Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  i’m going to be homeless

  It’s only been one day and two apartment showings, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be homeless. I’ll be living in a cardboard box here on the side of Grove Street and praying every Tuesday and Friday that the garbagemen don’t throw me into the back of the truck, or I’ll have three roommates in a two-bedroom apartment above a dim sum restaurant in Queens and hoping they offer a resident’s discount. Yeah, turns out that the city that never sleeps is also the city that ain’t cheap.

  It’s not like I wasn’t prepared for the astronomical costs this move would involve. Before recklessly buying my one-way ticket, I did actually do some research. I talked to every person I knew who had ever lived in the city, sifted through Craigslist and an app called “Street Easy,” and even dove into some online forums. The summation of all these outlets made it clear that when it comes to living in New York, the most important thing is location, location, and did I mention location. Evidently, I want to be in a safe neighborhood, preferably one with tree-lined streets that has access to a good train line and hip restaurants. The precise neighborhood I want to live in depends on what type of person I am and how much money I’m willing to shell out. In essence, finding the right neighborhood in New York City requires a Myers-Briggs test and a thorough credit check.

  There’s the borough of Brooklyn, which isn’t technically in “the city,” at least not in the opinion of an out-of-towner like myself. According to Brooklyners, including two of my cousins, it’s very “up and coming,” offers more bang for your buck in regard to square footage, and boasts incredible views of the Manhattan skyline. While I could use as much space as possible, I have to be honest, spoiled, and an utter brat for a moment and admit that if I’m moving to New York City, I’m not moving to Brooklyn. I wouldn’t be able to bear looking out my window and seeing the glorious sight of downtown Manhattan, all the while wondering why the hell I didn’t move there. Not yet, at least.

  With Brooklyn out, then the question became “what kind of Manhattan girl shall I be? ” Within Manhattan are three main geographical regions: uptown, midtown, and downtown. They have different zip codes and different vibes. Uptown is home to Central Park and families. It’s quieter and more spacious, and the easy access to the park makes up for the nonexistent plots of land known to everyone not from New York as “backyards.” It was clear to me even before my feet touched the New York concrete that I was not going to be an uptown girl, because I don’t have the required accessory to live there: a child. Not only do I not have a child, but with no man in sight, I’m at least nine months away from that. And I can’t spend nine months having everyone looking at me and scowling as they think to themselves, What a waste of real estate. Plus, there are probably rules about grown adults being at playgrounds. I can just see it now, there I am sitting alone on a bench eating a slice of pizza as I depressingly watch the cute kids play, when suddenly a suspicious mother with a stroller passes me and points to a sign that reads, NO ADULTS UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY A CHILD. Yeah, no thanks.

  South of uptown is midtown, home to the infamous and buzzing Times Square and a few other neighborhoods like Gramercy Park and Murray Hill. Apparently, there’s not much to do in these areas except go to work or be a tourist. Thus, I can’t be a midtown girl, because, a) I don’t have a job yet and b) I don’t even know if that type of girl exists. I’ve never heard a song with the phrase “midtown girl” in it.

  Then there’s downtown, home to a plethora of different neighborhoods. There’s Chelsea, where the fabulous gays live, and the West Village, where the fabulous Sarah Jessica Parker and the not-so-fabulous I currently live, or rent—tomayto, tomahto. There’s also Tribeca, home to uber-wealthy families who own uber-expensive strollers. Supposedly Beyoncé and Jay Z live in Tribeca, which means no way in hell can I afford to live there. At the most southern tip of Manhattan is the Financial District, which is buzzing with hot, rich bankers by day and, from what I hear, buzzing with absolutely nothing by night. Though this area offers high-rise buildings with amenities at lower costs, the fact that the hot hedge-funders hightail it out of there by five o’clock means a single woman like myself has no use for that part of town come sundown.

