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Sunday, 29 September 2002
In the process of moving...I'll probably be silent for a few
days.
Thursday, 26 September 2002
Awake two hours early, so I could take the train into downtown
Brooklyn and get the gas company to turn on the gas, so I could
visit my landlord, and so I could visit my new place before going
to work. At the gas company, I stood alone on the customer-side
of the counter. They made me take a number. And then they immediately
called it out. And then I found out my presence there wasn't required
at all.
On the train I noticed how different the ads are in that part of
town; instead of ads for expensive fashion, banks, or private schools,
such as in Manhattan, there were generic ads provided by the transportation
system, and ads for telephone books that were supposed to appeal
to "native" New Yorkers.
At the landlord's place, I asked if they (today there were two)
would sign the statement I'd printed, which states that I have the
right to move out after six months with my deposit intact (something
we'd verbally agreed on because of the rent misunderstanding). No,
I not signing nothing. You sign things, not me. You just have to
take my word for it. Why you worry so much? Don't worry. I not signing
nothing.
I asked whether I could paint, and one of them answered, yes, light
colors. She held up the collar on my bright red dress and said,
you can paint this color, you can paint light colors, you can
paint yellow, or black, just as long as it's light, you can paint
it.
Walked a few blocks and stood outside my new building, rattling
the keys around, using force to twist them in ways they refused.
A phone call later, and the superintendent brought me the key to
the building, which hadn't even been given to me before I was sent
on my way. I was surprised to see the apartment full of people hammering
away, sweeping up dust from the floors, sawing, drilling. I was
supposed to move in Wednesday, today, tomorrow, and then Saturday.
Tonight I returned and stuck my finger in the polyurythene that
coats the floor and realized that Saturday might even be premature.
It's making me crazy.
To K-Mart during lunch, to exchange a free Martha Stewart shower
curtain Beau had given me. Of course I had no receipt, so I just
went to the customer service counter and half-convinced the man
that I'd actually walked in the store with a shower curtain in my
bag, that I didn't just put it there, and that it should be fine
if I take another color instead. He seemed to want to leave me on
my own with it, stick the curtain in my bag if I want, but that
he wasn't involved if I got caught doing it.
I picked out a new one and looked around at the cameras, totally
feeling like I was doing something illegal, almost convinced that
I was indeed shoplifting. I looked around for a good place to stuff
the curtain in my bag. I am not a shoplifter, and I'm not particularly
good at faking nonchalance, but I did it, stood right in front of
the counter and put my rightful curtain in my bag, figuring that
no one would think I was stealing if I was so obvious about it.
I didn't relax until I was twenty feet away from the store.
Tuesday, 24 September 2002
I took a long lunch so that I could meet up with and give him the rest of his money, re-meet the landlord(s),
sign the lease, and so on. Of course giving Sleazy his money didn't
present a problem (beyond psychologically), but then we left for
the landlord's place. Right when we got in Sleazy's car, he threw
a paper bag out of the car window. I sat there in disbelief, wondering
Did I imagine that? Should I say something?, but before I
could speak, he started telling me how it was good to "be nice"
to people, such as my landlord, and that "being nice"
will be the start of a "good relationship."
I never figured out which of the three women was my landlord. One
of them liked me immediately (and briefly) because she thought I
was Polish (I confessed that I wasn't). Oh, but you look Polish.
I sat down at a table in a crowded hallway, just behind the door,
and started looking over the lease that was thrust at me. Right
away I saw that the rent was $200 more than the broker had promised
me. What followed was an argument between the broker and the three
old women, all of whom were speaking a mixture of English, German,
Polish, and Hebrew. Much of it was about the hardwood floors they'd
installed, about agreements and misunderstandings, and all of it
was about money. Then they turned to me.
Maybe if you see the place now, you'll pay the 200 more dollars.
I'm sure it's nice, but I simply can't pay that.
What do you do for a living?
Web design.
What?
