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  • CraigsList in the Time of Bedbugs

    Hopper
    (Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, my desired vision of Manhattan)

     

    CraigsList in the Time of Bedbugs

    By Richard A. Butler

     

    “Oh, God, give me something;

    A reason to live.

    My body is aching.

    Don’t want sympathy.

    Come on.  Come and love me.

    Come on.  Set me free.

    Set me free.

    Oh, I’m young, so goddamn young.

    Set me free.”

     

    - Patti Smith Privilege (Set Me Free) “Easter” (1978)


    Does a young artist, sans financial guarantor, still have a fighting chance to make it in present-day Manhattan?

                This was the abominable question facing me during midnight cigarettes in Santa Monica.  Here I was, a wandering actor at twenty-four years of age three years removed from my NYU degree, managing a hotel at the beach.  I’d spent the past four years in Manhattan pursuing an acting career while being tormented nightly with the inner question: “Am I really pursuing it?” 

                Unable to sever the financial umbilical cord of my parents, I was stuck nursing the currency breasts of my parents to the tune of a seventeen hundred dollar a month Greenwich Village studio (more like bat cave), a six hundred dollar monthly food allotment (which gets you Chipotle,) and a relative pittance of an entertainment disbursement (forget Broadway shows unless I was gifted tickets,) pushing my monthly ‘grown boy allowance’ to over twenty five hundred dollars a month.  Not a struggling artist by any stretch, I was essentially a trust fund baby living off a financed parental will.

                Inevitably, with much privilege comes much rationalization.

    “This is how it is for an artist in modern day Manhattan,” I’d say to myself through sleepless nights.  “Every twenty/thirty something needs their parents’ money.  Forty, even thirty years ago, it was different.  But now?  Who can realistically make it in Manhattan as a struggling artist?”

                Four months of reflection in Santa Monica confirmed I could no longer in good conscience take my parents’ money.  I was a struggling actor; my resume highlighted by six Bud Light promos, an Off-Off (probably another ‘Off’ in there) Broadway production, and millions of views on my YouTube videos (which it seems everyone has these days.)  If I was a union actor consistently getting work and struggling to make ends meet I could probably bring myself to continue the financial nursing. 

    Yet, that wasn’t the case.  

                It was the classic Catch-22: I was morally incapable of taking my parents’ money yet I had to be in Manhattan.  Outward indications doomed my predicament as a certain death wish.  Rock star Patti Smith, quoted above, who rose to prominence in a 1970’s New York she recently described as “down and out,” was asked in May at a Cooper Union commencement address whether struggling young artists could still make it in New York.

    “New York has closed itself off to the young and struggling,” Smith said to a stunned Cooper Union crowd.  “New York City has been taken away from you.  So my advice is: find a new city.”  Which city?  “Detroit.” 

    Not the motivational speech a young, naïve, cocky, manic, and mildly self-aware actor wants to hear.

    Which is exactly why I decided to prove her wrong.

    What I desired was simple: an affordable room in Manhattan (ideally less than a thousand dollars a month,) a self-supporting part-time job allowing me to develop my craft, and a competitive opportunity to become a full-time, working actor. 

    To ensure I could afford Manhattan I decided alcohol, marijuana, and cigarettes had to go.  These extracurricular activities were costing me approximately three hundred dollars a month, making their daily absence the difference between an eight hundred dollar or an eleven hundred dollar a month apartment, Off-Broadway tickets versus Off-Off Broadway, and a regular Chipotle meal or a guacamole add-on - notwithstanding avoiding the obvious headaches of drugs and alcohol (hangovers, arrests, affairs.) 

    In essence, I had to be sober to even have a chance.

    I felt confident I could make it in the Manhattan.  After all, I was living rent-free at the hotel and I had saved most of my decent income from my four months as manager.  With enough cash to buy eight iPads, I decided finding an acceptable single room would be my new full-time job and I would worry later about finding a supporting part-time job.  Strengthening my notion of “the time is now,” I had recently wrapped a sixteen-month process writing a one-person show titled American Addict.  The prospect of developing the play in New York was also key in my decision to leave Santa Monica.  

    Unlike my previous Manhattan experience (where I had the luxury of my parents’ financial help,) this time I went to New York equipped with adequate liquid funds to support myself for three months.  Plus, I had my passion project in hand.  With determined resolve, I decided to defy Patti Smith’s advice and go back to New York City as a struggling actor the right way:

    Essentially broke.

     

    “God heard them and his mind was moved. 

    Yet something greater will come to pass. 

    And who will they call? 

    And what will they call? 

    Will they call to God? 

    The air? 

    The fowl? 

    It will not matter,

    If the call is true.” 

     

    - Patti Smith Notes to the Future, “Land” (2002)

     

    I arrived in mid-town Manhattan on Monday, September 13th, 2010 at ten in the evening.  My forty-year-old acting friend, Don, with whom I had met on the stand-up comedy circuit, agreed to house me on the understanding I took the air mattress in the living room.

    Lugging my overweight travel bag up the four flights of stairs, Don brought me into his bachelor apartment reeking with musk. 

    “I saw mice in here the other day,” Don starts as he opens the door.  “Just make sure you turn the light on when you come in and do a little tap dance to let the mice know you’re home.”

    Placing my bag on the small sofa and taking a gaze out the four-story window, I was relieved to be back in New York, undeterred as I heard Don’s feet shuffle on the tile floor to scare any vermin.

     “Hey, bud, it’s rough out there,” Don began.  “I’m paying twelve hundred bucks for this one bedroom.  Luis (the owner of the apartment) lost his job in Philly and is coming back with his girlfriend in two weeks.  That means I’ll be on the air mattress when he gets back.  Damn moron.  He can’t keep his mouth shut and keep a job.  So, by the first of the month you need to be out of here, bud.”

    “I’ll be out of here before then,” I said, foolishly assuming I could find a room in about a week.

    “I know a great real estate agent you can go through,” Don offered.

    “Is there a fee?” I asked.

    “No, no,” Don assured me.  “He’s a great guy.  His name’s Craig Slist.”

    “Craig Slist?” I asked.

    “Craigslist,” Don said with a hint of a grin.

    “The website?” I shot back.

    “Welcome back to New York, bud!” Don said. 

    “Aren’t people on CraigsList a bit seedy?” I asked Don, regurgitating what I’d heard about the website’s renowned reputation for hosting rapists, scammers and serial killers.

    “Of course it is,” Don said.  “Good luck, bud.  Just remember: always see the place, never send money sight unseen, and have your checkbook ready.  I’ve been in your shoes many times and I will again in a few weeks.  These places go fast.”

    “Things will be fine, Don, relax,” I say confidently.  “What are you going to do for a place when Luis gets back?”

    “I’m heavily invested in the markets, bud,” Don said enthusiastically.  “I got all my savings riding on silver.  It was at fourteen an ounce when I bought it, it’s up to nineteen now!  I’m sitting on half a mil liquid.  It’s going to shoot up to a hundred an ounce, you watch.”

    “Why don’t you just sell so you can focus on acting?” I ask.

    “Cause I’m going to be a multi-multi millionaire, bud,” Don responds.

    “I don’t care about that big money stuff,” I say.  “I just want to support myself and act.”

    “I love it, bud!” Don said enthusiastically.  “No more money from mom.  Telling the old man to close his wallet.  This is it!  This is your time.  Go, bud, go!  And you know what you got going for you?  Your youth!  Just remember: any millionaire would trade all his money to have your youth.”

     

    Hustling on CraigsList is an art in and of itself.  To be competitive in a cluster glut like Manhattan, a “hunter” needs to check the site’s posts no less than fifteen times per day within the first hour.  This proves trickier than it may sound; if you respond to a recent post too quickly you risk being the first to email the renter – essentially discarding your inquiry to the bottom of their email inbox.  You may never receive a response.  The timing usually comes down to mere luck.

