the apartment resolution, a swift and prejudicial end
18 April 2006
My hunt for an apartment has ended. I’m not moving.
I spoke to my landlord and because I have only bounced one rent check and have the words "Senior Analyst" in my title at work, he has agreed to lower my rent a little bit. I can continue to live in my humble abode in the ChiLiTa section of Manhattan - by myself - so that I finally have my own apartment in New York City. And as I predicted, as soon as the landlord and I shook on the deal, his tight Italian alpha male handshake wrapping around my clammy tentacle-fingered hand, I immediately regretted it.
(I think.)
First and foremost, I am essentially kicking my roommate Brian out on the street. I told him shortly after moving into this current place that once the lease was up, I’d be looking for my own place. He thought too that it was time for a change, admitting that he was surprised when I agreed to live with him in our current apartment, thinking I’d struck/striken/had strucked out on my own a year ago after moving out of the Upper East Side. So this is not unexpected.
But I never thought it would go down like this. I assumed I’d easily find some overpriced shithole in Manhattan and he’d easily find some moderately overpriced shithole in Brooklyn, we’d help each other move, and then never see each other again. But now it looks like only the last of those are actually going to happen.
Brian is having as difficult a time as I had in searching for a new apartment. Though his search is open to more than just Manhattan, his price range is lower (apparently, he doesn’t want to spend 65% of his monthly income on rent – loser). So though he’s looking, it ain’t easy.
Also, I’m not moving, so he doesn’t have to help me move. I’m now done, stationary, and basically waiting for him to move out. This is the bigger problem for me. While I’ll never concede that I have any real emotions (aside from lust and hunger) and I don’t care about anything that doesn’t have two nipples and no penis, I do feel bad about how things have turned out. I’m staying, he’s going. Brian knows I feel bad but, seeing as he is so laid back that he actually dies for the majority of the weekend, says he is not bothered.
Still, I am. The good news: I’m sure I’ll get over this in the next 24 to 48 hours. My compassion only goes so far and "guilt" to me is only an abstract concept used in courtroom dramas. By Friday, I’m sure I’ll be saying things to Brian like, "So…if you want to move out earlier, that’s fine by me" and "You’re not going to take your iPod when you move out, are you? Because I’d really like to have two."
The second reason why I may regret this is because it’s still a lot of money. Sure, I knew I was going to pay around $1800 a month for an apartment and my landlord lowered the rent (currently $2100 for both Brian and I) into that range, but the reality didn’t hit me until I walked out of our little meaning. I am now on the hook for A LOT of money per month. And I am only pretty sure that I have this money. Like, 51% sure. But the good news is that at least I know a lot of lawyers.
I don’t want to think about these negatives now and am focusing on the positives, of which there are three that stand out above the rest. I have listed them below, both in bold and with exclamation points, to further convince myself that this is a good idea.
I don’t have to move!
When I got into work today, instead of immediately hitting craigslist to search for apartments, I did actual work. Over lunch, I leisurely ate pasta and a slice of banana cream pie, since I didn’t have to hop a cab to another part of the city to see some shitty apartment. And on May 15, when my current lease expires, I don’t have to lift a goddamn finger.
This is a major plus. All the stress of moving – both finding the place and physically moving my shit out – is now gone. A major weight has been lifted from me. Nearly literally.
And financially, too. Like I said, it’s not unusual when moving to pay four times the rent up front: the first month’s rent, two month’s rent as a security deposit, and one month’s rent for the broker’s fee. If I were to have found a new $1800 a month apartment, that’s $7200. As I said previously, I do not have $7200 in my bank account. Like, not even close. I’m so far away from that number that it’s laughable. Had I found a new apartment, I have no idea how I would have come up with that money, but I’m guessing it would have something to do with old people and balls.
But now I don’t have to worry about that. What money I do have in my bank account can now be used for essential items for my new apartment, like a wine rack. And a new showerhead. And maybe a couch that three people I know haven’t had sex on and that I haven’t peed on. But we’ll see.
I have an office!
Not only do I have my own place in Manhattan, but I have (will have) an office. A real live fucking office. I haven’t decided if I will make my bedroom the office or Brian’s bedroom the office. My bedroom is in the front with two windows on the street. Which means it’s really fucking loud. Brian’s room is in the middle with one tiny window. Which mean it’s a cave. I think I have a better chance of creating whatever the hell it is I create in my current bedroom rather than Brian’s cave, but I don’t have to work that out now.
