A Cockroach in Brooklyn - One Weird Thing

77 11 22
                                    

I earn a decent living. But unless you are super rich and luxuriate in one of New York or Brooklyn's rare newer developments, you pay another type of "tall price" for living around the Magnificent Metropolis. Cockroaches, yes. But there's more: there'll be at least One Weird Thing about your turn-of-the-century housing. In my last railroad apartment on the second floor, the floorboards were so slanted I had to lock down my furniture with wheels. First, my office chair rolled away as if a poltergeist was taking a swirl in it, then my portable kitchen island from Bed, Bollocks and Beyond would mysteriously be blocking the door when I got home.  

"The foundations are sinking," the landlord reassured me. Great.  

One day, my apartment started rattling. Booming drum n' bass thundered into my apartment from a car in a traffic jam below, I leant out the window like I was gonna parkour it onto the street. I zero-ed in on the ray-banned, cap-backwards dude in his early 20s, driving a beat-up 1980s Ford Mustang. His souped-up stereo system must have cost a racehorse more than the heap of rusted metal he lounged in. I could see that the top of the car had actually been sawed off - as if it were a pre-school art project - to transform it into a convertible. 'Convertible' now being an oxymoron, 'converted' more fitting. I guess this guy hadn't thought far ahead enough to Winter. I displayed my tonsils:

 "All the mirrors and pictures are shaking off my walls! The place is gonna collapse!" 

My heart and solar plexus were vibrating, along with all my wall hangings.  The souped-up guy grinned up at me through his excessive sunroof like he had never had a prouder moment. Then he let out an unexpected "Yahoo!", revved and surged away, farting a black cloud of exhaust fumes. I hastily closed my window, the burnt petroleum stink tangled in my nose hairs. 

Why do I bother eating organic? That guy alone's gonna send the Tri-state area into toxic shock. 

I was so rattled from head to toe, I light a cigarette before tucking into my organic tofu salad. Kidding. I'd never eat tofu on purpose. Tofu is congealed cum without the salty aftertaste and with only marginally more nutritional value. How did it get invented?

"Hmm...A tasteless lump of curdled spunk. Let's mass produce. Curdled cum with noodles. Curdled cum with broccoli. Curdled cum to stop nosebleeds..." That would be a more plausible reason for tofu's existence. Spongy enough to insert into a sensitive bleeding nostril, and plenty of absorption value. I could go on...

Anyway, enough of blood, jizz and toxic shock, and back to Brooklyn apartments. In most of these old apartments, the dirt is a built-in feature. The muck and mire of Brooklyn ends up in the cracks of our aged wooden doors, window frames, floorboards, and around the bumps on our lumpy walls. Two months and a toothbrush wouldn't make a dent on the gunk population in one apartment.

But my new apartment that I found through sheer tenacity was different. Special. A pure rhinestone. Bright, rent-stabilized, remodeled, clean and cheap. But my One Weird Thing was...well, weird.

I saw the "New Apartment" listing as soon as it pinged online. The ad was devoid of any details, not even a price. Good. That would put other people off. Not me. I called the landlord until he picked up. He informs me that the previous tenant of 20 years burnt the place to charcoal after the old dear had discarded a smoldering cigarette in the trash...How awful for everyone, Mr. L. Lord. Do you mean the place has been rent-stabilized for 20 years? Luckily, no one was hurt in the blaze, but the insides of the apartment had been by licking flames and the old lady had been carted off to a Nursing Home for the Bewildered and otherwise Discarded. God bless poor old Nicotine Nana, but my inner opportunistic bitch had already begun calculating how I would shoulder-shove past all the racing rat renters to see the apartment first and grab this goldmine. Everything is a rat race in New York: your job; your apartment; catching a cab. You need tenacity above food. 

