As many of you probably know, I interned for Dj Chachi in NYC last summer. Throughout the experience, I continually wrote about the crazy stuff that happened. I have all these stories sitting in a folder on my desktop called “NYC Summer 09 Chachi” that I didn’t know what to do with. Until today, for some reason, when I remembered I have a blog. I think it’s time I post them up.
These are the stories of the most memorable summer of my life, which I’ll be posting more of over the next few weeks.
NYC Bound Babyyyy | Originally Written: June 14, 2009
I told my parents that DJ Chachi was flying me down, all expenses paid, because he wanted to meet up with me in person. It was half true: he was paying for half my expenses. Not many job offers are exchanged without a physical meeting, so it only made sense to them. The initial resistance that they gave me toned down and turned into “good luck, but we still think this is a huge mistake.” It wasn’t the way that I had hoped to pursue my dreams, as I value my parents opinion, and of course, I was twenty years old and completely financially dependent.
I had called up Chachi the week before and told him that I really do want to take the internship, but I would like to meet up and see how things go before I quit my job, pick up my life, and move to the world’s capital: New York City. Chachi was quick to agree that it made sense, and even offered me a trial run.
“Let’s try one week and see how it goes. If it doesn’t work out, we can part ways, no hard feelings,” he said on the phone in a New York accent.
But this was too cool for just a trial run, and I was convinced that I could make it work out. I booked a flight to LaGuardia, not caring that I was digging into my savings to pursue a risky dream.
No one around me understood what I was doing.
“You’re going to work for a DJ?” they would ask hesitantly.
For some reason, people perceive DJs as low lifes who just change discs at Bar Mitzfahs and weddings. No one could fathom that I had stumbled upon the good fortune of getting a job with a musical genius that had an international fanbase and was essentially a celebrity in New York City. I tried every analogy I could think of to help my parents grasp the issue.
“Mom, Imagine Aretha Franklin calling you and offering you a job to assist her with her career,” hoping to create some sort of bridge between my crazy dream and her understanding of reality. When this had no effect on her, I moved into the living room to my stepfather.
“Clint, wouldn’t you be elated if the Beach Boys invited you to go on tour with them?” They weren’t budging, laughing, interested, or willing to accept my situation.
This major roadblock seemed so minimal to me at the time. There was no way I was letting this opportunity pass me by. I had some money in savings and years of aspirations telling me that this was the right thing to do.
My mom dropped me off at the small airport in Portland, held back tears, and gave me a hug and kiss. I was relieved that she was finally approving of what I was doing, or so I thought.
“Go down there for the weekend, have fun, and then come back to reality and don’t take the internship,” she said, catching me off guard. This was going to be an uphill battle; my parents and I were definitely not on the same page, let alone in the same book.
I’ve always been sharp at reading people’s thoughts, and I figured my parents realized that they really couldn’t hold me back, so their only lifeline was other subtle techniques designed to deter me from this new life that I was seeking.
I gave a final reassuring wave goodbye to my mother, seeing how fragile she was. Every parent works so hard planning for their child’s future, and this certainly wasn’t playing out the way she envisioned. She could tell that I had picked up on her mood and offered some final humor.
“Keep your morals, Matt. And I’m not financing any new drug habits!”
Her voice trailed off as the revolving door at the airport took me away. It was the first of many revolving doors that I would be trying to figure out in the next month.
Chachi was busy with his schedule this weekend, but I was eager to meet him. He was about to hop on a train to head out to Long Island where his family lived. I told him that I had a friend out in Oyster Bay who I was going to visit, and he told me to meet him at Penn and he’d show me how to get there.
“Meet me at Penn” he sent thru a text message. This was the first of what I would learn to be our preferred method of communication. This text was also highly informative, as other future texts were much more open to interpretation.
My first order of business was googling “Penn.” I had no idea what he was talking about, where it was, or how I was going to get there. I took my iphone and did a search for “Pen.” It was quick to say: “Did you mean Penn Station?” Yes! That was what I needed. After some hurdles with my knowledge of the city, I finally found out where I needed to go. Then he texted back: “Train leaves in twenty minutes.”
Shit. My first meeting with my new boss and I don’t have nearly enough time to get across town to see him. I threw on fresh clothes and rushed out to grab a cab. I figured all I had to do was tell the cab driver “Penn Station.” Easy enough. He asked me which route to take and I replied that I wasn’t from around here so it was up to him. That was my first mistake. Never broadcast your unfamiliarity to the big city to a cab driver. They will take you on the most roundabout, expensive route.
