by Andi Dorfman
She asks for my confirmation number, and I read it to her. “Hold, please.” I can hear her talking to a coworker about my reservation number. “Ma’am, your move has been delayed due to bad weather.”
“Excuse me? ”
“I said your move has been delayed due to bad weather.”
“No I heard you, but what do you mean? ”
“Looks like there’s a snowstorm, and so the movers are delayed.”
“Okay. So what time should I expect them? ”
“Hold on. Let me call the driver.” I’m on hold for a solid three minutes before she comes back on the line. “It’s delayed by two days.”
“Two days!”
“Yes, the movers are in Virginia, but there’s bad weather, so hopefully they’ll be there in a couple of days.”
“Ummm, why didn’t anyone bother to tell me this? ”
“You should have received a call.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Well, you should have.”
“Well, I didn’t. Do you have a supervisor? ”
“I am the supervisor.”
“Well, again, I didn’t get a call. What am I supposed to do? I’m at my apartment right now!” I’m frantic and on the brink of tears.
“There is nothing they can do. There’s a snowstorm. Do you want me to cancel? ”
“Cancel? You just said they’re in Virginia. They have all of my furniture with them. I can’t just cancel. What happens to my stuff? ”
“Well, if you’re unhappy with your service, I can cancel it, and you can hire a different moving company.”
“Are you serious? ”
“Yes, you are more than welcome to cancel.”
“No! I don’t want to cancel. I want my furniture!”
I’m audibly crying now, which sparks enough sympathy from the woman to turn her bitchy tone into a softer more apologetic one. “Well, I’m sorry. How about this? I can give you a call tomorrow and give you an update.”
I hang up the phone and my crying turns into a full-blown wail as I realize there is absolutely nothing I can do to get my furniture here. There is no amount of sweet-talking, eyelash batting, or money throwing that will solve this dilemma. There is no way I’m getting my way on this one. I am simply shit out of luck.
And that shit luck has me now searching Travelocity for the nearest hotel to stay in. I realize my luck has just become even shittier (if that’s even possible) when the cheapest hotel within walking distance is four hundred fifty dollars a night. I can’t do it. I immediately go into survival mode. Something I have to say I’m not terrible at. What I lack in emotional strength, I’ve always made up for with instinct. Growing up my sister and I used to play this game we called “Zombie Apocalypse.” Basically, you choose who in your life you’d want by your side if the world was coming to an end and you needed to survive. You could also play this along the lines of being stranded on a desert island if you’re less morbid than we are. My sister always says that she would choose me, and I usually rack my brain trying to think whom I’d choose, but I always come up with the same answer: myself. I figure everybody I know, including my sister, whom I love dearly, would just slow me down. I’m actually glad my answer is myself, because right now, that’s all I’ve got. Me, myself, and no furniture.
I look up the closest Bed Bath & Beyond and call to see if they have any air mattresses in stock. They do! “Can you please put one on hold for me? I’ll be there soon,” I beg the operator.
Of course, before I can be there soon, I must climb down the fucking fire escape. Careful not to slip, I make my way down it and walk the seven blocks in the freezing cold to Bed Bath & Beyond, where I’m delighted to see they’ve put a full-size air mattress on hold for me. I put it in a cart, along with a set of sheets, a blanket, two cheap bath towels, one pillow, and a four-pack of toilet paper. One hundred eighty-four dollars later, I’m trekking back to Perry Street with my new bed. On the way, I stop at a place on the corner to pick up a bottle of Cabernet and a corkscrew (since I know that’s in a box somewhere along with my furniture). My arms are exhausted as I make my way through the basement/laundry room. I drop the bags on the pavement at the bottom of the fire escape. I haul the first load up the escape, through the window and into the empty living room. I make my way back down, hauling another two loads back up. When I’m finally done hauling, I close the window behind me and open the bottle of wine. I order food from the closest Chinese restaurant with decent Yelp ratings and begin blowing up my new air mattress. I have no furniture, no kitchen appliances, no nothing.