    Before embarking on my Craigslist hunt I made another decision: I would be merely fundamentally honest., i.e.; my rent’s paid on time, I’d be on my best behavior, and I’d be (relatively) honest about my family history.  Less is always more on Craigslist.  A seemingly nonchalant superlative detail can literally disgust a person.  Facts must be molded to keep one competitive.  It’s the reality of the game.  For instance, though I no longer managed the Santa Monica Beach hotel, out of necessity I molded a new truth (a steady job is crucial to subletters to ensure rent is paid on time), telling renters I worked with the hotel’s management company on a free-lance basis in their efforts to expand their brand to the east coast.  After all, why else would I be in Manhattan?  To act?  A steady job would be my ticket into a great room.

    I averaged two responses for every ten emails I sent: the first response yielding a legitimate subletter while the latter brought an intelligence-insulting scam that generally read as the following:

    “Hi!  I’m so happy someone is interested in the place.  My daughter posted this ad on Craigslist last night and I’m overwhelmed by the responses.  I am currently in Egypt working construction with my New York-based construction company.  Please drive by the address of the apartment I’ve provided below.  If the outside of the apartment is to your liking, I will email you the interior pictures and we can line up payment - allowing for overnight delivery of the keys.”

    Four haphazard days hunting on CraigsList (slow responses on my part, inadequate log-ins, and pickiness in regards to room location) yielded zero apartment viewings.  So, I ramped up my efforts by tripling the amount of emails I sent, increasing the rent amount I was willing to pay to twelve hundred dollars a month, and expanding my search to neighborhoods twenty minutes into Brooklyn (Bushwick) and as far north as Harlem. 

    By the fifth day I secure my first viewing.  The rent was $1,075 with all utilities included in the heart of the West Village – a bargain for one of the most desirable areas in all of Manhattan. 

    Ascending the second floor walkup of the rustic red brick building, I’m greeted by a gorgeous female interior designer in her late twenties.  I’m not averse to female roommates, yet the obvious cannot be ignored: if you’re attracted to your roommate, do you risk losing a great room by having an affair?  (Perhaps a hopeful “affair” is merely my hormonal imagination.) 

    We glance each other over while exchanging pleasantries.  The apartment has two bedrooms and a small kitchen.  She shows me the small available room containing a window overlooking backside fire escapes – a view that generally came stock with my price range (seven hundred to twelve hundred dollars) – and immediately I’m smitten (with the room!) as it is outfitted with a loft bed (bedbug free after close inspection), allowing for a comfortable desk and even a love seat (uh-oh) underneath.

    “I love it,” I blurt out.  “I’ll take it.”

    “I want to you to really think about it,” she says.  “Send me an email this evening confirming you still want the room and we’ll go from there.”

    “What’s there to think about?” I ask bewilderedly.  “This is the best room I’ve seen (the only room.)  I’ll cut you a check right now for three months up front.”

    “You don’t have to do that,” she says as she lights a cigarette.  “I just need a month up front and half a security.”

    “Sounds good,” I agree as I pull out my checkbook.  “Who should I make it out to?”

    “I have ten other people viewing the place this evening,” she says, perhaps playing hard to get.

    Feeling the room slip through my grasp, I search for the explanation that best endorses me as the ideal right roommate.

    “I’m very easy going,” I say in a cheerful manner.  “I’ll respect your privacy.  I think we get along, great.  Don’t you?”

    “What’s your job?” she bluntly asks.

    “I work freelance for a hotel I managed in Santa Monica,” I say as I feel my heart rate rise in my chest.

    “Freelance,” she says unimpressed, raising her eyebrows before taking another drag of her cigarette.

    “And I’m an actor,” I foolishly let slip.

    The artistic revelation creates a deal breaking pause.

    “But you do have a job, right?” she asked suspiciously.

    “Of course,” I persist.  “I’m online at nine so I can have a three hour head start on LA.”

    Awkward silence.

    “Let me think about it,” she says as she stubs out her cigarette.

    I wound up losing the apartment. 

    When I sent her two last ditch emails, she reported she wound up renting the room to a friend.  However, she knew of someone who had spacious available room for $750 in Bushwick.  Would I be interested?

    “Absolutely,” I respond about two hours later, hoping to secure an apocalyptic backup plan.  “What are the details?”

    “Sorry,” she says.  “It’s already been taken.”

     

    “Go ask the angels if they’re calling to thee,

    ask the angels while they’re falling,

    who that person could possibly be.” 

     

    - Patti Smith Ask The Angels “Radio Ethiopia” (1976)

     

    Eight painstakingly unsuccessful days later, I resolve to get a bit more creative.  Hoping to capitalize on my sobriety, I called the only person I thought would care: Jim, a forty-four year old office worker in New Jersey.  A year earlier, I’d met Jim in Alcoholics Anonymous following my arrest for public intoxication.  He was my former sponsor and, despite my leaving the program, we stayed in touch.  I remembered Jim mentioned a spare room in his apartment that I hoped to secure (at the very least) as a back-up plan. 

    Meeting under an Italian restaurant’s awning at the corner of Third Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street, Jim and I embraced, as he was delighted at the news I was ‘back’ (sober).

    “I’m looking for a place,” I nonchalantly tell Jim.

    “Nothing on CraigsList?” Jim says hoping to avoid the inevitable.

    “Not looking good,” I say, sure that Jim picks up on the slight desperation in my voice.

    “You’ll find something,” he assures me.

    “I know you have an extra room,” I say, wasting no additional time getting to the point.  “Is it available?”

    “How long have you been sober?” Tim asks, indicating my sobriety is key for consideration.

    “Thirteen weeks,” I answered truthfully.

    “Are you working the steps?” Jim asked.

    “Uhh,” I blurted in hopes of finding a satisfactory answer to land me a room.  “Yeah,” I lied.  “I’m on step two.”

    “The hardest one of them all,” Jim says empathetically.

    “Tell me about it,” I respond.

    “Step one is tough, too,” Jim says as he searches my eyes for fabrication.  “You know, finally admitting you’re powerless.”

    “Maybe we can work the steps in your apartment?” I suggest, hoping to morph the conversation into helping others.  “Even start a meeting?”

    “It’s a small place,” Tim said, dismissing the gesture of charity.  “And a bit of a hike into the city.  But I’m used to it after eight years.  You can be in the city, come home, take a shower, and be back in Union Square in half an hour.”

    “Sounds great,” I said, already sold on the place.   “I’ll take it.”

    “Hold on a second,” Tim said, flexing the ‘rigorous honesty’ common in many active (and even former) members of Alcoholics Anonymous.  “I’m not even sure I want to rent the room.  I haven’t had a roommate in years.”

    “How much do you want for it?” I ask.

    “Rent’s a thousand a month,” he says.   “I’d just split it in half.”

    “How big is the room?” I hopefully inquire, fully expecting the long Brooklyn commute being offset with a loft-sized room.

    “It’s small,” Jim says, semi-deflating my hopes.

    “In relation to this area,” I said motioning to the twelve by sixteen foot awning.  “Is it as big as this?”

    “Half this size,” Jim says, fully-deflating my hopes.

    “Five hundred bucks?” I say, attempting to see the bright side.

    “Yeah,” Jim assures.

    “Furnished?” I loosely inquire.

    “I got a couple boxes in there,” Jim says as he shrugs.

    “When’s an ideal time to look?” I ask in a tone semi-suggesting I could find something better.

    “Give me a few days to think about it,” Jim says coolly.  “If I like the idea, I’ll let you come by on Tuesday.”

     

    Ten unsuccessful days, four haphazard room viewings (I lost out on), and dozens of unanswered email inquiries crystallizes just how difficult a plight it is to land decent room on CraigsList.  Every variable must align; jiving with tenants within the first few minutes, the room can’t be too overpriced or you’ll risk feeling awful during your stay, and the apartment should be void of being a railroad-style, where a tenant has to walk through your room (disturbing your privacy) to get to their quarters.  Unfortunately, I’ve been unable to satisfy these seemingly simple elements.   

    On the morning of Friday, September 24th, after placing the still-inflated air mattress back in its corner nook, Don and I head to our regular corner Starbucks to continue the morning CraigsList hunt by taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. 