We finally arrived at the intersection by Madison Square Garden. I overtipped because I had no idea what was appropriate, and I opened the door into traffic and proceeded to run across five lanes of taxis right as the light turned green. I heard more horns honk at my nonsensical pedestrian behavior than I ever heard before. Great, I was already making a fool of myself in public.
Walking into Penn Station felt surprisingly familiar. Perhaps I had seen it in a movie a long time ago. I found my way to the Long Island Rail Road terminal, and received a text from Chachi saying he was running late and wanted to know what track the 3:28pm train to Hicksville was on.
Great. I had no idea how to find that out, could find no evidence of a 3:28pm train, and was failing miserably at my first task of the new job. I texted back hesitantly: “Do you mean 3:45, I’m not seeing 3:28.” Luckily by that time he was in the terminal. I was scanning the crowd of commuters trying to locate him. About ten feet away, I recognized him. He was wearing oversized sunglasses, had headphones in his ears, and looked like someone important or famous. He was carrying some new promotional posters that had just been made of the magazine cover he was featured on. I walked over, anxious, and introduced myself.
I put my hand out to do a traditional handshake, which I would quickly learn is not how New York city operates. Our handshake was a mess. He did the Bro Shake, I did the “I grew up in Maine” shake. After my embarrassing handshake proved incompatible, he wasn’t shy to say, “No idea what that was.”
Great, Chachi’s first impression of me is an incapable traveler who can’t locate a train, nor do I have any New York culture in me. He broke the awkwardness of my handshake by offering to buy me a sandwich. At that point I really wasn’t hungry.
He bought me a train ticket and showed me the way to our train. We sat in the big row on the commuter train where the seats face each other. We both put our feet up and relaxed for the forty five minute train ride. It finally hit me: I was sitting across from the same guy whose music I’ve played at countless parties, listened to at the gym, and blasted in my car for almost two years. This was surreal.
The conversation stopped for a while as he became engulfed in a game on his PSP. I was content looking out the window taking in my new surroundings, which would soon become my new home. I was surprised at the quality of the train ride. I’ve always assumed public transportation was inferior to all other forms of transportation, but this train was modern and comfortable. This marked my slow transition to favoring public transportation over a personal car.
The train finally came to our stop. Since I didn’t really know how the train route worked, he offered to drop me off at my friends a couple minutes away. Parking prices in the city are astronomical, at best, so he stores his car at his parent’s house.
I was learning more and more about Chachi as every minute passed. He dropped off the promotional posters at his house for his mom to have, and we walked out back to the driveway where a car was hiding under a fitted car cover. The chrome on the oversized rims was poking out, and I was really anxious to see what it was. The cover came off and exposed the custom Chrysler 300. So this is how successful DJ’s roll. I was slowly starting to see how Chachi has set himself apart from the rest of the DJ’s hustling: he is professional, goal oriented, and has a very grounded personality which enables him to keep in touch with reality while pursuing his dreams. Inside the car, dollar bills are tied to the visor and gear shifter for good luck. This was by far the coolest car I’ve ever been in.
Chachi drove me to my friend Robbie’s house, playing songs I had never heard before, but that I immediately wanted to download. Robbie was a huge fan of Chachi’s mixes, and I kept texting him that Chachi was dropping me off at his house, knowing Robbie would be excited. Unfortunately, Robbie was in his basement, which is a cell phone dead zone, and didn’t get the message. He ended up leaving to get take out with a friend before I got there. So, I arrived in style to an empty house and just sat there. Robbie finally came home and realized that he just missed meeting a celebrity in his driveway.
After drinking with Robbie and his friends all night, I caught the last train back to the city. Still a little drunk, I passed out on the train and woke up in a stopped train in Penn Station. I woke up, delirious, and asked the first person I saw if this was Penn Station. That’s the equivalent of saying “Rob me, I’m drunk, and not from around here.” I then realized that I needed to put a better guard up and protect myself. Growing up in Maine, I would usually leave the keys in my car ignition in my driveway with the windows down. I’ve never been exposed to crime, which was a disadvantage to me in the city. I am far too trusting of humanity, which is not an attribute that will serve me well in a large city.
I gathered my composure, bought an overpriced turkey wrap to kill my buzz, and went up to the taxi booth to catch a cab. I walked halfway down the block, past a line of people on the curb and threw my hand up to hail a cab. Within a matter of seconds, I was in a minivan cab, and proud of my new urban skill. Little did I realize that all of those people on the curb were in line for a cab, and I had just cut all of them. As my taxi rolled by them, I had profanities yelled at me and middle fingers stuck up at me. Maybe my new “urban skill” needed some polishing.