[My broker:] Computers.
Oh, then you make a lot of money.
I'm sorry, I really can't pay that.
Why don't you move in with someone?
I don't have a roommate.
We'll find you a roommate. You can screen them.
Right.
In the end I agreed to an unusual arrangement where I pay the first
six months at what I expected, and the following six months at what
they expected, with the option to leave after six months. Or so
they say. (Tomorrow I'm going to suggest that they write that down.)
Sleazy said he spoke with them after I left (I called him later
to complain), and that the chief landlord had said she'd "see
how happy [she was] after six months," which Sleazy took to
mean that they may let me stay at the original price if they like
me. I have no idea whether that's true. I do know that he said I
could have a cat, and that on the lease it clearly said "no
cats" (of course I only noticed that after I'd signed). I'm
sure he's capable of making up lots of things. I guess I wouldn't
be all that surprised if weren't allowd to move in until December,
or if my apartment turned out to be in New Jersey, rather than in
Brooklyn.
Reading the fine print of the lease on the train ride home made
me feel distinctly powerless.
I'm glad I like as much as I do.
Sunday, 22 September 2002
It was less than seven weeks ago that I started packing for
my last move, and already I'm dismantling my apartment. Even though
I've had to do most of the packing alone (aside from Jayme's
generous help on Saturday), it's going much faster and it's much
more thoughtless this time around. I haven't had a chance to collect
superfluous garbage yet; there are no intimidating corners or hidden
surprises (I forgot I had this/where did this come from?/oh no,
I never returned that), no articles of clothing to give away.
I haven't even had a chance to collect dust, apart from the flakes
of (lead?) paint that have collected underneath the leaky
areas of ceiling.
Saturday evening I went back to my new street, to have another look
at it. I hadn't realized how crazy lively it is. There were people
hanging out on all available staircases, kids running at full speed,
seemingly without looking where they were going (a couple of them
ran straight at my legs), Spanish music, overlapping conversations,
yelling, laughing, driving, walking, buying. It looked almost as
if people had gathered there to wait for a parade, that they were
waiting for something to happen. I walked right past my place without
even seeing it.
At the place I live now, the streets are very quiet. Most of the
noise that seeps in comes from the speakers inside the cars at the
intersection outside of my window. Lots of thumpy bass, Hip-Hop,
Latin music, Pop, some Country, some Gospel. Sometimes I spy on
the people in their cars, watching them sing along, bob their heads,
tap the door of their car with their fingers. Ten seconds per car,
then a green light, and they're gone again.
Tonight, after giving up on packing for the day, I retreated to
Beau's room, to hang out with Beau, Spencer, and Australian Dan.
We talked about walkabouts, the environment, war, big business,
and small towns, while eating Thai food out of take-out containers
scattered on the floor. I'm going to miss having roommates. And
I'm not going to miss having roommates.
Saturday, 21 September 2002
Thursday, 19 September 2002
It wasn't until I met him that I could tell he was sleazy. On
the phone he'd seemed eager and informative, but in person it was
clear that his helpfulness was his way of getting what he wanted,
that is, for me to sign the lease and give him 11% of my total yearly
rent, in exchange for telling me about the apartment and for being
an unnecessary intermediary between me and the landlord.
I've never found an apartment totally on my own before, and I found
it hard to trust myself, to know whether I was getting a good deal
or getting screwed over. It was made worse by working with someone
whom I totally didn't trust, and by looking for a place in a city
where it's pretty much a given that the apartment will not be sparkly
clean. The trick is to recognize Cinderella before she gets all
decked out.
It wasn't instant love; I had to recreate her image in my head after
I'd left her (probably erasing some of her blemishes and getting
her measurements all wrong), and on Tuesday night I dragged Beau
out of the house to walk around her property at night to see what
creatures appeared. We checked out a couple other candidates from
the outside, as well—one in a brownstone,
stumbling distance from the subway, and another in a brand-new row
house. They looked safe and clean but almost sterile, which actually
drove me closer to the crooked little peasant I'd seen earlier that
day.