    “You see what silver’s doing today?” Don says.  “Up a quarter, bud.”

    “Been too busy with this CraigsList disaster,” I respond.

    “It’s all about timing,” Don says while glancing out the window.  “Be patient.”

    “At this point I’ll do anything,” I say looking to gain his sympathy, “Just to be near Manhattan.”

    “Try Queens,” a bored Don suggests.  “Or the Bronx.”

    “If I’m going to be in New York,” I reason, “I want to be in Manhattan.  Not a borough.”

    “Then you can’t claim you’ll do anything,” a matter of fact Don responds.

    “Don, I was robbed at gunpoint on Park Avenue,” I plead in hopes of getting Don on my side through my traumatic episode.  “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit hesitant of Queens and the Bronx.”

    “I’m just saying,” Don continues.  “You won’t do anything.”

    “Fine,” I concede, ramping up the minimum rent on CraigsList search to fourteen hundred dollars.   Then I suggest, “How about we share a place?”

    “Bud, I’m forty years old,” Don says with a subtext hinting at my limited life experience.  “I want my own place.”

    “You want to continue acting?” I ask, pulling the dream card.

    “I’d like to,” Don starts, “But I may have to move to Connecticut and go back to the bank job.”

    “Will you do anything to be an actor?” I ask.

    “Such as?” Don asks, waiting for a punch line.
                “Such as getting a job in a restaurant,” I say, trying to create a realistic scenario.  “Or becoming a bartender so we can share a cheap place until your silver hits big.  Make ends meet so you can continue the dream.”

    “How many forty year old waiters do you know?” Don asks flatly.

    “Are you too proud?” I ask, hoping not to sound too chastising.

    “Bud, I come from a rich family,” Don says.  “If I’m going to be forced to work, I want to make good money.  I’m talking a Benjamin an hour.  That’s what I’m used to making when I work.  If I have to give up my dreams for the time being, I’m going to make good money.”

    “So you’re not willing to do anything,” I say, realizing Don’s not going to make the same personal and financial sacrifices.

    “I know I’m not willing to do anything,” Don says humbly.  “I admit it.  Unlike you.”

    “How about we at least check a place out?” I implore to Don.  “What if we like it?  What if it comes out to be less than a thousand a month each?  What then?”

    “Who are these people?” Don asks suspiciously.

    “It’s a management company,” I continue, attempting to hype up a possible deal.  “Jakobson properties.  I was in one their places when I stayed in the Village.  There’s no fee.”

    “I’m not going to have my parents be a guarantor, bud,” Don says in a tone intonating resorting back to his parents would be a disgraceful downfall too great to even consider.

    “Neither am I,” I say, hoping to show we’re on the same page.  “But I had a good relationship with the owner, Mr. Jakobson.  I always paid on time.  They work out special leases for tenants in our situation.”

    “Why don’t you just call the devil,” Don suggests.

    “I can’t go back to my father,” I say, disappointed Don couldn’t realize a better solution.  “I’m doing this my way.”

    “You’re really serious about going it alone, aren’t you?” Don says, as if my initial, grandiose plan was taken merely in jest.

    “That’s what I’ve been telling you,” I say vulnerably.

    “But,” Don says in an attempt to keep it light, “you won’t do anything, bud!”

    “I’m willing to do more,” I say as I cut and paste yet another CraigsList inquiry.

    “Such as?” a quizzing Don asks.

    “I’m willing to go ten stops off the L in Brooklyn to Bushwick,” saying this more to myself than Don.  “I’ll take anything in Manhattan as high as Harlem and as low as the Financial District.  Anything within those guidelines.”

    “Now you’re stepping up,” Don says with a grin.

    “I just need to know,” I implore Don.  “That in the worst case scenario, you’ll at least take a look at a Jakobson apartment.”

    “Yes, fine,” Don finally concedes.  “I’ll do that.”

    “Thank you,” I reply, relieved.

    “Could you get me a blueberry muffin and a large coffee with extra cream, bud?” Don says, reminding me how important he is that I’m even in Manhattan.

    “Is this my daily rent payment?” I jokingly ask before getting up from the table to get in line.

    “Now you’re catching on, bud.”

     

    “Fate Unwinds and if we die,

    Souls arise.

    God, do not seize me please, till victory.

    Victory.  Till victory.”

     

    - Patti Smith Till Victory “Easter” (1978)

     

    I score a viewing in Williamsburg five stops off the L train.  The apartment is a ten-minute walk off the Montrose stop.  The room is down the block from Jim’s place, which I still hope to see while I’m in the area.  I’ve sent text messages to Jim but my pleas have gone unanswered.  I viewed Jim’s place as a safety net – however, nothing can be assumed with the New York rental market, even with friends.

    The Montrose stop is not quite as gentrified as the Bedford stop in Williamsburg, yet the area buzzes with young Caucasian hipsters morosely brooding the streets as they walk their dogs.

    Anxiously approaching the apartment I find a man in his early thirties staring at me by the locked entryway.

    “You must be the five o’clock,” he says, suggesting I already have the upper hand on the place.

    “That’s me,” I lie in hopes of seeing the place first. 

    “It’s been brutal on CraigsList,” he says in hopes of cutting the tension.  “I haven’t found anything and I have to be out of my place on the first.”

    “Same here,” I say while simultaneously texting the apartment’s occupants in hope’s of ceasing the obligatory chatter. 

    “It’s almost a thousand dollars in this area,” he continues.  “Nowhere near Manhattan.  It’s hard to believe.”

    I hear Tom’s footsteps, a man in his late twenties with a red scruffy beard and long hair, pound the staircase and he opens the locked gate.

    “Come on up, guys,” Tom says as he opens the gate and puts his keys away.

    As we follow Tom through the entryway he quickly stops us.

    “I’d rather do this one at a time,” he says hoping to avoid the awkwardness that accompanies competition.  “Which one of you was here first?”

    “He’s the five o’clock,” the other man says, pointing my way.

    “I suppose that’s me,” I respond, sticking to my game plan that in these situations it’s important to be just fundamentally honest. 

    “We’ll be back down in a minute,” Tom says to the other man.

    Tom leads me up to the second floor walk-up apartment and opens the door onto a wonderfully spacious four bedroom, two bathroom apartment.  The living room is equipped with an entertainment center and a full bar (oh, boy.)  Showing me the available room overlooking the main street, I peer out the window and see the other man on the street musing at passing cars. 

    “I can’t do this any longer,” I tell myself.  “I need to secure this place.”

    Well lit and spacious, the nine hundred dollar room comes fully furnished with all utilities included.

    “Jake told me you were coming,” Tom says, mentioning the roommate with whom I’d set up the viewing.  “He’s working now so we’ll have to arrange a time you can meet him and the other roommate.”

    “What do you do?” I ask as he brings me out on the large, double level rooftop deck. 

    “I’m a filmmaker,” he says.  “Jake’s a painter.  The other guy, Randy, is a writer.  Just a bunch of artists hanging out, you know?”

    “How long is the place available?” I say, infatuated with the ideal prospect of living with a group of artists.

    “I’ve been here for nine years,” Tom responds.  “Jake for seven.  Randy, about two.  We’re looking for someone to take the place long term.”

    “Great,” I say as I tremble at the prospect of additional CraigsList hunting.  “I really like the layout of the place.  The fact you guys are artists is a definite plus.  Inspiring to be around, you know?”

    “That’s the way we like it,” Tom agrees.

    “How about I give you a check and I can meet the roommates later?” I suggest, hoping a different, more direct approach might yield positive results.

    “I really can’t do that,” he says.  “It’s not fair to them.”

    “What are your impressions of me?” I ask, hoping to get a clear idea of where I stand with the place.

    “I think you’re a really cool dude,” Tom says in providing the obligatory answer.  “You’d probably work out great.  What do you do, by the way?”

    “I’m an actor.”  Another slip up; went with the dreams over the common sense.

    “But you have a job, right?” Tom says, indicating they’ll consider an unemployed artist but not an unemployed unemployed artist.
                “Absolutely,” I say, trying to get back on course.  “I work free lance with a hotel company.  They have a property in Canada that I commute to.”