  Also downtown are a few scattered neighborhoods along the East Side like the Lower East Side, where many recent grads live—meaning I’m too old to live there—as well as the East Village, which is apparently “grungy but hip.” Though I don’t know exactly what that entails, I do know that “grungy” is not a word I or anyone who has ever met me would use to describe me. Somewhere in between those two neighborhoods lie Nolita and Soho. A decent number of humans reside here as does every clothing store you could imagine, making this a potentially lethal neighborhood for me.

  With all of this research, I’d narrowed my search down to a select few neighborhoods: Chelsea, West Village, Nolita, and possibly a quiet part of Soho. I’d made a list of a dozen or so available apartments that I’d seen on various websites and was able to schedule showings along with some open houses.

  And so, just like that, one morning I found myself off to Chelsea for my very first apartment showing. I followed my phone’s GPS to find the bricked-over brownstone nestled between two other brownstones on a long residential street. As I wait on the small stoop, I notice the quiet and serene similarities this block has to the West Village. A few minutes pass before a slender blond woman arrives, wearing a black peacoat lined with an ostentatious fur hood that gives my trapper hat a run for its money in the department of fashion faux pas. “Hello, are you here for ze apart-a-ment showing? ” she asks in a thick almost seductive-like Russian accent.

  “Yes, hi!” I reach out to shake her hand, but her back is already turned toward me and she’s unlocking the front door. All righty, then. I awkwardly tuck my lonely cold hand back into my pocket.

  She ushers me through a hallway and up a staircase. By the second flight, I’m panting, wondering where the hell the elevator is until finally, we arrive at a brown door marked 3F. The paint is peeling off it. Not a good sign. Nevertheless, I decide to be open-minded and not judge a book by its cover—or in this case, an apartment by its door. The agent unlocks the door, and it swings open, narrowly missing the edge of the kitchen counter. It takes but two seconds to realize that when people say apartments in New York City are tiny, they aren’t exaggerating. I’ve never seen something so small cost so much. The low ceilings and lack of windows certainly don’t help. I can’t imagine how much worse it will be once furnished. I’m waiting for there to be a secret door that leads to a palatial master bedroom, but instead there’s just a kitchen with a half-fridge, a burner, and an empty hole for a microwave all nestled between brown rotting wooden cabinets that haven’t met a can of paint in their lifetime. The kitchen leads into the only other room, which functions as “both living and sleeping quarters,” as the agent puts it. There’s no possible way both a bed and a couch can fit in this room, let alone a dresser, nightstand, television, dining-room set, and all the other shit that’s currently collecting dust in my storage locker back in Atlanta.

  “Vhat do you think? ” I think my American Girl dolls had more space in the miniature dollhouse my dad built me for my seventh birthday. But her accent paired with a peculiar sultry look in her eyes has a way of enticing me to even consider living in this shoebox. She’s good but not good enough.

  “I’ll think about it,” I lie. There’s no way in hell I’m taking this place. Not only could I never live in such small quarters, but I could never stomach spending so many quarters doing so.

  “Vhy think? Vhat don’t you like about it? ”

  She’s angry. Oh, God, I’ve made the Russian angry. I timidly tell her it’s a little smaller than I’m looking for.

  “Oh, you vant bigger. I have a two-bedroom just down the street from here.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s much more of what I’m looking for!”

  “It’s Sven a month.”

  “Sven? ”
>
  “Yes, sven thousand. A month. For the rent.”

  “Seven thousand? ”

  She nods. The repulsed look on my face is enough for her to know there is no way in hell I can afford seven grand a month. Before I can even reply, she is leading me back down the same three flights of stairs we just trekked up. Within seconds, she and her fur-lined peacoat are gone.

  Standing alone on the stoop, in the cold, I feel less enthused and more poor than ever. Seven fucking grand a month! Where the fuck am I? Do these people have any idea what someone could get for seven grand a month back in Atlanta? Well, first off, they’d get a mortgage with that, but for seven grand, they could also get a sprawling mansion on a golf course, in a gated community, near great schools, that comes with a maid, a butler, a private chef, and a pool with a hot cabana boy. Seven fucking grand!