Vacancy rates for human hamster cages are extremely low. There's no "Let me think about it, Mr. L. Lord. I'll get back to you". The place could be a hog pit and it'll be "Taken!" before you finish asking how much is the rent. So, I dragged my ass on a train at an ungodly hour, and walked through a dirty part of Brooklyn to find this advertised apartment. "This will have to be amazing for me to want to take it" I muttered, almost ready to turn around. The landlord opened door. I tried to hide my surging chest and spastic smile as I walked through the bright, light, tall ceilinged apartment. I prayed Mr. Lord wouldn't hear the monks' chants and song of angels escaping through my ear holes. It was better than I could have hoped. I was the first one to see it. It was too good to be true. Here's the thing with century old Brooklyn apartments.

- Decades-old dirt: you can't clean it out, but it turns out you can burn it out. Nice one, nan.

- Germ-ridden, dank old interior. Here I am, surrounded by freshly painted white walls, over spanking new drywall.

- Darkened floorboards with dirt-filled splintered wood.  This place, I felt like I was about to win the lottery - several thousand dollars worth of spanking-new, pine-scented floorboards and shiny kitchen and bathroom tiles." Thank you, I never win anything. 

- Rent: $800/month. For a place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn? My purse and parts of my anatomy: tingling all over.  Put that wand down, fairy godmother. Your job here is done.

If there's something I have, it's tenacity. I wrote the deposit check right there-and-then. I tried to pressure Mr. Lord to accept first-and-last-month's rent too, but he refused. Suspicious? I was. Who doesn't accept money when someone frantically flaps their checkbook at your face?  For safety purposes, I annoyed the landlord every 24 hours by phone until I moved in (always friendly, super short - let's not be too aggravating.). Mr. Lord was as relieved as me on moving-in day. He could salvage his marriage if this chick stops calling him every day.  

I snagged that place so fast, I didn't even notice my One Weird Thing until moving-in day.

So there I was, christening my new bathroom, a smile slapped on my face like chapstick. First Time Living Alone! No parents no roommates no boyfriend! I was as happy as a dog pissing up the tail of a 50ft cat statue in China.  I could hear my ex Luciano (ex only once removed at that point, still a loyal friend,) bustling around outside the bathroom door, helping me move in furniture. I finished piddling, flushed the chain, went to wash my hands, then did a 360 in the tiny space..."Huh, no sink."  

Weird. 

The bathroom looks normal at first glance: a flushing toilet, a 'boutique-sized' bathtub with attached shower head, all in working order, cold AND hot, hurrah! Just no sink. I had to concede that my apartment-hunting checklist hadn't included a 'bathroom sink' check box. Neither did it have 'light switch' or 'plug socket.' Because a bathroom sink is a 'take for f*cking granted' sort of commodity. 

In the kitchen, I sized up my one solitary sink. Was it up to the task? It stared back with a nonchalant expression on its broad, square, metallic face. I shrugged. I was too thrilled with my perfect-for-me apartment to worry about a thing. 

Sink grieving period: Over. Open the tequila.

I mounted a square, modern, metallic mirror on the wall above the kitchen sink, set up my toothbrush underneath and resolved to keep the sink clear of dishes. Spitting toothpaste on dirty dishes is jungle behavior. Toothpaste spit is a solitary beast. It slivers. It snakes. It cannot share its savanna. Not with the dishes I'l have to clean afterwards.  Besides, there are losses and there are gains. Loss: sink. Gain: I will be motivated to wash dishes in a timely manner. No such thing as dishwashers in Brooklyn. The Laundromat is across the street. Otherwise, if you hadn't already gathered: Brooklyn is an immensely glamorous place to live. A bodega on every corner. If you are not Latino, you will discover what a 'bodega' is by moving to Brooklyn.

Feb 25, 2am

My relationship with Sid is souring. I'm becoming suspicious – wondering what he's up to behind the mirror, wondering where he's walking his dirty feet when the lights go out and I'm asleep. For the first time since the beginning, I saw him today and wanted to swat him. Maybe because he wasn't in his usual spot. He was closer to the left side of the mirror ledge, his bottom facing me, his head dipping down behind the mirror. Looking like he's up to no good. But I couldn't swat him. Because I've already named him. That's Sid the Roach. That's my roommate.

Roach for President...please vote!

A Cockroach in Brooklyn - A Darkly Amusing Short StoryWhere stories live. Discover now