    “You’re a commuter,” Tom says as if intrigued by the idea of not having a roommate around at all times. 

    “Occasionally,” I lie.  “I’m usually on the computer at eight.”

    “You work from home?” Tom asks, suggesting having a stay-at-home roommate is not ideal.

    “Need get that head start on the west, you know?” I say hinting at the good income.

    “Right,” Tom says and momentarily pauses.  “I really don’t want to keep that guy waiting downstairs.”

    “Sure,” I say, then I desperately add for a second time, “Should I leave you a check?”

    “Jake will arrange a time to meet you,” Tom says, hinting at the end of the conversation. 

    “Sounds good,” I say.

    As I descend the stairs and exit to the sidewalk, I realize my story is falling short.  I ask the other hunter what he does for a living, hoping to get some tips.

    “I work in IT,” he says, hinting at a structured schedule and good compensation.  “Nine to five.”

    Why do I think his story will bode better with Tom?

    Heading back to the train, I check my phone and see no response from Jim.  Perhaps he’s souring on the idea of our potential living arrangement.  With no further scheduled CraigsList viewings, I sit on a Williamsburg apartment stoop, pull out my cell phone, and investigate further CraigsList listings. 

    I’m eleven days into my search and running out of time as my backup up plan (Jim) is not looking good and I can’t seem to please every roommate.  Sitting in the humid air I have Don’s voice running through my head, instigating further doubts: “You’re not willing to do anything.”

    A drink sounds great right about now.

     

    “All my earthly dreams are shattered,

    I’m so tired I quit,

    take me forever,

    it doesn’t matter,

    deep inside your ship.”

     

    - Patti Smith Distant Fingers “Radio Ethiopia” (1976)

     

    At one-thirty in the morning, I lie on my air mattress in Don’s apartment enduring the brutal humidity, which only instigates my confusion and fury towards New York City.  One thing has manifested itself: New York is intended for the rich and the offspring of the rich.  Manhattan’s occupancy is at a staggering 99%.  I’m certain it’d be far easier to find a place if only I could afford a realtor or twenty five hundred dollars a month.

    Dark thoughts eviscerate my positive attitude.  I just want to support myself and have the opportunity to grow and develop as an artist.  If it’s so hard to find an apartment, I rationalize, I figure it’s extremely difficult to find self-supporting employment.  If it’s so hard to find a job, it must be impossible to achieve your dreams in the arts.  The sheer number of people hoping to ‘make it big’ is staggering; the funnel is filled to the brim with aspiring artists fighting to sliver through a needle-sized hole, with each funnel getting tighter and tighter (room – job – dreams.) 

    Most depressing is realizing nothing is going to change.  It will not get any easier.  If anything, things will only get more competitive.  Strolling down any avenue in Manhattan, one gazes upward and notices the buildings getting higher and higher, with developers hardly able to accommodate the influx of incoming residents.  Thus, making housing, jobs, and dreams even more difficult to attain.

    The prospect of going back to Santa Monica becomes very real.  I hate the idea of going home and being a New York castoff, telling people how great I never was allowed to be.  I’d go to Detroit before I let that happen.  At least I could be angry in Detroit and no one would recognize me.  

    With three days left in my stay at Don’s apartment, I’m hoping for a miracle.

    Don arrives home from heavy rounds at the bars (something I now wish I had done) just before two in the morning, disrupting my enjoyable pity party.

    “You have fun?” I ask from the air mattress.

    “Silver’s up sixty cents,” Don says.  “I had a blast.”

    “You’re the poorest rich man I know,” I joke to Don.

    “Hey, bud, I got some bad news,” Don says, non-apologetically.  “Luis said he’s back on Wednesday.  You need to be out of here a day early.”

    I’m down to two days remaining as the clock reads two-ten a.m.

    “Just what I needed,” I reply, annoyed.

    “Like I told you,” Don says.  “It’s rough out there, bud.”

    “It’s impossible,” I curtly respond.

    “It’s not impossible,” Don says.  “Have you tried Brooklyn?” 

    “Of course,” I respond.  “Rents are more expensive in Williamsburg than the Lower East Side.”

    “Damn hipsters,” Don mumbles.

    “I thought the whole reason Williamsburg’s considered cool,” I continue.  “Was because it’s cheaper than Manhattan.”

    “Quit moaning,” Don says, “and get back on the CraigsList and send out some emails.”

    “It’s two in the morning!” I protest.

    “If you’re awake,” Don reminds me, “you need to send out emails.”

    Grudgingly rising from the air mattress, I plop in the chair, start the computer and log on to CraigsList.  I’ve upped the search price range to sixteen hundred dollars, thinking the more money one has to play with in New York, the easier it is to find a place.

    “How’d it go today?” Don asks, reeking of whiskey.  “Did you check out that guy Jim’s place?”

    “He never got back to me,” I respond.  “Why is it so hard to find a place and get started?  It couldn’t have always been like this.”

    “It has, bud,” Don says, pushing my pity-party to epidemic levels.

    “You can’t sit there and tell me it’s not harder today than it was thirty years ago!” I argue in a rage.  “When the great artists came here with nothing.  When rent was cheap, they could work a part-time job, and focus full time on their art.  Back in 1980.  You can’t sit there and try to tell me it’s not harder today.”

    “What about thirty years from now?” Don argues.  “It’s going to be even harder in 2040 than 2010.”

    “Of course it is,” I respond, trying to avoid the potential argument crusher.

    “So what are you complaining about?” Don asks.

    “It’s not talent doing the talking, Don,” I continue.  “It’s the money.”

    “You have seen the light,” Don responds solemnly.

    “The artists of the eighties had affordable rents,” I continue, “they could work part time jobs, support themselves and probably averaged three productions a year Off-Off Broadway.  They could work.  Get better.  I haven’t been in a production in over a year.  There’s a glut of artists.  It’s like I’m three generations too late.  If it’s your money that gets you into this city, then this city is not built on talent.  Didn’t used to be that way.  When New York was poor, when New York wasn’t safe, people took risks.  They had no other choice.  That’s when you saw the rise of the David Mamet’s and the Sam Shepherd’s.  They came at the perfect time.  Now?  Even Off-Off-Broadway is a glut of revivals.  Spike Heels?  Glengarry Glen-Ross?  Hurly Burly?  Again?  Where’s my generation’s work?  Unknown actors refusing to do original plays because it isn’t as sexy as saying you’re doing a thirty-five year old Mamet play.  Thus?  The only new material done on a decent stage, I’m talking Broadway here, is done by who else?  Of course; the Mamet’s and the Shepherd’s.  We’re caught in this viscous cycle.”

    “But those guys do great work, bud,” Don says, trying to find a through-line to my tangent. 

    “More importantly, Don,” I continue in a manic rage, “What’s the real issue here?  New Yorkers complain about revivals on Broadway.  How the art has suffered.  With the financially deprived talent being forced out of this city, what else do you expect?  You think a trust fund baby is going to know pain?  Is going to conjure a relatable story?”

    “You should be able to answer that yourself,” Don chuckles. 

    “I’m no longer a trust fund baby, Don,” reminding him of my goal.  “I’m understanding pain more each day.”

    “You’re just making excuses, bud,” Don says.

    “It’s in response to reality,” I continue.  “You know why big time theatre’s so bland?  You know why, Don?  You know why, right?  It’s Bloomberg.  He’s turned this town into a Boston.  He cleans up this city and took all the character out with it.  Now it’s safe.  Police on every corner.  Every citizen’s got his or her own personal bodyguard.  The Times writes about how safe Manhattan is, Google and CNN pick it up and now you got middle-aged rich people who thirty years ago never had the balls to come to New York in the first place saying, ‘Hey, now it’s safe.  Now it’s clean.  Now I can live there.’  They’re taking all the housing, skyrocketing rents, and in doing so forcing people with the real balls out.”

    “I understand bud,” Don says in a calming voice.  “But you need to relax.”

