She loathed it when she met people from New York in Paris. Worse still, meeting someone from Bushwick in Paris. Yet it seemed that it was becoming an increasingly common occurrence, what with New York hardly being an “artist’s haven” for some time now. And its commitment to materialism was a primary aspect of that shift in its “culture.” A shift that had begun with a vengeance in the 1980s, as the rise of Trump appropriately correlated with it.

Sadie Radeler had, of course, arrived in New York long after it was already losing its edge, but she felt that she at least had the good sense to leave long before a City Fresh replaced the Associated on Knickerbocker Avenue (though that was preferable to the brief collective belief that an Erewhon had replaced it instead). So when she encountered people of this new generation living off that stop—the Jefferson stop—who proudly declared that even though they loooooved it, they were now planning a move to Paris, it was difficult not to bristle. Or, in this case, rub her fingers and thumb together signaling the universal sign of “that costs a lot of money.” She didn’t mean the move to Paris, but rather, the ability to live off the Jefferson stop. She didn’t really know why that was her reaction. She didn’t think about how it might give the girl who had foolishly approached her at the bar a complex about probably being a rich kid who didn’t have to think about money. It was an ugly subject for rich people because they didn’t like it when those that were not rich brought attention to their privilege. It was “icky” for them. An unwanted reminder that they were the exception, not the norm.

After making her unexpected gesture at the bar that, to be perfectly honest, looked as though it had been transplanted from Bushwick and dropped in the middle of Pigalle, she tried to recover from her awkward social graces by actually offering up her hand to shake the girl’s by way of introduction once she had announced to Sadie that her name was Fiona.

Fiona looked at Sadie strangely not just because it was really no longer the custom—especially among people their age—to be so formal, but also because both of her hands were occupied: one with her phone, the other with a drink. So Sadie’s hand just kind of hung there for a moment before going limp and then recoiling. She apologized, “I don’t know why I just put my hand out to shake yours. It’s a reflex.” Fiona nodded placatingly and then quickly found someone else she actually knew in the bar to talk to. Someone who wasn’t so maladroite, as the French would say. Once again, Sadie had made it weird. Once again, Sadie was made to realize that she should never allow herself to go out in public. The only reason she had conceded to it was because a friend of hers had invited her to see this performance at the bar. A performance that didn’t seem like it was going to get underway anytime soon. Something about the lead singer being tied up in the hospital after breaking his foot earlier that day. But everyone was assured he would be there shortly. Soon enough. By midnight at the latest.

The friend who had invited Sadie was otherwise engaged flirting with women he was actually attracted to, leaving Sadie to be that weird girl who stood in the corner being a blatant social pariah. She probably should have just left, especially since she wasn’t an alcohol drinker anymore, and these types of situations required just such a greasing agent to make being social feel less phony. And she was about to, really, when, out of nowhere, Fiona took the stage to announce that she would be filling in for the lead singer. Sadie reckoned Fiona didn’t do much singing on the regular apart from karaoke, but there was nothing a monied fille who lived off the Jefferson stop couldn’t do. The world was her oyster (on a side note: it was fitting that Addison Rae just released a song with lyrics to that effect…the video shot in, where else, Paris). And Fiona wanted to make that clear by additionally announcing to the crowd that she had come to Paris to find a sense of artistic community like the one in Bushwick. This mawkish sentiment was enough to nearly drive Sadie to run for the bar and order a shot of whiskey.

If she thought Bushwick had such a great “artistic community,” then why the fuck didn’t she just stay there? Why was she making a move to Paris if New York was “the greatest city in the world?” “An artist’s mecca,” and all those other lies. Then just fucking stay there, Sadie wanted to scream, as Fiona proceeded to dive into singing some grating number that she could pass off as being intentionally grating because it was “punk.” The feeling of queasiness that had been brewing inside her all night—in part thanks to the acceptability of smoking inside the bar, said plumes permeating the atmosphere, along with Sadie’s clothes and skin—had reached a crescendo. A vomit-level crescendo. So she made a beeline for the bathroom that she had been willfully avoiding. Having caught glimpses of it from the corner throughout the course of her “stay,” she could appraise that it seemed more like yet another smoking area than a bathroom…albeit with stronger “hot box” characteristics than the main bar area.

The last thing she wanted was to get caught in an even more forceful cloud of smoke, but the need to retch was becoming overwhelming, and she wasn’t about to do it on the sidewalk outside. She still had her pride…for whatever reason. So into the smoky haze it was—with the area leading into the bathroom populated by all manner of “Bushwick types.” She suddenly felt as though she was having a panic attack. Was everyone here from Bushwick? Was this some cruel joke that the friend who had invited her was playing to induce extreme PTSD? To remind her that she wasn’t special at all, but rather, just another cliche who had moved to Paris.

Though the toilet was predictably disgusting, Sadie yakked into it with abandon regardless. And the vomit just kept coming. And coming and coming. As though she were purging herself of all the poseurdom for everyone in the bar who thought they were legitimate artists and not just well-to-do cunts (masquerading as poors) who had decided that Bushwick was no longer chic enough to be their playground. They had to now gentrify Paris, too. Except no one would get up in arms about that because it is said that you can’t gentrify a place that’s already mostly white. But you can gentrify it by making it much more expensive to live in as a result of your arrival.