I Love NY

By Gregory E. Miller Spring of my freshman year, I landed an internship working in the accessories closet at Lucky magazine. When I received the acceptance email, I jumped from my desk and into a self-congratulatory dance. Then it hit me that I was far too poor for New York, and my Beyoncé interpretation quickly turned into me crying softly into a pillow. Eventually I pulled myself together with a pint of Half Baked and proceeded to find an apartment on a budget approximately the size of a homeless person’s.

Luggage and Tupperware containers in hand, I moved into 14 St. Marks Place. In the 90s, St. Marks defined quintessential urban New York. The street was the staple of the East Village grunge scene, but it has since grown into something of a tourist lane. Annoying Indian men forcefully selling the exact same pair of fake Ray-Bans replaced the badass sex shops and crack dens of the decade past. But as luck would have it, one part of St. Marks fervently stuck to its roots—my apartment building.

I shared a one-bedroom apartment. Usually, a one-bedroom apartment constitutes such amenities as a bathroom and a kitchen. The total space of my apartment spanned 10 by 11 feet: only room for a loft bed above a table and chair, a sink, and about four feet of standing room. There was no natural light other than a small window that looked out into a dark shaft. My freshman dorm suddenly seemed lavish.

Perhaps the greatest luxury of the third story walk-up was the bathroom that I shared with the entire floor of the building. Sure, sharing a bathroom with a group of college kids is one thing. But consider what a McDonald’s restroom is like, add a used feminine hygiene product on the floor, and a shower with more mold than tile, and you have my bathroom.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The night I moved in, I knew all of these things, of course. I did not, however, know that I’d arrive to a room with cigarette butts shoved into every crevice and used women’s intimates strewn across the floor. Added into the mix were a variety of broken hangers, some Hanukkah decorations, a set of mysterious wet sheets, and a makeshift trash can lined with vomit-inducing sludge. I tried not to cry, in part because there wasn’t enough floor space for me to perform the dramatic, fist-pounding breakdown that seemed appropriate. Instead, I attempted to go through my bags to find my bedding. The task immediately felt too daunting for the space, so I lay down on the floor, held my breath, and fell asleep.

The next morning I awoke not to warm spring daylight, but to the sound of a Middle Eastern man singing Romanian pop in the hallway. As I came to my senses, I suddenly realized that the lack of light and proper circulation amounted to a hot box in which only silverfish—oh look, there’s one now—could survive. Gasping for air, I scrambled for the door, swung it open, and came face-to-face with the bald man mopping the hallway outside. By mopping I mean, of course, spreading the cobwebs, dirt, and ashes in a circular, soggy motion.

“Who are you?” he sang, mid-“Numa Numa,” not looking up from his task.

In between slurps of air, I managed to convey that I was the new tenant, taking over for the subletter who had left the week before.

“Oh, her,” he said, pushing the mop for extra measure before turning and leaving the hallway.

That was weird, I thought to myself. I breathed in some oxygen, proceeded back into the coffin/apartment to grab my wallet, and headed outside for my mission operative: buying a fan. As I pushed open the door to the street, I took a moment to take in the atmosphere. I was finally here, in New York, living here and running an errand. It was so quaint. But it needed a soundtrack—so I pulled out my iPod, selected my “I Love My Life” playlist and skipped off to the Kmart a few blocks away.

What should have been a quick walk turned into something similar to a Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood segment. Hello, New York! It’s me, Gregory! Hello Asians! What the hell are you eating? Hey there, street youth! Please don’t take my wallet! What up, hobo? Sorry, I don’t believe in charity.

Two men crossed the street in front of me, holding hands. My lip quivered. Thank you, God.

After purchasing a fan, I made my way home. I fiddled with the double bolt on my apartment door. I hesitated for a moment when I heard the creak of the apartment across the hallway’s door open. Not wanting to be that kid who can’t open his own door, I contemplated pulling out my phone to “answer it.” I was saved, however, by a disturbing screech of a voice.

“You moving in?”

I turned to meet my first hallmate. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet or weighed less than a refrigerator. Her black T-shirt and baggy pants with chains complemented the array of sassy Hot Topic Happy Bunny door stickers with sayings like, “Hating you makes me all warm inside.” Her hair was the color of a stop sign, as though to say, “Stop. I eat people.”

I explained that yes, I was moving in. I tried to be polite, but offered little detail in hopes that she wouldn’t try to stab me, or sell me crack. Instead, it turned out Marilyn Manson just wanted to gossip.

“You hear what happened to the girl here before you?” she croaked.

I hadn’t heard. That night, laying on the provided mattress, I’d wish she hadn’t told me. The tenant before me had been, like most of the apartment’s residents, strung out beyond belief. The clearly defunct security cameras had begun to terrify her, despite their lack of cords and the dust caked over the lenses. The neighbor told me that her paranoia turned into raucous fits and fights with the building’s supervisor. One night, when things got heated, she returned to her room in a rage. She took off all her clothes, grabbed her computer, wrapped herself and the laptop in a blanket, and jumped out the tiny window. She plummeted down the small three-story shaft, which had no exit. Her yelling eventually caught the attention of a tenant, who alerted the supervisor. The supervisor had to find a ladder with which she could climb back out. Once safely back in the hot box apartment, she promptly tore the place to pieces and ran away to who knows where. I suppose some place that doesn’t allow undergarments or the celebration of Jewish holidays.