    “Don, right now in New York,” I continue, “we’re witnessing the death of the American Dream.”

    “Bud,” Don says in a surprisingly sober tone. “Whoever said there was an American Dream in New York?”

    Momentarily taken aback, realizing Don may be right, I counter argue, “I just want an affordable room, a part-time job, and a chance to work on plays in small theatres.  I just want to be an artist in the best city this country has to offer.  Is that really asking too much?”

    “I’m sorry to tell you this,” Don said near apologetically, “But you’re asking for an ideal vision of the world.”

    “Doesn’t mean I can’t strive for it.”

     

    “Is it any wonder I’m crying in the sun,

    Well I built my dreams on your empty scenes,

    Now I’m burning them one by one.”

     

    – Patti Smith Dead City “Peace and Noise” (1997)

     

    Sitting with Don in Starbucks at nine the next morning, I finally received a call from Jim.

    “Hey, man,” Jim solemnly begins.  “I got some bad news.”

    “You want to charge me seven fifty for the room?” I ask, hoping to avoid the imminent bombshell.  “I’m willing to pay it.”

    “I’m just not feeling it,” Jim says unapologetically.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re in a crunch to find a place.  I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”

    “I understand,” I lie, thinking Jim mystically sensed my fabrication of working the AA steps.  “Let me know if you change your mind in a few days.”

    “I’m not going to change my mind,” Jim responds definitively.  “If I hear of something, I’ll let you know.”

    The dreaded nine words for any desperate New York apartment hunter: If I hear of something, I’ll let you know.  Which, in essence, means; you should strongly consider going back to where you came from.

    With my desperation increasing by the hour - seemingly by the minute - I receive an email from Tom.  The Montrose apartment has come down to me and one other candidate.  I can potentially close the deal by meeting Jake, Tom’s roommate, at his East Village cookie business. 

    I hustle into to the East Village to meet with Jake at his cookie shop.  I don’t generally eat sweets, but if Jake offers me a cookie I’ll obediently oblige in hopes of getting in his good graces.  But I won’t ask for or buy a cookie – the gesture may hint at my desperation  

    Expensive cookies and twenty-five dollar candles line the boutique East Village cookie shop.  As I enter, I can’t help but think I’m playing catch up with the other potential roommate.

    “Tom’s told me all about you,” Jake starts as he fondles the freshly baked cookies.  “He likes you.  Only thing, he really likes the other guy.”

    “What can I do to secure this place?” I ask, getting directly to the point.

    “What’s your job?” Jake asks.

    “I work freelance with a hotel in Santa Monica,” I recite on autopilot, taking note that I haven’t been offered a cookie.  “They have two properties in California and one in Nova Scotia.  They want to open one in New York and have put me as head of development.”

    “So you’re busy,” Jake says, prudently withholding any cookie offering.  “Which is good because I work nights here at the shop and I’m home during the day.  I’m a painter and I need my space.  Our current roommate is always home, doesn’t have a job, sleeps in, goes to the kitchen every other minute grabbing food, tea, making cocktails, and his girlfriend annoys the hell out of me.  It disrupting.  I don’t want that sort of roommate anymore.”

    “I’ll be out of your way,” I push Jake, debating whether I should go ahead and buy a cookie.  “I respect that you’re a painter.  You need your space.”
                “Tom tells me you work from home,” Jake inquires above a customer who orders an iced tea at the counter.  “Is that true?”

    “Yeah, you know,” I say, distancing myself from the customer.   “I’m on the computer at seven a.m.  Need that head start on L.A.”

    “You send emails to L.A. at four in the morning?” Jake suspiciously asks.

    “Got to do it.  Part of the job,” I say, then quickly transition, “tell, you what: I won’t even come out of my room before one o’clock.  How’s that sound?”

    “That’s a plus,” Jake agrees. 

    “This tea is sweetened,” the customer says.  “I asked for unsweetened.”

    “Sorry about that,” Jake tells the customer as he pours a new tea.

    “I’ll keep to myself every morning,” I say again.

    “Yeah, that’s good to hear you’ll stay in your room until one,” Jake continues as he hands the customer the unsweetened tea.  “But the other guy we met works in IT full-time nine to five.”

    “He’s not an artist?” I inquire, hinting that the artistic integrity of the household could be at stake.

    “No,” Jake concedes.  “But he’s out of the house everyday.”

    “Can I give you a check now?” I ask, at this point massively conflicted on my plan regarding the cookies.  “I’ll give you three months up front.”

    “I’ll have to talk it over with the other guys,” Jake says in a dismissing manner while handing change back the customer.  “I’ll email you tonight and let you know who we went with.”

    “OK,” I reply, watching the customer exit into the throng of pedestrians.  I pause to look out the window and examine the passing New Yorkers, contemplating to myself, “Who’s getting these rooms?”   

    “You want an ice tea?” Jake asks indifferently, interrupting my musing to offer the mistaken order.   

    “That’s be great,” I respond, trying to pick up on any larger truth present in his offering.  “Thanks.”

    As I exit the cookie store and join the throng of the crowd, the complimentary tea provides a new sense of hope – even if it was merely a mistaken order.

     

    Only days remain until I need to be out of Don’s place.

    “Don, this is it,” I say.  “We need to go to Jakobson and at least take a look.”

    “No guarantees, bud,” Don says.  “You know where I stand.”

    “I know,” I respond.  “Trust me, if it doesn’t work out I’m going to Detroit.  If Jakobson falls through I’m hitting the bar and you’re coming with me.”

    “Don’t go there, bud,” Don warns.  “I’m not going to be a part of it.  You can’t handle that stuff.”

    “I took a three and a half month break,” I reason.  “Maybe now I can handle it.”

    “We’re not going to find out,” Don says.  “You’re going to find something.”

    As we take the C train to the offices of Jakobson Properties, I get a surge of hope that my past residence and good standing could land us a decent deal with the company.  There are two available rooms on the Jakobson website priced at seventeen hundred dollars in which Don and I agreed we could both afford and comfortably reside.

    Disdained at New York’s apartment process, I feign a positive attitude and tell Don, “Jakobson’s going to work out.  I know it.”

    “Don’t get your hopes up,” Don says unapologetically.

    As we approach the offices of Jakobson Properties, Don tells me he is going to wait outside.

    “This is your deal, bud,” Don says.  “I’ll be waiting here.”

     Heading through the entrance, I’m led to Mr. Jakobson’s large back office where I’m greeted by a seated Mr. Jakobson dressed in a full suit and tie.   He offers me a seat.  At over eighty years old, Mr. Jakobson, who’s been in New York real estate since the 1960’s, has maintained his sharp wit and charm.   With over forty properties in Manhattan, I’m hopeful he can help me land something.

    “Hello Mr. Jakobson,” I start, hoping to initially hide my desperation.  “Richard Butler.  I stayed in this building in apartment 5L for eighteen months.”

    “Of course,” Mr. Jakobson warmly responds in his thick New York accent.  “I remember everyone.”

    “I’m looking for a new place,” I say.

    “You were in good standing with us before you left, is that correct?” Mr. Jakobson responds with a smile.

    “Never missed a payment,” I say, withholding details of the parental financial umbilical cord.

    “Which apartments are you interested in viewing?” Mr. Jakobson asks as he leafs through the room availability sheets.

    “I saw two on the website that fit my budget,” I begin, speaking a bit faster than I would like.  “There’s a great one on Seventh Street between – “

    “The seventeen hundred dollar two room studio,” Mr. Jakobson innocently interrupts.

    “That’s the one,” I reply, un-offended.

    “It’s currently in contract,” Mr. Jakobson quips.

    “Nice way to get my hopes up,” I say in a joking tone which goes unnoticed by Jakobson. 

    “There’s an availability,” Mr. Jakobson continues, “on Avenue D and Eleventh Street.”

    “Yes,” I say in a hopeful tone.  “That’s the other one I wanted.”

    “Before I show you the property,” Mr. Jakobson says, transitioning to a business-like tone.  “Let’s go over a few details.  Are you able to secure a financial guarantor for the lease?”

