Jake Gyllenhaal has left us
Yesterday our beloved Jakey-Jakes and the icon of Tribeca was appearing on Stephen from Home, the quarantine version of the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. In this, he told us where he was quarantining.
Itâs not New York City.
I never felt so betrayed since I got a B+ in a class that I thought I owned sometime back in my undergrad years, which means itâs been over 15 years since Iâve had this feeling of a knife in my guts. Previously, Jake was seen leaving NYC at a time when it wasnât clear whether it would be the right move to travel given this tiny thing called the coronavirus that has plunged the world into collective trauma and economic recession, but I thought he was holed up in his massive Greenwich Ave apartment and was doing headstands promoting NYC delis because he truly believes the only way NYC will survive is by doing our part, hashtag NYC strong.
It could have been worse. He could have left for France and quarantined inside Fortress Schengen, with only PM Ădouard Philippeâs progressing white beard to keep him entertained. I would have never gotten over this, just like this B+ in European Politics in the fall of 2005. It fucked up my GPA, man.
But Jakey-Jakes betrayed us. He canât even say he was confined within the small walls of a one-bedroom in Brooklyn, where your window opens either on a brick wall or on a service alley that smells like trash, and your seamless account is your only connection to the outside world. The privileged gets to enjoy confinement a little better than we all do, but no, he went to California (LA? SF?). Where he has a house. This house has a basement, from which he recorded the absolutely heart wrenching and soul destroying âMove Onâ with the luminous Annaleigh Ashford.
But by leaving NYC, he did the unthinkable and the unforgivable.
There were several pieces that outlined how leaving NYC was in fact leaving NYC to die, especially this one, stating that escaping is selfish:
I imagine that few of the people who stock the bodegas and clean the subways here in New York are surprised by the exodus. Privileged New Yorkers, the kind who moved here with college degrees and an Exciting New Career Opportunity, have long held themselves aloof from the city. They are ready for the rewardsâa beautiful skyline, a killer shawarmaâbut are often trying to skip the bill. They canât even stomach August in New York. I get that they donât want to stay in the embattled epicenter of a global contagion.
Granted, this blog is coming to you from (redacted) and (redacted) who are both third culture kids. I didnât escape NYC. I was stuck somewhere else on my way back when the lockdowns in Europe happened. I would have never considered leaving my friends, my coworkers, my partner, and my city to the horror it has suffered. What does it mean to be a New Yorker? There are as many answers to this as there are New Yorkers, and I donât know, maybe there is something is this gorgeous LA house with a yard and trees in which Jakey-Jakes can safely ride this storm and come back to London to perform Sunday at the Park with George this summer, safely, for me. (I mean, there will probably be other people, but I donât know them. It will be a very personal experience.)
I will leave this blog, that should have breaks, to the end of this article, that made my moldy and rat-infested heart pulse again with the pain of distance and the throbbing ache of worry:
We are New Yorkers. We rushed the pile after 9/11, rebuilt after Sandy, walked home during the blackout, made out in Times Square on V-J Day. Weâre minting a lot of heroes at Elmhurst Hospital and Mount Sinai West this week, health-care workers who have answered the call with bravery and compassion and sacrifice. The story of New York in this pandemic should belong to them, not to the summer-home super-spreaders. So itâs settled then. Weâre going to get through this, right here, in our tiny freaking apartments. Sending love to you all.
Sending love to you all, especially Jake Gyllenhaal, who must be preserved at all costs. Wishing you well in your sourdough experiments. Stay safe, stay healthy, and support NYC restaurants at eatalonetogether.com / saverestaurants.com and subscribe at gothamist.com - not an ad, I just want to make sure I have a life to go back to. Jake Gyllenhaal, who is a figment of our collective imagination, would want that for us, too.