  With thirty minutes until my next appointment, I decide to mosey around Chelsea until I find a coffee shop. I am just about to order my usual grande skinny vanilla latte when the words “seven fucking grand” flash through my mind. “I’ll just take a small coffee, please.”

  Finally, it’s time to make my way to the second apartment, which is in Nolita. It’s another walk-up, but the street is not nearly as quiet or as charming as the one in Chelsea. Then again, who cares about charm if you’re living in a coffin?

  Waiting for me outside on the stoop is a middle-aged man wearing a black peacoat (of course). He reaches out his hand. “You must be Andi? ”

  “Yes, hi!” I shake his hand.

  “George. Nice to meet you. Come on in.”

  He unlocks the entry door, and we make our way through a narrow hallway and up the stairs. Elevators must not be a thing in this city. Luckily, it’s only two flights before we reach a black door, which is already unlocked. George opens it to reveal a small mudroom, and I instantly feel more optimistic. Unlike the last apartment, this one has an actual bedroom, with a door. Though I don’t think it will fit a queen bed. The hardwood floors smell new, as does the coat of white paint on the walls. All seems to be going well until we reach the kitchen, where all my hopes and dreams go up in smoke. There in the middle of the kitchen isn’t an island, a table, or a cute seating area. No, no. There in the middle of the kitchen sits . . . a bathtub.

  Perplexed, I ask George when this will be installed in the bathroom.

  “Bathroom? Technically, there isn’t one. This is what we call bathing and cooking quarters.”

  “Excuse me? ”

  “It’s not uncommon.”

  “Ummmm, so where’s the bathroom sink? ”

  He points to the kitchen sink.

  “That’s a kitchen sink.”

  “And in this case a bathroom sink as well.”

  “What about the toilet? ”

  “Yes, right here.” He slides open a pocket door, revealing one lonely little toilet.

  He asks me what I think of the place, and I tell him I’m not sure but that I’ll give it some thought. Of course this is a lie, but I don’t have the guts to tell sweet George that he’s got to be fucking kidding me with a bathtub in a kitchen.

  “Fair enough, but I will need to know by the end of the day, because I’ve got another person coming to see this place later this afternoon, and it will probably get scooped up any day now.”

  Ummmm, okay, sure, let me know how that goes, George.

  I exit the apartment, leaving George standing in the kitchen slash bathroom, and sprint down the stairs.

  Two massively failed viewings have me heading back to the West Village feeling sullen and defeated. The rational adult part of me knows that it’s only my first day of apartment hunting and there are plenty more apartments to see, but the emotional single woman in me is turning to the only two things that will soothe my pain: a glass of wine and a bubble bath. It’s there that I find myself soaking in my own fear. It’s there that I have my first New York City breakdown. I’ve almost made it a full forty-eight hours, almost. With tears streaming down my face and plunking into the bubbles, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve made yet another monumental mistake. Did I really think that I was going to be able to pull this off? Did I really think that I was going to buy a one-way ticket and move to a new city and find a great place and actually somehow be happy again? Really?

  I wasn’t always this delusional. In fact, growing up I had a pretty good head on my shoulders. That is, until about a year ago when I went on a television show and got engaged to a loser in the most super-public way possible. When that didn’t work out, I had to endure a breakup with said loser in an equally super-public way. So, one would think that a blunder like that would have brought me to my senses and cautioned me to look before leaping. You’d think I’d have learned by now that fairy tales don’t exist. That you don’t just pick up and move to a new city, and poof, all your problems have magically vanished, and you have suddenly been transported into a world of happiness. But sadly, it seems as though I haven’t learned from my own mistakes. The truth is, just like I was blinded by love when I got engaged, I think I was blinded by heartbreak when I decided to move here. I’d fallen so deep into a hole as I grieved my broken engagement that I thought any place would be better than where I was. I thought maybe my breakup could be a chance to start anew. That embarking on the unknown could be a thrill. That I’d find peace in a new apartment in a new city. But just like when I got engaged, I guess it never occurred to me that there was a chance this wouldn’t work out. And now as my fingers prune away, the bubbles subside, and the wine bottle empties, I wonder if what I thought was a leap of faith is really just a leap from one mistake to another. I wonder. . . . What the hell have I done?