    “I’m willing to pay three months up front,” I say in hopes of slyly dismissing the unthinkable inquiry.

    “I understand,” Mr. Jakobson says, and continues in his business-like way,  “but you’re unable to secure a financial guarantor.”

    “That’s correct,” I admit in an exhausted tone. 

    “Is that due to a family dispute or personal reasons?” Mr. Jakobson asks.

    “More the latter,” I respond.

    “I understand,” Mr. Jakobson responds empathetically.  “We don’t have a showing for the apartment today.  However, because you were in such good standing with us, I’m going to give you the keys so you can see the place for yourself.  Leave me your driver’s license.  It is three p.m. now.  When will you have the keys back to us?”

    “Three forty five,” I respond.

    “Three forty five and not a minute later,” Mr. Jakobson continues.  “If you like the place we’ll work out a plan where you can pay up front without the assurance of a guarantor.”

    “Sounds like an ideal plan, Mr. Jakobson,” I respond.

    “And I want you to know, Richard,” Mr. Jakobson continues in a serious tone, “this goes against all the rules.  Trusting people is going to make my mortgagees very upset.  But I trust you.”

    “Thank you, sir,” I sincerely respond.  “I will not break your trust.”

    “I know you won’t,” Mr. Jakobson says.

    Exiting Jakobson’s offices, I meet Don outside and we begin the journey to the apartment.

    “Where is this place?” Don asks.

    “Avenue D,” I respond.

    “D!” Don exclaims, “Is that even in Manhattan?”

    As we journey over, Don irritates me as he continues to vocalize his doubts.

    “This is great,” Don says sarcastically.  “Place is in the middle of nowhere.  No subways, nothing.”

    “Whatever it takes Don,” I say, hoping of shutting him up.

    “Where’s my room again?” Don asks.

    “In the kitchen,” I say, unable to mask the undesirable situation.

    “So,” Don slightly chuckles, “I’ll be sleeping with the fridge by my head.”

    “Whatever it takes, Don,” I say, furious at my inability to get him to fall in line with the decent game plan.

    “No, this is fantastic,” Don goads.

    “We get along great, Don!” I say, trying to get Don on my side.  “We’re always laughing in the apartment.  We’d be great roommates, bro.  You and me, pursuing the dream as long as we can!  What do you say?”

    Upon reaching the apartment’s front door (nestled next to the garbage disposal), Don scans the halfway house above his head with the addicts smoking cigarettes on our potential stoop.

    “What do I say?” Don answers.  “I say a Benjamin an hour sounds pretty good.”

    As I fumble with the keys I can feel Don staring at the trashcans.

    “Aromatic,” I hear Don say.

    Entering the apartment, I realize the kitchen area could perhaps fit a table, or a small twin bed, which doesn’t bode well with the six foot four inch Don.  The main room, which I’d take because it costs a bit more, looks out onto (what else?) a brick wall and pipe drains.

    “Inspiring,” Don mutters.  “How much is the place?”

    “Seventeen hundred plus utilities,” I say, already knowing I’ve lost the place.

    “Thank you, Mr. Jakobson,” Don says.

    I stand dejected as Don enters the restroom.  I’m ready to grab a drink.  I can’t stomach the idea of leaving New York, but it appears I have no other choice.  I’m still homeless after two weeks.  It may be time to take Patti Smith’s advice and take the plunge to Detroit.  I heard stories of artists getting two-story lofts in the artistic hub of Detroit for six hundred and fifty dollars a month.  The Detroit prospect actually sounds pretty good. 

    Feeling my phone vibrate (indicating another email), I momentarily take my attention away from the dire situation.  I receive an email from a woman who owns a beauty salon in the East Village.  She tells me to come view an eleven hundred dollar unfurnished apartment on First Avenue and Seventh Street at four that afternoon.  Assuming I get the keys back to Jakobson at three forty five, I could meet her on time.

    “Toilet doesn’t work,” Don says innocently while heading for the door.

    “You used it?” I ask, fearing Don’s actions would strip any trust Mr. Jakobson may have in me.

    “I’m going to check out the appliances on a seventeen hundred dollar place, bud,” Don emphatically replies as he steps out the door.

    “What do you think?” I mutter, prepared for Don’s bomb letdown while I respond to the woman’s email. .

    “Detroit, huh?” Don suggests as I lock the door.

    “Looks that way,” I respond as we head back to Jakobson’s office.

    “If you were a painter,” Don says, “Then I could understand moving to Detroit.  But you’re an actor.  Actors need to be in New York or LA.”

    “Can’t find anything in New York,” I respond.  “And I don’t want to go back to LA.”

     “Hey, bud,” Don says.  “Look at the bright side.”

    “There is one?” I solemnly ask.

    “Silver’s up fifty cents,” Don contently responds.

    “Just sell your damn silver,” I irritably suggest, “and buy a condo.  I’ll move in with you and buy you lifetime Starbucks.”

    “Not a chance, bud,” Don continues.  “Silver’s at over twenty one dollars an ounce right now.  It’s going to go up to a hundred, bud.  I’m going to be a multi-millionaire.  Then I’ll buy a place.”

    “How long will that take?” I ask.

    “A few years,” Don responds, distinguishing any hope of him forking over a few hundred grand so we can share a place.  “But it’s going to happen, bud.  You watch.”

    Seeing the chance of living with Don eviscerate into thin air, I fall into a panic.  Two and a half weeks hustling through CraigsList, friends and Jacobson yielded no results.  Depressingly, I don’t expect the circumstances to improve.  Rooms are overpriced, crowded, and they require a major hike into my desired Manhattan location.  Patti Smith appeared correct: “New York has shut itself off from the young and struggling.”  Would I be shamefully thrust backwards to California?  Could an actor thrive in a place like Detroit?  I have a one-person show ready to go – I don’t need time in Detroit to write it!  I need time to get it off the ground in New York!  My dreams are falling through my fingers!  

    I am powerless.  Now, I really do feel that way. I wish I could tell Jim and he could witness my newfound sincerity.  Perhaps it could have been the difference in securing his extra room.

     

     

    “And the children shall march,

    And bring the colors forward,

    Investing within them,

    The redeeming blood of their revolutionary hearts.” 

     

    - Patti Smith Notes to the Future “Land” 2002

     

    Walking with Don back to Jakobson’s offices I resort to begging.  I decide it’s time to ‘bark’ – a common practice by stand-up comedians to lure patrons into the comedy club in exchange for stage time.  Instead of hoping to tell jokes on a stage, I’m hoping to rest my head in a simple apartment.

    Reduced to panhandling strangers, I dive into my desperate pitch.

    “Are you looking for a roommate?!” I desperately plead to passing professionals and NYU students alike.  “I’ve got fifteen hundred dollars for a room!!”

    Pedestrians do awkward double takes, unable to grasp the sight of a man in a collared dress shirt, designer jeans, and Italian boots literally begging for a place.

    “I’ve got nothing,” one hipster says with his girlfriend.  “Is it that bad out there?”

    “Worse,” I say, hoping a reality pounding will garner at least a room recommendation.  “This is homeless in New York!  A guy begging for a room with fifteen hundred bucks in his pocket!”

    While barking I run into a high school friend from California named Christopher, who is in his senior year at NYU majoring in film.

    “Dude,” says a surprised Christopher.  “Are you that desperate for a place?”

    “You have no clue,” I respond.

    “My place is full, man,” he says.  “But why don’t you crash on our couch for a week?  We’ll have a great time!”

    “I may take you up on that,” I respond without a hint of enthusiasm.

    Normally, in my situation, I’d jump at the opportunity to stay for an extra week on someone’s couch, but I used smoke marijuana and drink heavily with Christopher.  Staying in an apartment with four NYU seniors on a mission to get high and drunk every night would not be good for my sobriety.  I’m lukewarm to the idea, at best, but understand that at this point I may have to take him up on his gracious offer.

    “There,” Don says.  “You got a place for a week – you’re set.”

    “I need a permanent place,” I remind Don as I continue to furiously bark at pedestrians.