I went to Sleazy's office Wednesday evening to give him a deposit.
He had another client sitting across from his desk, and when Sleazy
left to take a phone call, the client and I (from my bench in the
hallway) began whispering about what a used car salesman the broker
was. The client was young, wore muddy sneakers, and had lots of
curly hair. He said his name was Dave. He crept over to me in the
hallway and sat down. "So there's this loft I found but I need
a roommate to move in with me. You wouldn't want to go check it
out, would you?" For a second, I considered it, feeling defiant
and rebellious, wanting to walk out of Sleazy's office and start
my new life with this...stranger. "Well, maybe. But I think
if I don't take this place now then I'm going to lose it."
And, just like that, he said okay, told the broker he wasn't interested
in whatever place they had been discussing, and walked out the door.
The stranger-door, not the roommate-door.
After I signed my application, Sleazy commented that I must feel
good, now that I have an apartment, now that the search is over.
I nodded hesitantly. Actually, I felt sick.
Today, though, I'm really excited. Arranging furniture in my head,
picking out colors for the walls, making lists of things I'll need.
This will be the first time that I've lived alone.
***
I apologize for being so negligent of this space. I've had plenty
to say but no time to write. For that matter, I haven't had time
to check my voice mail or open my snail mail or write email. I wonder
how I'm going to manage moving. I have figured out what I'm
going to do with that car.
Also. I got my hair cut; I left a big pile of it on the floor in
a place called The Beehive. In the middle of the job, my tattooed
Portuguese hairdresser received a phone call, during which she found
out that she was suddenly a new dog owner, information that made
her really excited and distracted. She laughed and talked to her
coworker and slung her scissors around and told me all about the
way in which she'd found the dog, somehow making me feel like I
was one of her friends, rather than her customer. When I walked
out of the salon, I didn't scrub my head with my palms, in an attempt
to undo what she had done. She actually got it about right. It's
a little bit jagged, which is what I wanted.
One more thing. I've been meaning to link to this
site for some time. So I don't have time to open my snail mail,
but somehow I have time to read Mr. Tomorrow on a daily basis.
Monday, 16 September 2002
I don't know how I came to have a bottle of hair spray; I think
it must've belonged to an old roommate of mine and got packed inside
a box that was put into a big yellow truck driven to New York. Now
it's sitting on my desk to my right, poised to aid in the execution
of houseflies. It smells strong and sweet and bad, and it's difficult
not to aim and fire when a fly lands on my laptop, especially since
that's the only time the flies come into my field of vision. So
far I've successfully ; I have not, however, successfully killed any flies.
Of course these aren't the same two flies that buzzed past me at
work all day, at least I hope not, but it is rather odd that this
is the first day I've noticed their presence at either place.
***
1. On Friday I went to see a bad band at a small, half-empty venue.
In the middle of the set, a friend of mine (the
visitor) actually walked up to the stage and asked the band
to "turn it down."
2. On Saturday I drove Ingo's car around my neighborhood, realizing
for the first time how close things are. Close, that is, if you
drive. I think he's loaning me his car for a couple of weeks while
he's out of the country. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with
it, if anything at all.
Sunday, 15 September 2002
On Bedford Avenue there are a couple walls full of fliers for
apartment vacancies: No Fee! A steal! No pets. Hardwood floors.
This apartment will go fast! Small broker's fee. Very large, bright
living room. Roof access + view of Manhattan. Cats OK—purr.
Dogs OK—woof. A must-see! 15 minutes to Manhattan.
Most of them exaggerate, and all of them seem to say roughly the
same thing, but with different train stops and neighborhoods and
prices that fill the respective blanks. But the apartments themselves
are really quite different; the only way to know if a place is worth
visiting is to actually visit it, to take the train there and walk
around the neighborhood and look out the windows and open the dusty
cabinets.