The point is that I will be able to tell women in bars that I have my own place in Manhattan with an office. This is especially useful now, since I’m doing a lot of traveling in the next few weekends (I won’t have a normal, free weekend in NYC until mid-June). And we all know that people who don’t live in NYC are much more impressed by it then people who do. I hope to impress non-NYC women with my new apartment, because it’s basically all I got:
Me: "So I live in New York."
Girl not from NYC: "That’s so cool! Do you live in the city?"
Me: "Yeah, in Manhattan."
Girl: "Nice! What do your roommates do?"
Me: "Oh, I have my own place."
Girl: [nipples hardening] "Really? Your own place? Like, a studio?"
Me: "No, it’s actually a two bedroom. But I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into an office."
Girl: [panting, rubbing breasts] "An office? You have an office in your own apartment in Manhattan?"
Me: "Yup. And here’s a copy of my W-2. Right there – that’s how much I made last year. But that doesn’t include all the money I made from being a writer. Did I mention I’m a writer? Big time."
Girl: [sweating, moaning, rubbing secret areas] "Oh wow…I guess the only question I have left is: do you want me to stick my finger in your ass when I blow you or do you want straight head?"
Me: [smoothly putting down beer, giving a sexy look] "I want you to just go crazy on my heinie."
I think I actually like the area!
I know, I know – you’ve heard me complain about the area in which I live. There’s no late night pizza place, the food (despite being in Little Italy) sucks, there’s no decent local bar, and on any given weekend there are about 100,000 Chinese people and 75,000 tourists standing outside my door.
But you know what? I don’t care. This morning, I was on the subway platform at 9:21am and at my desk by 9:33am. Every day I walk home from work and it takes me 25 minutes. I can walk to Soho, the West Village, Tribeca, the Lower East Side, and the East Village in no more than 20 minutes. I’ve never taken a cab greater than $15 since I’ve been in this apartment, and most are about $8. I’m a stone’s throw away from the N-R-Q-W, J-M-Z, 1-2, 6, and A-C-E subway trains (not that I take the subway outside of work, because that’s for poors).
As Brian and I have been doing, I can always order pizza prior to going out, eat some of it, and save the rest for later. I just discovered a place called something like "Italian Food Market" right down the street from me that makes DYNAMITE hoagies that remind me of Philly. And the local bar (which I still refuse to name because I don’t want to blow up its spot) is good, although inconsistently so. The past three times I’ve been there, it’s been a different crowd each night. It was the locals, then next time it looked like a Sigma Chi throw down, then the last time it was hip-hop night. Strange and terrifying.
And yeah, I’m still going to have to fight my way through hundreds of thousands of Chinese and tourists every time I leave my apartment. But these are now my Chinese people and my tourists. Don’t get me wrong - I will still wish them death at every turn – but it is now my duty as a full time resident of ChiLiTa to be both a good neighbor to my Chinese brothers and sisters and a good host to my friends from Ohio, Nebraska, and Tennessee. That is, until the Chinese lady at the local laundromat ruins another set of my 600 thread count sheets or I trip over the ankle of some junior high girl from West Virginia because her and her friends are screaming at the top of their lungs and don’t see me trying to get by with my groceries. Because then I start punching people in the fucking throat.
*****************
So it is settled. Thank you to everyone who chimed in to help with my search, including those who wrote in singing the praises of Brooklyn and Hoboken. I’m sure your shit little towns are lovely; good luck with them.
Note that this thank you does not apply to those who live in cities other than New York and sent me pictures of apartments in their cities that cost around $1800. I realize that $1800 a month can get me a two bedroom/two bathroom penthouse in Houston or an apartment with a 30×40 foot private deck in Seattle overlooking the city. But I don’t live in Houston or Seattle. Nor do I live in Chicago or Philly (although it made me feel loved that many Philly peeps wrote in trying to convince me to move down there). You guys were just trying to hurt my feelings. Dicks.
Now I have to start thinking about design for the "new" apartment. Actually, I should talk to the drunk Italian super first about fixing our broken mailbox, since I haven’t gotten mail in about two months. Does anyone know how to say, "Can you stop drinking wine for one fucking second and fix our goddamn mailbox already" in Italian?
