On a scale from the Chrysler Building to the Morgan Library, where does legendary downtown comedian, drag king, and author of Showbiz! Murray Hill fit into the cultural landscape of New York City? This is the central question of NYQ, a signature series designed to measure just how authentically "New York" notable local figures truly are by putting their decades of urban survival, quirks, and local grievances to the test.
Hill, whose theatrical presence and sharp wit have anchored the city’s nightlife and comedy scenes for generations, approaches the metric with the seasoned weariness and comedic timing of someone who has watched the city morph around him. Asked how many years he has called New York home, Hill offers a quintessential show-business evasion wrapped in hard-earned reality. "I’m in show business. I can’t do math, but I think I’ve been living in New York for 35 years," he notes.
In a housing market defined by relentless churn, skyrocketing rents, and endless relocations, Hill belongs to an increasingly rare breed of long-term residents. When asked how many times he has moved across the five boroughs during those three and a half decades, his answer is staggeringly brief: twice. Explaining his remarkable fortune, Hill points to the holy grail of urban real estate preservation: "Got a rent-control apartment. Never leave it."
That deep-rooted familiarity with the physical and social geography of Manhattan informs much of his worldview, particularly when it comes to the unspoken, often volatile social contracts of public transit. If Hill were handed absolute legislative power to draft a single subway-etiquette rule into law, his decree would be direct and aimed squarely at his fellow commuters: "Fellas, please close your legs."
When physical space is violated underground, Hill’s reaction depends entirely on diplomacy or deterrence. Confronted with a stray elbow or a clumsy bump on a crowded train, his response is instantaneous and gendered. If it is a woman, he will offer a polite, "Hey, how you doing?" But if it is a man invading his personal space, the response is far less accommodating: "Get the fuck off me."
For a veteran New Yorker, transit disruptions are handled with a fatalism bordering on philosophy. When a train line goes down and lateness is guaranteed, Hill’s contingency plan skips alternate routes entirely. His strategy is simple: "Go home." Furthermore, his reliance on public transportation has strict boundaries. Asked how often he takes mass transit to the airport, his answer is unequivocal: "Never."
Street-level interactions receive a similarly calculated triage. Handed a flyer while navigating the city’s bustling sidewalks, Hill’s acceptance depends on the gospel being peddled. "If it’s religious, I will not take it," he says. "If it’s a show flyer, I’ll take it."
When hunger strikes with emergency-level urgency in his nominal home neighborhood, Hill knows precisely where to seek refuge to stave off passing out. Eschewing trendy culinary experiments, he heads straight for the classic Murray Hill Diner. Yet, despite his presence in the neighborhood, Hill harbors a characteristically cynical view of real estate marketing, immediately identifying Murray Hill when asked to name the fakest realtor-invented neighborhood in the city.
The absurdity of urban life extends to local wildlife and geography. Confronted with the increasingly popular internet notion that New York’s omnipresent rats are somehow cute, Hill offers a blunt appraisal rooted in showmanship: "They’re not as cute as me. I mean, right?" When it comes to the outer boroughs, Hill’s exposure is minimal. Asked if he has ever actually been to Staten Island, he admits, "I’ve driven through it," preferring to keep Manhattan—which he still refers to simply as "the city"—at the center of his universe.
Hill’s memories of the city stretch back to eras of infrastructure and nightlife that younger generations of transplants only know through lore. Reflecting on the trials of the metropolitan transit system, he recalls waiting an hour and a half for a chronically missing L train during the "old days." He paints a vivid picture of the aftermath: "And I’d have a couple vodka gimlets from, you know, being out that night. And I would sit there and rot in the subway for hours. And it’s nice and hot and sweaty in there."
That historical perspective informs his financial shock thresholds. While he admits to paying an exorbitant ten dollars for a cup of coffee—conceding, "I know, it’s bullshit"—he is old enough to remember when the cover charge for a beloved nightclub was a mere five dollars. Among the ghosts of New York establishments past, the one he misses most is Florent, the iconic, vibrant diner that once anchored the Meatpacking District, describing it simply as "the best place."
Hill’s daily routines occasionally blur the line between local veteran and wide-eyed newcomer. Asked what tourist activity he secretly still participates in, he confesses to playing pickleball. For public restrooms, he relies on a spot that risks community backlash: McNally Jackson, a choice he recognizes might get him into trouble with fellow book-lovers and wanderers. His celebrity sightings lean toward underground royalty, citing filmmaker John Waters as his best New York celebrity sighting, while bestowing the title of sexiest New Yorker upon Sarah Jessica Parker.
True to the paradoxical nature of local pride, Hill defines the essence of New York timing through peril: "You know you’re a New Yorker when your cab driver is driving so fast, and you might die, but you don’t say anything because you’ll get there quick enough." Meanwhile, his yellow-cab hailing days are largely behind him, noting that the last time he flagged one down was six years ago.
Even on stage, Hill’s life as a performer and a New Yorker occasionally collide in chaotic fashion. Asked if his phone has ever gone off during a performance, he admits it has happened during his own shows—and that he actually answered it. When it comes to the best place to ply his trade in the city, Joe’s Pub remains unmatched.
Despite the friction of urban density, Hill insists that every New Yorker should talk to a stranger at least once. He speaks from experience regarding the unexpected kindness of locals, recounting how he once dropped his wallet on the floor, only for someone to knock on his door two days later to return it—completely empty of cash, but returned nonetheless.
That local resilience also manifests in the minor domestic disputes that pass for neighborhood drama in close quarters. Hill recalls an altercation with a neighbor after an air conditioner mishap nearly resulted in disaster. Trying to move the unit, Hill caught his finger inside as it dropped, prompting the neighbor to panic and accuse him of attempted murder. Hill’s response encapsulated a lifetime of Manhattan patience: "It didn’t hit you. You were inside." With a bleeding finger hanging off, he tried to reason with the screaming resident. "I didn’t hit you. We’re good." For Murray Hill, it remains about as angry as he will ever get in a city that tests its residents every single day.
