybe the uniforms of workers past were supposed to make them feel better about their work. Probably not, huh?

I feel that Chelsea is New York’s version of the actualized American dream. It’s the peaceful coexistence of high gay culture par excellence and the rugged working classes of construction workers, their fellow food vendors, and those who ride the backs of trucks. I'm struck by the blend of the BCBG boutique on Fifth Avenue and the immigrant bus boys who tally tips outside the avant-garde windows of Max Azria, obstructing my view of next season’s ready-to-wear. And all along, I thought the United Colors of Benetton ads were just a bunch of bullshit.