When I finally got my own apartment, no roommates, I was about to turn 30. My neighborhood was rapidly gentrifying and it seemed impossible that I would find anything I could afford, and I walked dejectedly in the rain to a number of real estate agents who confirmed my suspicions. I went to one by McGolrick Park and after talking to me for a bit the owner smiled and said, I think it’s your lucky day. He pulled out the paper work for an apt. that was asking $1500 but had found no one in months who was suitable. We drove over in his beamer, even though it was half a block away. He knocked it down to $1100.
156 Monitor Street was more apartment than I had even thought to dream of in New York City, facing a huge European style park. It had recently been vacated by a ninety year old woman who had lived there for thirty years. You could see the dents in the carpet from her bed and dresser. It was the entire second floor and there were six rooms and four closets.
I worked hard on the place, remembering with sadness the unfinished house my mother lived in when she died and focusing on seeing what needed to be done
- I pulled up all the linoleum and carpet and painted the floors
- I peeled the contact paper off the kitchen paneling and painted it a bright white.
- I painted one wall in the kitchen bright cheerful red.
- I bought a fridge, small and black that was perfect for one girl eating locally.
- I painted the kitchen floor clean white.
- I carted the scary old A/C down to the curb and called the city to pick it up
- The living room was painted a periwinkle blue that glowed, and the wood paneling on the covered fireplace was painted white. The floor was painted a dusky blue.
- more paneling and the dark closets were painted white in the windowless middle room.
- For months I scraped the glue from under the bedroom carpet, with a two inch scraper blade to reveal the floor beneath.
- That room I painted a pale pale pink.
- all by myself.
I loved the apartment, the first one I ever had by myself. I planted flowers out front. I befriended the only other tenant of the building who was in her eighties and had a small dog like the one I got shortly after I moved in. I would grill on the stoop, or just sit there and watch the park, which was like my yard but full of life and excitement. When my downstairs neighbor’s son came in drunk and swearing, I heard every word and lay heart racing in my bed. When the Polish families had their Sunday evening picnics, the sound of the accordion would come through the open windows.
I learned to cook for real in the little bright galley kitchen and I had my first real grownup dinner parties there. I began to learn my own mind. I trained my dog there, as well as I could. There were neighbors stopping by.
There were many problems with the place, the mice, the toxic oil spill underneath, and a general haunted feeling. It was two blocks from a bar where someone I loved was drinking himself into a stupor every night, and I could feel his ghost moving miserably around the neighborhood.
I know that what I got out of it was what I put in- it was a vessel that had appeared at the exact time I needed it. It felt like a miracle to the hungry ghost inside me, and to the envious eyes of my friends. But by letting it go, like a hermit crab, there’s the possibility of the next vessel. I chose to accept losing the apartment when I left the city.
I hope that the new tenants find it to be a place of happiness, peace, rest and friendship.