    “You want it, bud,” Don says with a smile.  “Now you’re really willing to do anything.”

    “Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?” I ask incredulously.

    “I’d call the devil,” Don says shaking his head.  “Call dad or sell off my silver before resorting to what you’re doing.”

    “That’s the difference between you and me,” I say, finding sadistic pleasure in my predicament.  “I’m not a slave to the money.”

    After barking to no less than two hundred people in ten minutes, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket.   Jake’s sent me an email regarding the Montrose Brooklyn apartment.  Hopeful, I read the following:

    “Hey man – nice meeting you at the store.  We decided to go with the IT guy.  We like the nine to five situation.  I know you’re in a pinch, and I’m sorry.  If I hear of something, I’ll let you know. – Jake.”

    “This is incredible,” I say in a controlled rage as we return to Jakobson’s offices.

    “Don’t give up, bud,” Don says as he continues walking.  “Tonight’s you’re last night in the place!  Dinner on you!”

    “Yeah,” I mumble.  “Get you a damn surf n’ turf.  Whatever you want.”

    Upon my return of the keys, I’m buzzed back into Jakobson’s offices and I approach Mr. Jakobson.

    “What did you think, Richard?” Mr. Jakobson asks, thumbing the freshly printed potential lease on his desk.

    “Not quite what we’re looking for, Mr. Jakobson,” I respond, disappointed.

    “Will you consider your old place?” Mr. Jackbson innocently inquires.

    “The seventeen hundred dollar 5L?” I ask.

    “It’s twenty one hundred now,” Mr. Jakobson flatly replies.

    “It’s out of my price range, sir,” I respond.

    “I understand,” Mr. Jakobson says.  “Know that I trust you and we’ll be here at any time if you need us.”

    “Thank you, sir,” I respond as I head out of the offices.

    With ten minutes to get to the East Village apartment, I realize that even at eleven hundred dollars (unfurnished), the room is out of my price range.  It seems every place has an issue: it’s overpriced, too small, one bathroom for five people, six floor walkup, shared rooms with strangers, no steady job which puts me out of the running, I don’t jive with certain roommates upon meeting them.  It’s always something.

    Watching NYU students laugh as they meandered between classes makes me sick to my stomach.  I was in their shoes not three years ago; hopeful for the future, enjoying the moment, falsely believing New York was my oyster.  It was all a lie.

    I wanted a drink - really bad.  I had my mind made up to hit the bar if Jakobson, my last option, fell through.  This final East Village viewing (a certain disaster) put the drinking plan on hold for an uneasy hour before sundown.  I hadn’t had a drink in three and a half months, yet I could already feel the whiskey tears stinging my olfactory nerves.  I couldn’t go back to Santa Monica and tell everyone I couldn’t make it in New York.  I couldn’t explain my intense personal reasons for abstaining from taking my parents money.  Detroit, Santa Monica, wherever I would land, I realized it would lead to hard using.  And I was fine with that.  Using would help me cope with the disappointment of New York.  I came to the city with a project in my hand, a one man show that took me nearly a year and a half to write, and I wanted to get it off the ground. The thinking wasn’t, “go to Detroit, write a play, and fly back when it’s finished.” It is finished!  The time to be in Manhattan is now, yet for whatever reason it doesn’t appear to be the right time. 

    With no apartment on the horizon, I decide to splurge and enjoy a cigarette to ease my anxiety.  A few blocks from the prospective apartment I head into a Duane Reade and pick up a thirteen-dollar pack of Marlboro 27’s and some chewing gum.  The exorbitant cost for a single pack of cigarettes reinforces the plan that I need to stop smoking to afford Manhattan.  With only few minutes to four, I open the pack of smokes, draw one into my mouth, ignite my lighter, light the cigarette, deeply inhale the smoke, and blow out any notion that I will be living in Manhattan.

    Chewing a piece of wintergreen gum in an attempt to hide the reek of the cigarette (and my desperation), I ring the apartment’s buzzer.

    After being buzzed in and hiking the three-floor walkup, a beautiful young Polish woman named Masha answers the door.

    “Thank you for coming,” she starts, beaming with a smile. 

    “Thanks,” I say, exhausted.

    “It’s absolute madness with CraigsList,” Masha continues. 

    “Tell me about it,” I respond as I touch the colorful wallpaper.

    “Hundreds of emails,” Masha continues.  “I can’t take it!  This is my first chance to show the room.  I posted it two days ago but I’ve been so busy with work.”

    “I’m the first person to see the room?” I ask, surprised.  

    “Actually, I showed it to two girls yesterday,” she continues as she brings me down the wonderfully decorated hallway.  “But it was raining and I had the windows open.  And a water bug flew into the apartment and landed on her foot!”

    “A water bug?” I ask, disgusted and nervous of bedbugs.

    “Those large bugs, you know,” she said motioning with her fingers.  “They fly around?  Just flew right in and landed on her toe and she screams, ‘Oh my gosh!  There’s bugs!’  Her and her friend freaked out and left.  Can you believe it?  There’s never bugs in this apartment!” 

    I walk into a small, unfurnished room overlooking (what else?) a brick wall and drainage pipes.  But it’s clean, and the place has a fresh fragrance, so I attempt to bargain.

    “Is eleven hundred the best you can do?” I inquire.

    “Well, I’ve got another room up front,” Masha says, attempting to accommodate me.  “It’s a bit smaller, but it’s $750.”

    I get lightheaded.  Seven fifty?  Am I in a time warp to 1980?

    “Let’s see that,” I say wide-eyed.

    She brings me into a gloriously well-lit room with a window overlooking Seventh Street.  A desk, twin bed, and tasteful interior design make the situation too good to be true.

    “Look at all these emails,” she says looking into her computer as I check the mattress for bedbugs.  “Hundreds of people.  I have someone coming at four thirty. I just want this over with.”

    “I’ll take it,” I say, flopping on the bed out of exhaustion after being satisfied at the absence of bedbugs.

    “Thank goodness!” Masha responds, miraculously seeming even more relived than I am.

    We head into the kitchen to finalize the deal.  Masha requests an up front certified bank check for one month’s rent plus a security deposit for a total of fifteen hundred dollars. She also tells me to replace the lock on my door to make certain there are no issues with the other roommates.

    “Just to be safe,” she says.

    She informs me she is moving out of the apartment.  My roommates will be her Polish mother and the mother’s boyfriend.  The mother owns the apartment and is renting out the two extra rooms.

    As Masha goes over additional details, I notice a crucifix on top of the kitchen mirror and smile.

    “Are you OK with that?” she asks, hoping I’m not offended as I hand her the check.

    “Yeah,” I admit.  “I went to a Catholic high school.”

    “You’re not superstitious, are you?” she playfully asks as she hands me the house keys.

    “It’ll bring good karma,” I respond, holding my gaze on the cross.

    Just like that, I had my affordable room.

    Indeed.  I am powerless.   

     

     

    Epilogue

    “Fate unwinds and if we die,

    Souls arise.

    God, do not seize me please, till victory.

    Victory.  Till victory.”

     

    - Patti Smith Till Victory “Easter” (1978)

     

    It was only a matter of time before I found a way to sabotage myself. 

    My luck got even better before my unfortunate incident, which I will mention later.

    That same day, after finalizing the deal for my room, I decided to test my luck and search for a job.  Though I could easily support myself for three months off my hotel savings, I would eventually need a job.  I figured the sooner I found one, the better.

    Like the hot hand of a poker player, I went to a French Café on the corner of my block to inquire about employment.

    “I’m new to the area,” I say to the owner, Ahmed.  “I managed a hotel in Santa Monica for the past six months.  I’m looking for a job.”

    Ahmed looks me over and says, “Can you start tonight?”

    “Absolutely!” I exclaim, shocked at my amazing luck (barista positions are one of the hardest to secure in Manhattan.)

    “Do you know how to make lattes?” Ahmed asks.

    “Or course,” I lie.  “I’ve worked in a coffee shop before,” withholding that my position was as a bus boy.

