The timing couldn't have been more perfect. I had just called off the wedding two weeks before the date and my already-crumbling life was on the fast track to complete ruination. Or at least it seemed so at the time, as those situations tend to when you're standing knee deep in them. This was September, 1997.
My former fiance was moving back to Omaha ASAP and I was damned if I was going to stay in our apartment one day longer than I had to. Wasn't a bad place, actually. Cute little two-bedroom with hardwood floors, an eat-in kitchen and French doors on the master bedroom. But it had been so
fouled with our disgusting, codependent, panicked energy that it might as well have been covered in shit. No, sticking around and trying to find a roommate wasn't an option. I had to get out of there. And fast.
As chance would have it, my buddy MJ had a roommate moving out at the beginning of October. I had long coveted MJ's apartment. A cozy, two-bedroom
private house with a huge kitchen and a truly homey feel. Additionally, MJ was a card-carrying metrosexual like myself. A bonafide wine-drinking, candle-burning, Dead Can Dance-listening, house-tidying, CK1-wearing metrosexual who loved to cook and have deep conversations long into the night. So I wasn't going to have to deal with beer cans on the floor, stinky socks in the bathroom and the ever-present cloud of B.O. that seems to follow most male roommates wherever they go. AND... the rent was only $775. Total. Which meant that my half was only $387.50 a month. A total steal even 10 years ago. I had the distinct feeling that this was going to work out well.
And then a year and a half later when MJ moved back to L.A., the place became mine. In the intervening years, several roommates came and went. I started with girls, hoping to keep the mellow, non-stinky vibe MJ and I had going. There was Ylva, the half-retarded German acting student with a funny walk and a firm belief that she would make it in life because she was a "lucky child". Althea, the athletic black commercial actress with a winning smile and an unflappable can-do attitude. Then there was Joe. A friend of The Missus' from school. A great guy, but the prototypical non-metro male roommate. And then finally, after four years of dating, Kate moved in on September 28, 2001. Two weeks after the 11th. And, of course, the night she moves in we pull up to the house to find the front door
kicked in half. Our little nest had been burglarized. Somehow it now seems fitting that the inaugural act of our cohabitation was a break-in.
Over the course of the next 6 1/2 years, we really did our best to make the place our home. A couple paint jobs, the installation of hardwood floors, a round of new furniture, coating the fridge in layers of anti-Bush humor and peppering the entire space with pictures of family and travel. And it worked. For a time.
But as we got older and started making more long-term plans for our lives, the realities of the space started making themselves known post-haste. The lack of closet space. The peeling kitchen floor. The mold spots in the unventilated bathroom. The overstayed-its-welcome carpet in the den. And the bedroom. Which is exactly that. A bed room. A room with a bed in it. Cramped enough that we have to walk in sideways just to get into bed. These realities began to encroach on our lives and quickly started turning our sanctuary into a prison.
It was time to move. This much was clear. What was not clear was... how? And to where?
We'd made a half-hearted attempt at looking last spring, to no avail. This attempt basically consisted of getting laughed out of six different Astoria brokers after explaining that we were looking for a two-bedroom that was larger than what we had now, was pet-friendly and preferrably on the ground floor to accomodate our 3-legged dog. Oh, and we want all that for $1500 a month. Apparently this was too much to ask. We were demoralized enough by the experience that we decided to bag the whole idea and stay put for another year. Good thing, too. Because about two weeks after abandoning our search, I lost my job.
(*See every post between June and September of last year for details.) The fact that the savings we'd put aside for a move ended up keeping us afloat during my three months of unemployment are about as far as I need to look for evidence of divine intervention.
Fast forward to this April. Thanks to "Law & Order" residuals and Bush's bribe money, this year's tax return was greater than either of us expected. We had originally planned to maybe pay down some debt, take some classes, get new headshots, etc. But this amount was basically
exactly what we would need to get us into a new apartment. We took it as a sign that the time for an upgrade in our living situation had come.