Yesterday, just after hanging up with a potential landlord, I hopped
on my bike and rode south along the East River. Of course it was
much further than the woman had advertised, but I didn't mind, at
least in terms of the bike ride. It was a Saturday and I was coasting
through an industrial area, and, except for an occasional car, I
was completely alone. It's an unusual feeling, to be alone in this
city, while the jagged peaks of the crammed buildings in Manhattan
are in full view.
My potential new street was also lonely, but made warm by the jovial-sounding
Mexican music that poured out of one of the still buildings. The
girl who showed me the place was young, maybe fifteen? As part of
the tour, she pointed out her elementary school (across the street),
her mother (raking in the back "yard"), and her father
(working in the shed).
I really wanted to want the place, but I didn't. She will not be
my landlord, and that street with the happy Mexican music hanging
in the air will not be my street.
I always do that, imagine that I will take it, taking note of my
"new" address, my new neighborhood, my new path to work,
almost like a girl who tries on her boyfriend's last name to see
how it sounds.
On the ride home, I was invisible. I rode through parts of Brooklyn
I had only traveled through beneath the streets, finally putting
the faces of the areas to the names of the subway stops. No one
seemed to notice me, no matter how out-of-place I thought I might
be. I watched as a pack of kids swarmed to one side of an ice cream
truck, whose high-pitched notes were bouncing off the buildings;
I saw quick boys playing basketball on cracked tar; I noticed a
pair of old women sitting outside of a laundromat, fanning themselves.
I was surprised when I finally hit my own neighborhood; I hadn't
seen it coming.
I'm going to miss my mortuary home, but something has to happen.
Thursday, 12 September 2002
Tuesday, 10 September 2002
It almost feels like any other week, except for the review of
disturbing details, and that people are talking about it more, retelling
the same stories they've told all year long with dwindling frequency,
until this week's resurgence. Except they are telling the stories
in conjunction with hindsight rather than wonder, and they seem
to have defined opinions rather than shapeless emotions. I have
participated in a few of these conversations, and I've seen a few
of the outdoor exhibits erected all over the city; today I saw giant
brownish canvases painted with single drops of blood from thousands
of different people in different cities. Or sad or hopeful notes
scribbled on colored construction paper fastened to a board at Union
Square. But I've really just let it wash over me so far, I suppose
just waiting to see what will happen in front of me and in my head
when the actual day arrives. I have strictly avoided the TV, for
fear of hearing any more God Bless Americas and Let's Rolls. I wish
the memorial didn't feel so polluted.
Monday, 09 September 2002
When I walked in from work today, I glanced up at the top of
my loft, looking for the two gray triangles that poke up like symmetrical
mountain peaks, even though I knew they wouldn't be there. And I
ate my dinner sitting on the couch, waiting for her to beg for the
corn and cheese inside my burrito, even though I knew she wouldn't
rub up against me or extend a slow-motion spread paw and hook it
into my leg. Later, I curled up on the couch, leaving a spot for
her, but it stayed vacant. I threw out the remains of her food and
the water that I'd given her this morning and carried her bowls
to the sink. She's in Raleigh by now, $75 and a plane ride later,
and I hear she's uncharacteristically bitter: growling, biting,
hissing, scratching, hiding, confused. are a foreign concept.
Sunday, 08 September 2002
I took a picture of a man on the platform who had his arms full
of peacock feathers; thought we ought to buy one of the man's feathers for
agreeing to pose, and so we traded a dollar for one of his stash.
We didn't actually want the feather; it was awkwardly three
feet long, and we'd just left the house for the day and weren't
up for carrying it around everywhere. So we walked through Union
Square, looking for a deserving little kid to surprise with the
mating plumage of a large exotic bird. We ended up giving the feather
to a four-year-old Asian girl who seemed rather terrified by Martin
and his gift. Her parents were appreciative, though, and we were
rid of the feather.