    “Come back in two hours and stay until we close,” he says.  “Get a feel for the place and let’s make sure we like each other.”

    “Thank you,” I tell Ahmed.  “I’ll work hard for you.”

    “I like your attitude, it radiates off you,” Ahmed tells me.  “It’s what I’m looking for.  Plus, I had an employee steal from me today.  So, I have an opening.”

    Hoping to out-Stanislavski the system, I head to the popular Think Coffee on the Bowery hoping to learn how to make latte art in under an hour.

    “I’m shooting a scene for an indie-feature,” I tell the barista working the espresso machine.  “And I need to make coffee during the scene.  I have no clue how to make lattes.  Could you show me?” 

    “Of course, dude,” the barista hipster said.  “I’m glad you care about the scene that much.  If you had no clue how to make coffee it would totally stick out on film.”

    I watch the barista for the next two hours and get the basic gist of the latte process: grind the espresso beans, pound them in tight to the holster, tightly insert into the machine, drip a double shot, pour a half cup of milk, steam it with a little foam, pour the espresso, add the hot milk, and make a latte-art flower (which I’m still working on!)

    I arrive two hours later at the French café and work a three-hour training session.  I have no noticeable slip-ups, and Ahmed tells me how he likes my positive interaction with the customers.

    “Come back on Sunday,” Ahmed tells me.  “That’ll be your first officially paid day.  Look forward to having you on.”

    Figuring it would be even harder to land a job than it was a room, I’m amazed at my luck.  I phone Don with the news.

    “Don, I got a place!” I exclaim.

    “There you go bud!” Don says.  “I told you it’d work out for you.  How much are you paying?”

    “Seven fifty, it’s a private room, fully furnished!” I say unable to contain my excitement.

    “You hit pay dirt!” Don says.

    “And you won’t believe it,” I say, trying to hype up Don’s interest.  “But I also landed a job!”

    “Bud, you’re hot!” Don responds.

    “We got to go to Atlantic City and put all your silver on red!” I joke.

    “Yes!” Don enthusiastically responds.

    “Thanks again for letting me stay at your place while I figured everything out,” I said.

    “No problem, bud,” Don says.  “Good things happen to good people.  You’re getting everything you wanted: an affordable room and a part time job.”

    “You’re right,” I respond.

    “Now,” Don continues, “You need to attack your art.  It’s not going to be easy, but you can do it.”

    “Let me buy you dinner tomorrow night,” I recommend.  “ As a thanks.”

    “I’m not passing that up, bud!” Don exclaims.

    “Oh, and Don?” I say.

    “Yeah?” Don answers.

    “Take good care of that air mattress, will ya?” I playfully joke.

    I wrap my conversation with Don just before ten p.m. and I head to K-Mart to purchase the lock as Masha requested.

    This is where the self-sabotage occurs.

    Arriving back at the apartment with the lock, I began the installation with the arrogant assurance I don’t need help.  I hope to have the lock finished before the mother and boyfriend return from the Polish deli they own (where they work as many as sixteen hours per day.)  I have trouble fitting the new lock to the doorframe, so I take the new door handle (equipped with keys) and fasten it with the old middle latch.  With the screws tightly installed, I check the handle to make sure the bolt opens and closes.  The lock doesn’t open smoothly, but it does if I ‘just jig it a certain way.’ I step inside the hallway (confident the lock will work) and shut the door.  Upon turning the handle, nothing happens.  I try the keys.  Nothing.  The door is stuck.  I’m locked out of the room without my keys, phone or even my shoes.  It’s ten thirty on my first night in the apartment and the mother and boyfriend still haven’t arrived.  I panic.  This is not the first impression I want with these hard working people who gave me such a great room.  Their arrival is imminent! 

    I knock on a neighbor’s door.

    “This is really embarrassing,” I begin.  “But I just moved into my room next door and I’m locked out.  Do you have a fire escape I could perhaps crawl through to get in my window?”

    “Our front side doesn’t have a fire escape, bro,” he replies stone-faced.  “Try the super downstairs.”

    I head down to the super’s quarters and hear his television blaring through the walls.  My hard knocking goes unanswered. 

    Frustrated and in a panic I head back up to the apartment and call a locksmith.  The company informs me it’s going to cost nineteen dollars for a quote and then they’d bill me for the work on the doorframe, which they’d have to dismantle to get inside.

    As I’m on the phone with the locksmith I hear keys slipping into the door.  The mother has arrived.

    “I’ll have to call you back!” I say and hang up.

    The mother, Agnes, and boyfriend, Frank, greet me with wide smiles.  We exchange obligatory introductions and then I drop the embarrassing bomb.

    “I don’t know how to say this,” I begin.  “But I’m locked out of my room.”

    “How did that happen?” Frank grunts.

    “Your daughter told me to get a new lock,” I stutter.  “I wanted to install it as soon as possible, as she asked.  I thought the handle worked, but it’s stuck.”

    “We’ll fix it,” Frank said confidently through a thick Polish accent.

    Frank pulls out his credit card and tries to jimmy the lock.  Unsuccessful, he brings out a kitchen knife, slicing it through the handle.  After five unsuccessful minutes, Frank starts ripping apart the doorframe.

    “You want me to call a locksmith?” I ask in hopes of ending the massacre.

    “No,” Frank bristles.  “They’re going to cost you a lot of money.  Three, four hundred dollars.”

    It takes Frank twenty minutes to rip apart the doorway to shove our way through the door.  Wood debris lines the floor.  Due to my actions, I feel ashamed, arrogant and thoroughly embarrassed in front of my new roommates.

    “Don’t worry about it,” Frank says as he helps me properly install the new door handle.  “These things happen.  Can’t call a locksmith.  They’re robbers.  Ask for help, and we get this done together.”

    Five minutes later, we manage to install the handle properly.

    Frank brings me into the kitchen where Agnes awaits still beaming with her radiant smile. 

    “You’re family now,” Frank assures me as he pulls out his pack of Marlboro Reds.  “I’ll fix the door frame tomorrow.  No problem.  Have a cigarette.”

    We share a smoke, allowing my nerves to calm.

    “You know your problem with that door, right?” Frank asks.

    “I didn’t ask for help?” I guess.

    “You tested the lock on the outside of the door!” Frank says, using his finger to drive home the point.  “You test it from the inside you don’t lock yourself out.  Inside you can unscrew the handle!” Frank holds his look on me, making me a bit uneasy from my lack of common sense.  Then he bursts into a laugh and, after a moment, I join him.

    “I was just like you when I was sixteen,” Frank says as he takes a long drag on his cigarette.  “I was in Poland and I had to get away from my parents.  They gave me anything and everything I wanted.  And I said, ‘No more!  It is time to be my own man!’  My mother cried and cried, begging me to stay, while my father didn’t say anything.  You know why?  Because he knew.  He knew.  The desire for a man to be independent is just as strong as a woman who wants to start a family.  I had to do it.  Instinctively, I had no choice.  I moved to New York and found a small room – just like the one you have, you remind me of me in a way – and I was free.  I was my own man.  And I was the happiest man in the world.”

    As Agnes went to her bedroom, Frank and I continued to speak for two hours over midnight cigarettes; this time instead of in Santa Monica it was the East Village.  Where I wanted to be all along.  My doorframe lay battered and unmentioned in the corner as Frank shared stories of his youth, his lovers, and his dreams.  I didn’t get one word in edgewise, but I didn’t mind, as I was content to merely listen and relax in a warm home. 

    When Frank joined Agnes around two in the morning, I was left in the gently dimmed kitchen listening to the faint cries of midnight taxis.  I lit another cigarette to celebrate my wildly successful and lucky day.  As I took a long drag, I thought of my situation over the past three weeks – sitting in Santa Monica, desiring to be a struggling artist, no longer wanting my parents money, the odyssey of CraigsList, the disappointment, the letdowns, maintaining my sobriety – and I found it all to be worth it.

    I had found my room, I had found my job, and I could develop my art.  I had found happiness.

    I was home.

     

    - Richard A. Butler, 10/10/10

     

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