The topics of "Finding An Apartment" and "How Much Is Your Rent?" are the primary unifying preoccupations of people who live within the five boroughs of New York City. And there's a reason for this. Apartment-hunting in the City is very much like heading into battle. There are two opposing sides. There is preparation. There is strategy. It requires a great amount of skill, an equal amount of luck and a
shitload of hustle. It is ruthless, it is demoralizing and it is all-consuming.
Major props to The Missus for
totally having her shit together and being completely on-point heading into this process. We made a good team. She was the general and I was the pitch-man. We knew what we wanted and we weren't going to stop until we got it. At least that was the plan.
We originally started out looking at
only no-fee apartments. No brokers, no agents. And our cap was $1600 a month. For a 2-bedroom. On the ground floor, or at least no higher than the second. In a private house or small 3-family building. In a great neighbhorhood. That was close to the train. (For my NYC contingency, please keep your laughter to a minimum as it disturbs the other readers.)
Long story short, as the search progressed and our frustration levels multiplied our criteria began to expand. We started looking in Greenpoint, we looked in Astoria, we looked in Bay Ridge, we looked in Park Slope, we looked in friggin'
Bed-Stuy. (Thing We Learned About Ourselves In This Process #12: We are not gentrifiers.)
Over the course of 14 apartments, we started to become jaded, weary and battle-bruised. The thought pecked at both of us that maybe we just couldn't find a decent apartment in our price range. And maybe we were fools for leaving a place that was so affordable. Of course, as often happens, right when we were about to throw up our hands and admit defeat, the right thing comes along.
We had an appointment with a broker named George to look at a renovated 2-BR basement apartment with a small private backyard. We were already dubious about a basement apartment, but we were so beaten down we figured what-the-hell. Suffice to say, it wasn't for us. AND it was 16 blocks from the train. Which meant either taking the bus to the Ditmars station OR a fuck of a hoof. We happened to ask George if he had anything else he could show us and gave him our new, amended rent cap - $1800. George said he thought he might have something for us, but it was a little over what we wanted to spend. In a moment of silent internal unison, TM and I both said "Screw it! Let's see it anyway!"
The apartment met every criteria on our list... A 2-BR, larger than what we have now, completely renovated, ground floor, quiet street, great neighborhood, close to the train, forget it. This was it. Plus it has a yard (which needs some work, but hey) AND... a friggin'
parking space. An unbelievable bonus. All of which ultimately went into our justification of why we were willing to pay fifty bucks
over what was already a hard-arrived-at rent cap. We (I, moreso)
agonized about what the hell we were thinking making that kind of a leap in rent. But, in the end (and this has become our mantra of late) you get what you pay for. The bottom line was this. We'd looked at 15 apartments over the course of a month and a half. And this was the one we wanted. And this was what it cost. And that was just the deal.
We signed the lease the following Friday and officially move in next week. We picked up the keys and took some measurements this past Friday night, so unsolicited pictures will likely follow.
So, yeah. We're moving. We're taking a risk. We're stepping outside ourselves and into something (hopefully) better, (definitely) different. And praying that our outside-in metamorphosis strategy works.
I made the observation to The Missus a couple months ago that we've spent the past couple years
being our limitations. And we didn't have to look any further than our own four walls for a gut-check on that point.
3508,
Thank You. You've been a great home.
You were an oasis in the upsy-downsy clusterfuck that was my 20's.
And a fairly-reliable sanctuary as I entered my 30's.
I will cry when I shut your squeaky front door for the last time and I will feel a tug when any of the many memories you've housed begins to surface.
But I've outgrown you.
You are winter skin on my summer frame and it is time to leave you behind.
Thanks for everything.
I hope whoever comes along takes good care of you.
You deserve it.
George Carlin has long been a personal hero of mine. We don't have anyone like him around today. As much a champion of free speech as Lenny Bruce, his loss will be deeply felt.