It’s halfway comical and halfway pathetic; I’m sitting on an air mattress in a bare apartment that I can barely afford, eating sesame chicken in between sips of wine, as I plow through my data so I can stream the latest episode of Scandal. It’s déjà vu. Barely a month ago, I was doing this exact same thing as I attempted to mend my broken heart. This time, though, I’m not sprawled out on a plush Tempur-Pedic queen bed at Kelly’s house but in a glorified cell of solitary confinement. And while I knew this wasn’t going to be all rainbows and sunshine, I didn’t know it was going to be a goddamn tornado. Mr. Perry is just like every other man I’ve had in my life. From the outside, they look good, but once you find your way inside, you see it was all just one big facade.
My luck seems to be coming and going in waves. And it doesn’t stop when my furniture finally does arrive. When the movers can’t get the couch through the door, I’m reminded just how small my apartment is. They try to jam it in every which way they can, but despite their valiant efforts, there is no hope. Apparently, this whole couch-not-fitting-through-the-door situation isn’t abnormal in New York. In fact, it’s common enough that one of the movers gives me a business card for a company named “The Couch Doctor.” While they continue moving the rest of my furniture in, I call the number on the card. A lady answers the phone and quotes me a rate of six hundred fifty dollars, which is more than the outdated couch cost in the first place, so I decide to toss it.
Well, first I go downstairs and knock on Mary’s door. She opens it just enough for me to see only one of her crazy eyes. The Price Is Right is playing in the background, and she seems in no mood to talk, so I cut to the chase.
“My friend wants to know what she should do if her couch doesn’t fit through her door.”
Mary doesn’t take the hypothetical bait. “Tell your movers to put it on the curb. Someone will pick it up.”
She closes the door before I can say a word, and for two straight days, through rain and cold, my old couch sits outside on the curb of Perry Street, until one day it simply vanishes. And when it does, I can’t help but hope it takes my bad luck with it.
a pulitzer and a hooker
Though my move in was a complete and utter disaster, my luck is trending up this week. Actually, this week is the best one I’ve had since moving here. Hell, it’s the best week I’ve had in a very, very long time. As it turns out, that one random phone call from a literary agent led to me writing and finishing a proposal, which led to the agent liking it enough to take a meeting with me and sign me as her client. She pitched my proposal to the “Big Six” publishers, whoever they are, and to my surprise, five of them were actually interested. So my agent set up a two-day book-shopping spree where we met with each of the five publisher teams. Some were more enthusiastic than others. Some had their shit together more than others. And some, I think just wanted to meet a former “Bachelorette,” so they could tell their friends about it. And in the end, the publisher I really liked came out as the highest bidder. Yes, just like that, I am happy to report that I am officially . . . employed. Though I’m sure writing a book won’t be as easy as it sounds, I can’t bring myself to think about the daunting task just yet. I’m on too much of a high. I need to celebrate! I need to shop. I need Bloomingdales, Aritzia, AllSaints. I need to walk to Soho.
Well, that was the plan, at least. Instead, I found myself having made the fatal mistake o
f walking down Bleecker Street, home to all the high-end luxury designers that use their storefronts not for revenue but for advertising. And as I’m strolling, I see it. There in the window of Burberry, draped over a white mannequin, is the most beautiful black peacoat I’ve ever laid eyes on. I need it. I deserve it. Seven hundred and fifty dollars later, I am toting an obnoxiously large brown bag with a gold Burberry label on it. I know I can’t afford to go to Soho now, but I still crave just a little more celebration. Enter . . . a cute little wine shop on Hudson. After all, what’s a celebration without wine? As I meander through the store, I am desperately trying to avoid knocking over any bottles with my enormous Burberry bag, when from beneath the register, out pops a short elderly man.
“Hi there! Can I help you with anything? ”
“Hello. Just looking for a nice bottle of Cab.”
“Cab, during daylight? ” He pauses. “My kind of girl! Follow me.”
