Hello, strangers!
Sam was right that I wouldn’t ever want my good, English majored name associated with grammatical or spelling errors. However, his post was pretty accurate (with just a few misspellings, for that matter). I spent the last few days completely jonesing for the internet. My pupils were dilating and then shrinking. I had mood swings. At one point, I licked and sniffed mortar between bricks, because I thought I could detect internet connection.
Okay, one thing that REALLY happened - a teary conversation with Sam: “I never thought I would say this, but New York City is so backwards! How do people live like this?! I am so disconnected here - emotionally, physically, intellectually, technologically, internet-ally! I’ve lost everything! Boo hoo hoo!!!”
Melodramatic much? I can only look back on those miserable days and say…I’ll totally do it again if I ever cannot get my internet working in my new digs. Yep. No shame here.
So yes, new digs. My first apartment hunt ended in a shabby apartment in Hamilton Heights, and I did live there…for one night. Basically, my dad and I arrived with all of my ten thousand pounds of luggage. This was considered an omen of good fortune. Not only did I have all of my luggage; none of it was damaged. Unbelievable.
My former landlady, whom we’ll call Keiko, as that is her name and I want you to never, ever, ever rent anything in Hamilton Heights from her, told me she’d be around to help me move in. I didn’t imagine my dad and I would actually let her haul my luggage up four flights of narrow and dim stairs, but her courtesy was appreciated. Guess what? She never showed. We hauled all the luggage up ourselves, all while fighting the beeping security alarm and intricate system of locks, only to find that we couldn’t get into the apartment. Keiko originally promised to send me the key to the top lock after August first. Then she never sent it. I asked her about it, and she said she’d give it to me when she was helping me move in. My dad and I sat panting on the fourth floor in a sea of Samsonite luggage. We had no way in my hovel.
I called Keiko. No responses. My dad and I already had an appointment to view another apartment on the upper west side that evening, so we had almost decided that we were going to try and conceal a huge pile of my luggage while I carried around my most valuable possessions in a backpack. My dad banged on the door a bit, just so we were sure that my absentee roommate wasn’t present. (We’d tried earlier with no luck).
Suddenly a gaunt man answered the door. I guessed he wasn’t Nanette, the nanny roommate who works in midtown. He introduced himself as Lucas, the person who was staying in Nanette’s room until Wednesday. My dad was creeped out by him, but I didn’t care. I was glad to put all my luggage in a safer place.
We saw two apartments that evening: one with a small bedroom and an opera coach roommate who seemed to enjoy getting the last word in on every single conservation. Ms. Caveat, we’ll call her. I enjoy people who are thinkers and see things from multiple angles, but sometimes I just want to say something without someone else trying to make me question it. Ugh. I was ready to take the apartment, however, because it was much nicer than Keiko’s dungeon. My next appointment was with the dorkiest girl in America, also a teacher. She had a friend over and the two spouted inside jokes the entire time I was shown the apartment. That was unbearable in seventh grade. Post-college, it only made me boil inside. My eyes yearned to completely convulse with rolling. Here’s a sample of my apartment tour: “Okay, so here’s the bathroom. At some point, we have all been in here at the same time, getting ready for work. Ohmigod! Jenna, remember that time when Jess was going to go to work and then [dissolve into hysterical laughter]. Ohmigod! That was so funny! Jenna, one word: peaches! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Ewww. I couldn’t live with someone like that. I could already imagine the house meetings that would be called to address how I don’t seem to be trying to get to know the other girls. I mentally extricated myself from that possibility by shunning the idea of taking the apartment ten minutes into the tour. If it had been a Soho loft, I might have made the same decision. My potential roommate was that annoying.
I spent the night with my dad in the horrible Harlem abode. There was no furniture, no air conditioning. I was undressing to take a shower in the tiny closet of a bathroom, when I heard someone come into the apartment. I figured it was Lucas. I was about to step in the shower when someone started violently twisting the doorknob. Then banging on the door. Then yelling in an unfamiliar male voice. I wrapped a towel around myself, opened the door a crack, and saw a dirty man in raggedy clothes.
“Are you the new tenant?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s that man is the bedroom?”
“My dad.”
“Are you sure it’s your dad?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Well, I need to come in.”
“Who are you?!”
“I’m Raphael, the super. There’s a small leak, and I think your shower is causing it.”
I didn’t appreciate that he tried to imply that my dad being in my bedroom while I took a shower was sexual or incestuous or weird. I really didn’t appreciate that he tried to just come in the bathroom while I was in a towel. I yelled, “You need to wait!” I locked the door, got dressed, and stomped out. He winked.
Raphael eventually concluded that it was the same leak that has been plaguing the apartment for awhile. It was caused by his replacement of shower tile with masking tape. Seriously. But as soon as the unsuspecting new female tenant moved in, he just had to investigate. I felt violated. I’m just glad I locked the bathroom door.
My dad and I stayed the night. I needed a new apartment fast.
(And I’m stretching out the suspense here…another entry is coming)…
I enjoy reading the stories on your site. Keep up the super articles!
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I would just like to say hi and ask that you return the visit if you have the chance. Thank You!
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