I spoke to my landlord and because I have only bounced one rent check and have the words "Senior Analyst" in my title at work, he has agreed to lower my rent a little bit. I can continue to live in my humble abode in the ChiLiTa section of Manhattan - by myself - so that I finally have my own apartment in New York City. And as I predicted, as soon as the landlord and I shook on the deal, his tight Italian alpha male handshake wrapping around my clammy tentacle-fingered hand, I immediately regretted it.
(I think.)
First and foremost, I am essentially kicking my roommate Brian out on the street. I told him shortly after moving into this current place that once the lease was up, I’d be looking for my own place. He thought too that it was time for a change, admitting that he was surprised when I agreed to live with him in our current apartment, thinking I’d struck/striken/had strucked out on my own a year ago after moving out of the Upper East Side. So this is not unexpected.
But I never thought it would go down like this. I assumed I’d easily find some overpriced shithole in Manhattan and he’d easily find some moderately overpriced shithole in Brooklyn, we’d help each other move, and then never see each other again. But now it looks like only the last of those are actually going to happen.
Brian is having as difficult a time as I had in searching for a new apartment. Though his search is open to more than just Manhattan, his price range is lower (apparently, he doesn’t want to spend 65% of his monthly income on rent – loser). So though he’s looking, it ain’t easy.
Also, I’m not moving, so he doesn’t have to help me move. I’m now done, stationary, and basically waiting for him to move out. This is the bigger problem for me. While I’ll never concede that I have any real emotions (aside from lust and hunger) and I don’t care about anything that doesn’t have two nipples and no penis, I do feel bad about how things have turned out. I’m staying, he’s going. Brian knows I feel bad but, seeing as he is so laid back that he actually dies for the majority of the weekend, says he is not bothered.
Still, I am. The good news: I’m sure I’ll get over this in the next 24 to 48 hours. My compassion only goes so far and "guilt" to me is only an abstract concept used in courtroom dramas. By Friday, I’m sure I’ll be saying things to Brian like, "So…if you want to move out earlier, that’s fine by me" and "You’re not going to take your iPod when you move out, are you? Because I’d really like to have two."
The second reason why I may regret this is because it’s still a lot of money. Sure, I knew I was going to pay around $1800 a month for an apartment and my landlord lowered the rent (currently $2100 for both Brian and I) into that range, but the reality didn’t hit me until I walked out of our little meaning. I am now on the hook for A LOT of money per month. And I am only pretty sure that I have this money. Like, 51% sure. But the good news is that at least I know a lot of lawyers.
I don’t want to think about these negatives now and am focusing on the positives, of which there are three that stand out above the rest. I have listed them below, both in bold and with exclamation points, to further convince myself that this is a good idea.
I don’t have to move!
When I got into work today, instead of immediately hitting craigslist to search for apartments, I did actual work. Over lunch, I leisurely ate pasta and a slice of banana cream pie, since I didn’t have to hop a cab to another part of the city to see some shitty apartment. And on May 15, when my current lease expires, I don’t have to lift a goddamn finger.
This is a major plus. All the stress of moving – both finding the place and physically moving my shit out – is now gone. A major weight has been lifted from me. Nearly literally.
And financially, too. Like I said, it’s not unusual when moving to pay four times the rent up front: the first month’s rent, two month’s rent as a security deposit, and one month’s rent for the broker’s fee. If I were to have found a new $1800 a month apartment, that’s $7200. As I said previously, I do not have $7200 in my bank account. Like, not even close. I’m so far away from that number that it’s laughable. Had I found a new apartment, I have no idea how I would have come up with that money, but I’m guessing it would have something to do with old people and balls.
But now I don’t have to worry about that. What money I do have in my bank account can now be used for essential items for my new apartment, like a wine rack. And a new showerhead. And maybe a couch that three people I know haven’t had sex on and that I haven’t peed on. But we’ll see.
I have an office!
Not only do I have my own place in Manhattan, but I have (will have) an office. A real live fucking office. I haven’t decided if I will make my bedroom the office or Brian’s bedroom the office. My bedroom is in the front with two windows on the street. Which means it’s really fucking loud. Brian’s room is in the middle with one tiny window. Which mean it’s a cave. I think I have a better chance of creating whatever the hell it is I create in my current bedroom rather than Brian’s cave, but I don’t have to work that out now.
