Читать книгу We’ve Always Got New York - Jill Knapp - Страница 12

I slept throughout the night. Hard. A solid eight hours had never felt so good. Bright and early the next morning, I began my quest for the perfect apartment. There was no possible way I could move back in with my parents and survive the school year. Or just survive in general. Being twenty-three and living with your parents isn’t something I’d wish on anyone, especially not in New York.

Like anyone shopping around for a new place to call home, I had a few requirements. To begin with, I preferably wanted a one-bedroom. I’d settle for a studio if it was all I could afford, but the one thing I did not want anymore was roommates. Overall, Christina was fine. She was respectful and quiet. Liz, on the other hand, was a terrible roommate. Completely inconsiderate and rude. I felt like it was time to try living on my own. I craved the privacy.

The next requirement was that it be close to school. Anything higher than 40^th Street, and I’d have to rush to get to class on time every day. Unfortunately my school was located in Washington Square Park, which was anything but affordable, so living in that neighborhood wasn’t an option. And finally, and most importantly, I would not even consider living in any other borough. That meant no Astoria, no Bushwick, and definitely no Long Island City. And don’t even think about uttering the words Hoboken, New Jersey, to me. I told Olivia all of these requirements over breakfast in her apartment this morning, to which she scratched her head, pursed her lips, and said, “Good luck with that.”

With Olivia’s help, I had three viewings lined up this afternoon. Originally it was four, but when the words “up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn” fell out of her mouth, I quickly emailed the real-estate agent to put the kibosh on it. One apartment I was viewing was a studio close to school in the West Village, another was a one-bedroom in Murray Hill, and the third was a studio that was somehow ”converted” into a one-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen. The last one in Hell’s Kitchen was far from school, but I conceded to a viewing just to make Olivia happy.

After a quick caffeine-fix at Bourbon Coffee on 6^th Avenue, we made our way up to 7^th Avenue and then walked a few blocks down to check out the first apartment in the Village.

“315,” I said, squinting up at the address on the top of the building. “This is it.”

It was one of those last truly warm days of summer. In about two weeks, fall would kick in and the city would go back to normal. Gray, windy, and cold. Today, the sun was glaring down on me, reminding me of the strong rays I felt in Brazil.

“How’s Aaron doing?” Olivia asked quickly, as if she forgot my brother existed. Aaron and I had gotten much closer last year when his girlfriend broke up with him. He spent some time sleeping on my couch and bonding with my friends. Even though he was a few years younger than me, he was mature enough to hold his own in Manhattan any day of the week.

“He’s good,” I replied. “Busy with school.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Aren’t we all?”

“I miss him, though. Hopefully he comes for a visit soon.”

“What about Cassandra?” Olivia asked, holding the door open for me. “Have you spoken to her?”

The bleak, gray apartment building wasn’t very tall, maybe about five or six storeys high. I could see as soon as we entered that it was a walk-up.

“Not since I called her to let her know I was staying with you,” I said, climbing up the first set of stairs. Each step made a loud, echoing sound throughout the empty stairwell. “And by called her, I mean rambled to her voicemail because she didn’t answer the phone. She hasn’t actually called me back, either.”

“When was this?” Olivia asked, holding onto the banister with each step.

“Last night,” I answered. “You had already fallen asleep.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t called you back yet,” she grimaced as we made our way up the second flight of stairs. “She’s still your best friend.”

“Believe me, no one’s more surprised than I am,” I puffed. I took a deep breath and held it in for a second. I stopped short and grabbed the metal railing for balance. “Okay, no more talking until we get to the fourth floor.”

Olivia let out a long breath and nodded in agreement. A short eternity later, and one quick realization of just how out of shape I was, we made it to apartment number 427 and knocked on the door. A short, dark-haired guy answered. He was wearing a checkered button-down with the sleeves rolled up, tight jeans, and a pair of Converse sneakers. He rubbed his blood-shot eyes, and reached toward a small table by the front door of his apartment, retrieving a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. He looked like someone who was rejected from the line at the Limelight back in 1989.

“Hey,” was all he managed to spit out. He peeked his head out past the threshold and darted his eyes around the poorly lit hallway.

I turned to Olivia and raised my eyebrows, but she remained cool and composed.

“Hi, I’m Olivia Davis,” she said, politely extending her right hand and gave the guy a warm smile.

The guy turned his attention back to us, but stared at her blankly.

“We spoke on the phone about renting the apartment,” she continued, sounding a little more annoyed.

“Oh right!” he said, suddenly coming to life. “I’m Eddie, uh, come on in.”

We walked into the dim apartment and were immediately hit with thick, blanketed air. I turned to Olivia and made a fanning motion with my hand in front of my nose.