Around the corner, on the other side of the park, we ate fruit and
watched as several kids and a few adults did impromptu salsa dancing
to the music blaring from someone's portable stereo. It was incredible
how smooth and quick the kids were, as they moved their hips and
spun each other, long dark ponytails whipping around. They were
smiling and laughing as they danced, and the crowd of onlookers
that cropped up around them grew steadily, until the group stopped
their cassette and peeled away.
Today we lugged our cameras to Coney Island and walked around and
marveled at the crowded beach, the trash cans overflowing with cups
and greasy wrappers, the rickety wooden roller coasters, , and rows and rows of ugly stuffed "prizes."
Except for an ice cream cone and a ride through an exceptionally
primitive , we didn't participate in Coney Island; we
floated through it and examined it. The weather was beautiful, and
I had a really good time, despite the fact that I found the whole
place rather depressing.
On the way home, a man wearing a homemade donkey sang "La Bamba"
and "rode" through our subway car, asking for money. A
stop later, we could see him in the next car, silently singing and
galloping and shaking his cup full of change.
Thursday, 05 September 2002
I had half-noticed the pair of underwear left in the bathroom,
but it didn't occur to me to ask anyone about it. The five males
currently in the house, however, played a sort of narrowing-down
game over the course of the day on the refrigerator's dry-erase
board.
Spencer: Who left a pair of underwear in the bathroom?
Bil: not me
David: they aren't mine
Beau: not mine
Finally, my poor friend Nick admitted to the crime: I confess, sorrowfully—they
hid themselves under there, I swear. Will work to improve myself
and the environment—THE VISITOR
Later last night, a new message crept up on the board: I have left
my underpants in the bathroom tonight so as to relieve our guest
of some of his shame—David
I stuck my head in the bathroom and saw a crumpled pair on the floor
next to the toilet.
***
Happy birthday, Dad.
Wednesday, 04 September 2002
Tuesday, 03 September 2002
For the next few days my American friend from Germany is staying
over. Tonight he arrived minus his luggage, and almost immediately
we went out for a drink and launched into a conversation about governments
and power and money and history and war, until I was thoroughly
depressed and feeling quite cynical. But then we did what you have
to do and forgot about it for a little while; we played Ms. Pac-Man
and we spoke in German about nothing serious and we called it a
night.
When I got home I discovered two things. My mom had sent me a mixed
tape, just as she always does when I move somewhere, and, consistent
with the others, it has the theme of my "new city." Before
I looked at the song list, I'd expected to see at least one Barry
Manilow song (there were two), but Moby? And Cracker? The note she
included in the package had the instructions, "Please listen
at least once." Of course I will. In comparison, when I give
someone a mixed tape/CD, I practically require that person to give
a report and rank the songs in order from best to worst.
The second thing I discovered is that my friend Stuart just got
published (rather randomly) in Salon.
The
story is unlikely but true. The story of how he got published
is even more unlikely.
Sunday, 01 September 2002
I've been thinking about cutting my hair lately, been looking
at borrowed magazines and eyeing people on the subway. Yesterday
at PS1 I slyly took pictures of
a few people whose hair I liked; my friend would stand near each person so that it would look like
I was taking a picture of her (rather than the true subject of the
photo), and I would sneak a shot. I haven't gotten the pictures
back yet, but I think this
haircut I found in a magazine last week is still my first choice.
***
Today on the subway: a spiky-haired Japanese kid let me share his
metro card and revolving metal door when my card repeatedly (and
incorrectly) refused me; I watched (along with dozens of other people)
as several guys break danced in a crowded station; I gave some change
to a man who could play Beethoven on the guitar and immediately
regretted not having given him more; a rough-looking man with a
voice like gravel asked me Do you speak English? then asked
me Parlez-vous français? then asked me Do you speak
English? and kept repeating himself in that cycle until I got
off the train. (I just kept quietly shaking my head no.)
I don't miss driving.
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