The point is that I will be able to tell women in bars that I have my own place in Manhattan with an office. This is especially useful now, since I’m doing a lot of traveling in the next few weekends (I won’t have a normal, free weekend in NYC until mid-June). And we all know that people who don’t live in NYC are much more impressed by it then people who do. I hope to impress non-NYC women with my new apartment, because it’s basically all I got:
Me: "So I live in New York."
Girl not from NYC: "That’s so cool! Do you live in the city?"
Me: "Yeah, in Manhattan."
Girl: "Nice! What do your roommates do?"
Me: "Oh, I have my own place."
Girl: [nipples hardening] "Really? Your own place? Like, a studio?"
Me: "No, it’s actually a two bedroom. But I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into an office."
Girl: [panting, rubbing breasts] "An office? You have an office in your own apartment in Manhattan?"
Me: "Yup. And here’s a copy of my W-2. Right there – that’s how much I made last year. But that doesn’t include all the money I made from being a writer. Did I mention I’m a writer? Big time."
Girl: [sweating, moaning, rubbing secret areas] "Oh wow…I guess the only question I have left is: do you want me to stick my finger in your ass when I blow you or do you want straight head?"
Me: [smoothly putting down beer, giving a sexy look] "I want you to just go crazy on my heinie."
I think I actually like the area!
I know, I know – you’ve heard me complain about the area in which I live. There’s no late night pizza place, the food (despite being in Little Italy) sucks, there’s no decent local bar, and on any given weekend there are about 100,000 Chinese people and 75,000 tourists standing outside my door.
But you know what? I don’t care. This morning, I was on the subway platform at 9:21am and at my desk by 9:33am. Every day I walk home from work and it takes me 25 minutes. I can walk to Soho, the West Village, Tribeca, the Lower East Side, and the East Village in no more than 20 minutes. I’ve never taken a cab greater than $15 since I’ve been in this apartment, and most are about $8. I’m a stone’s throw away from the N-R-Q-W, J-M-Z, 1-2, 6, and A-C-E subway trains (not that I take the subway outside of work, because that’s for poors).
As Brian and I have been doing, I can always order pizza prior to going out, eat some of it, and save the rest for later. I just discovered a place called something like "Italian Food Market" right down the street from me that makes DYNAMITE hoagies that remind me of Philly. And the local bar (which I still refuse to name because I don’t want to blow up its spot) is good, although inconsistently so. The past three times I’ve been there, it’s been a different crowd each night. It was the locals, then next time it looked like a Sigma Chi throw down, then the last time it was hip-hop night. Strange and terrifying.
And yeah, I’m still going to have to fight my way through hundreds of thousands of Chinese and tourists every time I leave my apartment. But these are now my Chinese people and my tourists. Don’t get me wrong - I will still wish them death at every turn – but it is now my duty as a full time resident of ChiLiTa to be both a good neighbor to my Chinese brothers and sisters and a good host to my friends from Ohio, Nebraska, and Tennessee. That is, until the Chinese lady at the local laundromat ruins another set of my 600 thread count sheets or I trip over the ankle of some junior high girl from West Virginia because her and her friends are screaming at the top of their lungs and don’t see me trying to get by with my groceries. Because then I start punching people in the fucking throat.
*****************
So it is settled. Thank you to everyone who chimed in to help with my search, including those who wrote in singing the praises of Brooklyn and Hoboken. I’m sure your shit little towns are lovely; good luck with them.
Note that this thank you does not apply to those who live in cities other than New York and sent me pictures of apartments in their cities that cost around $1800. I realize that $1800 a month can get me a two bedroom/two bathroom penthouse in Houston or an apartment with a 30×40 foot private deck in Seattle overlooking the city. But I don’t live in Houston or Seattle. Nor do I live in Chicago or Philly (although it made me feel loved that many Philly peeps wrote in trying to convince me to move down there). You guys were just trying to hurt my feelings. Dicks.
Now I have to start thinking about design for the "new" apartment. Actually, I should talk to the drunk Italian super first about fixing our broken mailbox, since I haven’t gotten mail in about two months. Does anyone know how to say, "Can you stop drinking wine for one fucking second and fix our goddamn mailbox already" in Italian?