“Did we interrupt something?” I asked, my eyes darting to a half-smoked joint burning in the ashtray.

“Oh shit,” he sprung over to the coffee table. “I must have forgotten to put that out. I’m sorry, I thought you were coming over at 4 o’clock.”

“It is 4 o’clock,” Olivia answered softly.

There was a brief moment of silence. Eddie laughed nervously and walked over to the window, struggling with it until it opened. It made a shrill sound as it slid up, and Olivia and I both winced. I made eye contact with Olivia, who was now shaking her head. The apartment was very small, about the size of my childhood bedroom. The floors looked like fake hardwood and were actually starting to peel up in some corners. The walls were painted gray, but had more than a few white spackle marks covering some decent-sized holes. The fake granite-looking counter top had a red stain on it, which appeared to be permanent, and the refrigerator had a moderately sized dent in the middle. There was no couch, just an old futon, which appeared to function as both a sitting and bedroom area. The only thing missing was a swinging bare light bulb and a rotting corpse in the corner.

“Do you know how much the landlord wants for this apartment?” I mumbled in a near whisper, silently wishing we were in the wrong building.

“Um, actually the payment won’t be going through the landlord,” Eddie said, brushing some moldy potato-chip crumbs off the brown futon. “I’d be handling it on my end.”

“What do you mean?” Olivia asked, suspicion in her voice. “Why would you be handling the payment instead of the landlord?”

“Well, I’m not moving out for good,” he took a seat on the futon. I scrunched my face as I wondered how anyone could sit on something so foul. “I’m going to be subletting the apartment. You know, while I’m on the road with my band.”

“Okay, then. Does your landlord know about this?” I asked, “And how much would you be charging?”

“The rent’s $2,000 a month,” he said nonchalantly, as if he was rattling off the price of a cup of coffee.

“Right,” I nodded, waiting for Olivia to smile. I let out a low, breathy laugh and repeated him. “2,000 dollars a month.”

I looked at this guy, expecting him to burst out laughing and tell me it was a joke.

“Also, the landlord doesn’t technically know I’d be subletting it to you,” he continued. “So you’d have to be really quiet and stuff. Like, you definitely couldn’t have a dog.”

I put both of my hands in the air and shook my head.

“You’re not kidding about the price?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

Eddie just shook his head and twisted his face into a look of pity. I was getting pity from the guy who lived here.

“Okay wait a minute, let me get this straight,” I moved a little closer to him, stepping over a pile of comic books. “You want me to pay $2,000 dollars a month, to illegally sublet your 300-square-foot, potato-chip-encrusted stoner pad?”

“Yeah,” he said in a flat tone. “This is New York. That’s what apartments go for.”

I turned to Olivia, who had already slid into the hallway. I kept up my right hand to the guy, who was now silently judging me.

“No thank you, Eddie,” I said, backing away toward the door. “I’d rather live in Weehawken.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, closing the door behind us. As soon as I heard the lock turn, loud music started playing from his apartment. I could feel the hallway floor vibrating from the base. This was not a safe building.

I let out a loud grunt and dramatically pointed toward the staircase. Olivia gave me a shy smile and patted me on the back.

“Lucky number 2?” she said, her face turning red from holding back laughter.

I just glared at her and shook my head. I was unable to speak, too stunned by the experience.

“Come on, Amalia, say something!” she threw her arms in the air, but quickly lost her balance and reached back for the bannister.

“Ugh, this is New York,” I mocked, in a deep pseudo-masculine voice. “That’s what things cost.”

“I know, he’s ridiculous!” she said. “That’s about what I pay for my apartment in Brooklyn, and mine’s almost twice the size of that!”

“That apartment smelled like old Chinese food and blood,” I declared, making my way down the first flight of stairs.

“Don’t forget weed,” Olivia added.

“Ugh! I couldn’t if I tried,” I cringed. “I feel physically dirty after being in that place. Also, I definitely need a drink.”

Olivia let out a laugh and sighed. Her brown hair bounced as we made our way down the stairs.

“When I was first-apartment hunting, I almost moved into this place up on East 103^rd street that I swear had a meth lab in it. So it could be worse!” she said, carefully descending the staircase. “Besides, you can’t really smell blood. It doesn’t have a smell.”

“I can smell it,” I said, emphatically. “And someone was definitely murdered in that building.” I pointed back up the stairs.

“You’re a liar,” she laughed, as we reached the bottom level of the building. “You can’t smell it.”

“There are two types of people in this world, Olivia,” I started, as I held the door to the outside world open for her. The light flooded over us as we made our way outside, and I suddenly felt grateful for the sun. “Those who can smell blood and those who can’t.”