He leads me toward the back of the store, where endless bottles of red wine sit atop wooden shelves. We start talking about wine, what we do and do not like, what’s a rip-off and what’s not, blah, blah, blah.
“I’m Antonio, by the way.” Antonio is flamboyant, most definitely gay, and seems like one of those “queens of the West Village.”
“Andi. Nice to meet you.”
“Okay, I’m dyyyiinng! What’s in the bag? ”
I proudly untie the dark green ribbon, unzip the tan garment bag, and pull out my new peacoat.
Antonio eyes it approvingly. “Fabulous. Classic, but the collar gives it some edge. I knew I liked you.” He strokes the wool up and down as I preen. “Do you want to try out some wines that I just got? ”
“Ummm, yes. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Our shared affection for Burberry and good wine mean that after an hour, I am still in the wine shop, teetering on the verge of drunkenness. It is the most randomly perfect celebration a new author could ask for.
“Goodbye, my new favorite Village girl!” Antonio shouts as I walk out the door.
“ ’Bye! See you soon!”
I find myself walking home with a sense of glee that I have not felt since moving here. I realize that Antonio has just given me my first compliment as a New Yorker. A Village girl, I think to myself. He’s right.
Little does Antonio know that I still can’t navigate the streets of my own neighborhood without getting lost. It’s not entirely my fault though. I quickly discovered that Manhattan is made up of avenues that run north and south and numbered streets that run east and west. I even made up my own helpful rule that odd avenues go south, evens go north, odd streets go west, evens go east. I think it’s right; at least, so far it is.
However, these rules of the road don’t apply to the West Village. It turns out my neighborhood is “off the grid,” meaning instead of adhering to a sensible layout like every other neighborhood, the streets here make no sense at all. It’s as if someone decided to just fuck with everyone and start paving roads that zig and zag, split and merge, and randomly turn into different streets for absolutely no reason. Hudson Street technically should be an avenue because it runs north, but it’s not. Bleecker Street is parallel to Hudson, so it, too, should be an avenue, but of course, it isn’t. Instead, it runs diagonally through the Village before eventually turning into Hudson, which I think at some point does, in fact, turn into an avenue. Eighth, I think? Which makes me wonder why the hell it just isn’t Eighth Avenue in the first place. The cross streets are just as fucked up. Instead of the numbering system, these streets are named; there’s Christopher, Perry, Charles, Barrow, Morton, and so on. I blame this entire clusterfuck on whatever rich white dude probably developed the neighborhood and decided not only to be difficult but also to name every street after his rich white friends. Other than occasionally screaming at my GPS, I’m really loving the area. It’s got this friendly vibe to it that you wouldn’t expect in New York mixed with an unfriendly attitude that’s completely expected.
I’m definitely not in the South anymore. That’s pretty evident by the size of my apartment, which is more like a jewelry box than a shoebox. But, I must say, now that I’ve bought a new couch and painted a few accent walls, I find it to be small but charming. Yeah, around here, everyone seems to live, work, walk, and breathe on top of one another. Well, everyone except the people in the brownstone directly across from my bedroom window. Instead of the building housing tenants like me who live in one of four apartments on each of five floors, the whole thing is occupied by one family: a mom, a dad, two young girls, a toddler boy, a chef, two nannies, a housekeeper, and a gardener. Apparently, the home used to belong to a movie star couple before they got divorced and sold it. I often hear the kids playing in the six-by-six-foot backyard by day and occasionally stare into their kitchen at night. Not in a creepy way. I really just like watching the chef cook nightly dinners in the pristine white-marble kitchen that boasts an island and a custom black and gold Viking stove. Okay, maybe I am creepy, but it’s not like I watch the family eat dinner; I just watch the chef prepare it.