  broken

  Luckily, by the next morning, both the red-wine buzz and my depression have worn off, and I awake feeling slightly renewed. I think I needed that first purge. I needed to cry away some of the fear that inevitably comes with picking up your entire life and moving it elsewhere. That’s the thing with making bold decisions like these: they have a way of helping to dig you out of your dark hole, but once you do find the light, you eventually have to face the reality of your decision. I realize that as I sit on the couch of my enormous, unbelievably posh, drool-worthy, palatial rental, sipping my coffee. If I want to fully emerge into the light, I’m going to have to suck it up, put my grown woman panties on, and make this shit happen, because being depressed sure as hell isn’t going to help me find an apartment. It’s time to lower my standards and up my budget. Shitty apartments will not deter me from my newfound freedom. I decide to wipe the slate clean by writing out a new list of apartment must-haves, would-like-to-haves, and cannot-haves.

  Must have:

  1. Bedroom with a door

  2. Bedroom with a door that fits queen-size bed

  3. Elevator or maximum of two flights of stairs (maybe three)

  Would like to have:

  1. Dishwasher and garbage disposal

  2. Washer and dryer

  3. Floor-to-ceiling windows

  4. Fresh paint job

  Can’t have:

  1. Bathtub in kitchen

  It doesn’t take long for me to resume my search and find a handful of apartments that based on their photos and descriptions might have a chance of working out. Most of them are having open houses today and tomorrow, and for a few others I schedule showings throughout the week. As I look at the list of apartments, I actually crack a proud smile.

  It’s not long before I take that smile and head east to the first apartment, which is in the neighborhood next to mine. The listing describes its location as “the heart of Greenwich Village.” It’s a busy area; the streets aren’t lined with trees like they are on Grove but instead are lined with Chinese restaurants, bars, and dry cleaners. I take a right on MacDougal, only to find even more dive bars. I can tell by the numbers on various buildings and doors that I’m getting close to my destination, a bad sign considering the more I walk, the more bars I see. Finally, I arrive at the bui
lding, which isn’t so much a building as it is a door. A door next to a bar. A door next to a bar with an awning that reads, SHOTS! SHOTS! 5 FOR $10.

  I press the button for the apartment number, and a real estate agent buzzes me in. I trek up four flights of stairs. The agent immediately greets me and hands me a flyer listing the details of the apartment. I take a quick walk-through. It’s small like the last apartment, but nicer. And though it’s not promising, based on the fact that it’s above a nameless bar that sells five shots for ten dollars, the fact that I’ve found something somewhat accommodating and affordable slightly lifts my spirits.

  It’s off to the second apartment, which is just a few blocks south, near Washington Square. As I walk there, I can’t help but notice all the young NYU students hustling around with their backpacks or smoking in groups on the corner. I’m not feeling particularly great about the area, but I go to see the apartment anyway. Another agent is there handing out flyers, and again I do a quick walk-through. A galley kitchen leads to a large bedroom that is bright and airy. The windows, though not floor-to-ceiling, are big enough to showcase the backsides of other apartments. It’s quiet and rather peaceful. I even hear birds chirping. The agent must have seen the smile on my face, because she comes to personally show me back through the kitchen and into the living room. Everything about this place feels bright. That is, until she shows me the bathroom. And that’s where I see perhaps the vilest thing my eyes have ever seen: atop the toilet lid sits . . . a sink. Positive that this is temporary, just like the apartment that had the bathtub in the kitchen, I rhetorically ask the agent when the sink is going to be installed.