But the energy of the room was the least of my problems that summer, just as the devil worshipper was the least creepy of my neighbors. Across the shaft was a young interracial couple. They enjoyed having sex with the blinds pulled up. Yet, somehow, I was the bad neighbor, for when I said hello in the hallway to either, I was met with a glare that said “Stop watching us bang.” There was also the old man who housed a scent similar to six-month-old garbage. He walked with a cane and took approximately 20 minutes to scale the four flights to his apartment. He enjoyed doing this when everyone else in the building attempted to make it to work on time. However, my favorite neighbors were the wide array of crack addicts who consistently provided both fear and entertainment throughout the summer.

Despite the apartment’s comparable state to a cardboard box, I knew from the get-go that I wouldn’t be able to afford the grand a month alone. I spent my first two weeks in the city desperately seeking a roommate to share in the misery. I posted many a Craigslist ad, all of which explicitly stated that the room was perfect for people with very little money and very low expectations. One ad’s headline read, “Seeking Broke-Ass Roommate for Unique Life Experience.” Luckily, if there’s somewhere in the world where people will fork over hundreds of dollars to live in an apartment the size of a box of Tic Tacs—but near nightlife!—it’s New York.

I welcomed many people into my small, humiliating abode. One boy showed up, covered his mouth, and ran away without saying anything. One girl told me the apartment was exactly what she could afford and needed at the time. She called me crying that night, apologizing and saying that she had decided she couldn’t force herself to do it. One boy showed up and turned out to not be so much a boy as he was a 40-year-old man who wanted to have sex with me. Perhaps had he offered some money, our future would have worked out a little differently. Of course, there was also the man who offered to be my personal servant in exchange for allowing him to live there for free. Tempting, but not exactly helpful to my financial situation.

Eventually I found Celeste, a sassy black girl from Wisconsin, and the two of us made the best of the summer. She was in a similar situation: coming from a humble background, currently in college, and working a gig during the summer at a non-profit. We found her a curbside tossed-out mattress, prayed it wasn’t infested, and set it up under the loft bed. With that, our relationship blossomed. Saucy Celeste and I shared a mutual understanding. I was ridiculously happy just to be in the city, and she was permanently angry. We bonded anyway, over our long work shifts, need for the cheapest food available, and not knowing a soul. We spent many nights sitting in random East Village locales, escaping the heat of our room that made sleeping nearly impossible. The frozen yogurt shop a few doors down sold by the ounce, so we’d often scrounge up whatever change we or a fountain had, and carefully filled our cups to the minimum. The pizza shop on the corner had slices for a dollar. McDonald’s had specials one night a week. And if we slipped by the cashiers unseen, we could nap in the waiting chairs in the back of the 24-hour Walgreens’ closed-at-night pharmacy.

Unsurprisingly, the apartment also didn’t have any internet, so Starbucks’ Wi-Fi made the locale a daily staple. I’d slip in the side door with my laptop and the empty coffee cup I kept on hand. I called my grandé cup Bonnie, naturally, for she was my partner in crime. I imagined Bonnie held a steaming white chocolate mocha, aromatically rising to meet my nostrils before my lips. Heavy on the chocolate, light on the liquids. Double whipped cream. We’d walk in the door, I’d scope out an empty table, and she’d put up the front: “Why, yes, of course we belong here!”

One day, I pulled out my laptop and began the ritualistic grind. Check my personal email, hover the hand over the too-hot-to-drink beverage. Read a blog or two, fiddle the stirrer. Facebook, fake a sip. Mid-sip, I caught wind of a hunched over, elderly woman searching for a table. She wore a dry-rotted miu-miu and two or three dusty scarves. The frames of her enormous glasses held down the frazzled mess of her hair. Bent at a 45-degree angle, she scoured for a place to set her hot tea. She settled on a lone chair resting by the trash can, right next to the side door. As a man swung the door open, it almost hit her.

I groaned on the inside, and got up to offer the broad the other spot at my two-person table. God, remember this when I’m praying for a husband tonight, I thought to myself.

She expressed her gratitude for the next 20 minutes. Despite the book she had open in her hands and the laptop screen I placed as a boundary between us, she chatted about everything from the weather to her favorite household cleaners.

…And that’s when I told Jack, you can’t let Rose drown.

Okay, she probably didn’t say that. But she could have for all I know because right then Prince Charming himself walked by. The young man, roughly 25, chiseled in stature with a strong jaw, brooding eyes, and wispy hair, glanced at me and our eyes met, locked. He wore a white V-neck tee underneath a casual biker’s jacket, and dark-washed jeans that squeezed in all the right places. Maybe he could take me in; maybe God had sent him to me to spare me from the apartment. He walked around the corner and glanced back at me as he ordered his drink. I looked around, trying to figure out any possible escape from the Crypt Keeper. Customers sat at every table.

My prince walked back toward me. He paused for a moment in front of my table, stared at the old woman, then back to me. I gave a dejected shrug. He smiled, and walked out the door.

I turned to the window and saw him crossing the street. On the other side of the road, he looked over his shoulder once again. I gave a small wave. He chuckled and did the same. I turned back to the table where Grandmother Time babbled on.

Seething, I pulled up Craigslist and wrote two ads. First, a missed connection for my would-be lover. Then, a wanted ad for a nice, hot dinner.

Preferably in a restaurant. With air conditioning.