And with small spaces come loud sounds. I can hear everything that everyone does. There’s a dog that barks at least once a week at precisely seven o’clock in the morning because someone let it out but forgot to let it in. Someone from another apartment usually yells, “Hey, asshole, let your dog back in!” and the barking stops. A noise that doesn’t stop, however, is the moaning and groaning and “Yeah, Daddy” and “Oh, yes, baby” that come from some chick who, based on the decibel level, must live in or very close to my building. Whenever I open a window, at any time of day or night, there is a seventy-five percent chance that I will hear this woman having sex. She’s not doing it alone, either. I can hear a man’s groans, too, though they aren’t nearly as loud as hers. I think she’s a hooker. She has sex morning, noon, and night. The same woman, the same sounds. All the damn time! Who the fuck yells that much that loudly during sex that often? Hookers. That’s who.
And I’m not so quiet myself, at least not according to Mad Mary. She happens to be a stickler for this “eighty percent carpet rule,” which, according to her, is in my lease and requires eighty percent of my apartment to be covered by rugs. She’s already reiterated this rule upon two separate occasions when she came upstairs to yell at me for dropping something. One night, I dropped a brand-new Jo Malone candle straight from the box. Before I could even sweep up the shattered glass, an aggressive knock is beating on my door.
“What the hell was that noise? ” shouts Mad Mary.
“Sorry, I just dropped a brand-new candle on the floor, and it broke.”
“I don’t care what you dropped, it woke me up!”
I contemplated explaining the magnitude of dropping a brand-new overly priced candle, but I didn’t think she was the candle-loving type who would understand.
“You are always dropping stuff, and it is always waking me up.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not like I mean to. Plus, your dog is always barking early in the morning, waking me up. You don’t see me banging on your door, do you? It’s New York, what do you expect? ”
Instead of answering, she poked her head into my apartment. “And you know what I said about eighty percent of the apartment has to be carpeted.”
“I ordered rugs, okay! They’re on their way. Good night.” I closed the door, feeling like a real New Yorker now that I’d somewhat stood up for myself against the self-proclaimed mayor of Perry Street.
Luckily, Mad Mary is not one to hold on to a grudge. I learned this the following day when I saw her in the basement when I was taking out the trash, and she acted as if our fight the previous night had never even happened. That’s the thing I’ve learned when it comes to New Yorkers; they are confrontational as hell, but they say what they want and then they’re over it.
Though I don’t think this mini tenant-super war is over just yet. She’s also a snoop. Yesterday she yelled at me for throwing my container of soy milk int
o the trash bin and not the recycling one.
“How do you even know it was me? ” Even though I knew it was me.
“Because I can tell everyone’s trash. Like this . . .” She walked a few feet over to her storage unit. “I know this belongs to that girl upstairs.” She was waving around a light blue dildo. Yup, definitely a hooker living in my building.
But as annoying as the sounds and lack of space and even Mad Mary might be, there’s something hypnotic about it all. There’s something so melting-pot-ish and enthralling about this city. So many people living on the same block, sharing the same streets, but leading such different lives. All with their own stories to tell, their own reasons for being here, their own lives. And for the first time, I feel like I have my own, too. After all the disastrous apartment viewings and move-in mishaps, I finally feel like I made the right decision moving here. I have a job, I have an apartment, and I have the beginnings of a new life. And though I don’t have a man, I find myself living blissfully. I take pleasure in the oddest moments. Like when I flip my hair as I cross Seventh Avenue or randomly but naturally drop an f-bomb mid-conversation. I smile every time I see tourists taking photos, because I realize I’m living in a city so special that people from all over the world come to visit. I’m actually here. Could it be that a girl from the South who bought a one-way ticket thanks to a broken heart is actually beginning to morph into a true New Yorker?
a new number one?
Not only did I begin writing the first chapter of my book this week, but I’ve also begun the first chapter of my new life as a single woman. It all started with another first: my first subway ride—which I’m pretty sure is also going to be my last. It’s all Michelle’s fault . . . all of it.
First, she invited me to come have dinner with her and her boyfriend, Pete, at their place uptown. They get to live there because they are a couple, unlike me. I called Michelle to get directions to her place via the ominous subway that both terrifies me and intrigues me. It just feels like such a native New Yorky thing to do. I’ve heard everyone takes the subway and that sometimes you can even spot celebrities on your train.
