I miss my Harlem apartment on 147th and 7th.
I had been in NYC for a maybe a month and a half or two. This was
probably October or November of 98. I was staying between Ivans, Galil's,
David's and Yukichi's apt on 2nd and 7th and Samuel's down on Broome and
W. Broadway. I had saved up enough to pay for security and rent with my 5
dollar an hour wage at Action Discount. Earlier, much earlier, I had been
endowed with my P100 laptop that Blackula Jones still needs about $350
for. This allowed me, by calling long distance to Delaware from NYC, to
connect to the internet for free through udel.edu. I searched the village
voice online and found a bunch of stuff out in the ghetto way out in
Brooklyn and then something Uptown. While looking for a room under 500
per month, I met some interesting people. One guy told me flat out that I
may not feel comfortable because I was white more or less. Another older
guy told me that I was a very nice person and things would
work out for me, but that they were looking for an older roommate. That
apartment was nice. Sculptures and weird lighting. I got into a cursing
screaming match with some woman with an Indian accent because she was
being rude about younger people. I think I shocked her with my
straightforward, "go fuck yourself and your ghetto apartment" monologue.
She got all flustered and said, "what?!" and a "you don't talk to me that
way!" to which I'm sure I responded, "that's right, go fuck yourself!" We
went on like that until she hung up. I felt like I didn't get my phone
call's worth. For some reason I think that I was at Evil E's apt. and she
may have overheard this exchange. She may not have been there.
I found this ad that said "Uptown Renaissance blah blah blah" and ended up
getting the keys right then from my dear landlord Andrew with the sores on
his lip. What a sketchy man. He would tell me of his adventures in St.
Nicholas park with random men buggering each other in the bushes. He
always walked his little annoying dogs in the middle of the night in a
dark and sort of scary park. He was nice, though, I think, and had loaned
me a few bucks here or there. I paid him back. At one point, I was
supposed to be subletting to Pat Guthrie and Little John but they decided
it wasn't cozy enough and that they couldn't pay me, even though I would
have moved out had I known that this was the case. I ended up owing him
like 660 dollars or something for 6 weeks. I paid him. At the time, 660
beans was really a lot of money for me. It's still a lot, but then it was
even more.
So, I moved in. At first, since I didn't own anything, I never wanted to
stay there. I had to share the bathroom with 3 or 4 other people, none of
whome I ever spoke to or knew anything about other than who they got mail
from. We all hid in our rooms. SRO I think it's called. Single room
occupancy. There was a semi-nonexistent person named Juan Fernandez who
got tons of summons and eviction notices all of the time. Something was
really sketchy. I wrote a notarized statement of what I experienced while
living there and gave it to Andrew to use in some eviction case that was
supposed to be a ploy to get this undesireable fellow named Arlan out. I
saved all the letters I could.
I had good times there. There were plaques out in front on the
sidewalk for famous harlem musicians and leaders. Malcom X, Dizzy
Gillespie, Tito Puente, Ella Fitzgerald. I'm not even certain that they
were all Harlem, but no matter. A slice of Harlem pizza place was nearby,
City College of New York had comptuer labs which I was able to sneak into,
the A was nearby, and my life was getting better.
My job was to stand in
the back of Action Discount and make sure all the products on the shelves
were arranged properly. "Facing" they called it. I also had to prevent
people from stealing things, but I never did that because I would have felt
really dumb to care about that since I was making 5 bucks per hour. Many of
the products had fallen off a truck or something anyway. The bar codes were
scraped out and they were striped with UV paint.
I had to stock water and soda and products on the shelves, etc.
I eventually got that job for Pat Guthrie. I think he further spoiled
my reputation with them. They were sick bastards anyway. On the day I
was leaving, one of the nicer owners asked me if I wanted to come
downstairs with them while they played some weird sex game I guess with
some girl that he said
was very nice. At first I thought he was joking. After I gave an
obligatory laugh and noticed he was still expecting some answer I was
like, uhhh, no thanks, that's OK, that's very kind of you. I still have
their addresses and phone numbers, which they generally hid but I got from
the rolodex when I had to sweep the office at closing.
They had their dealer come drop off packages to the clerk at their
store. They thought they were slick or something. I should've taken it.
At this point I was very broke and they were perfectly victimizble. They
very much avoided taxes and I figured that at certain times they had 5 G
or more in the un-alarmed safe. How to get the combination? A
small camera placed under the desk with the safe. Where one's knees go,
up there to get the good downward angle. I could've hid the recording
media if it were too large by drilling a small hole and stashing like a
tape drive inside/under this desk. No problem.
When I went down to do the last stock, I could set it up and turn it on.
When the manager went down to put the money in, the combination was recorded.
I would need only an hour tops to grab the numbers. I could then
regularly check to see how much money was in the safe exactly, without
them knowing I knew the combination. With that knowledge, I could have
either grabbed the money and took off or tried to pull it off without even
being there.
You see, they never asked me for my Soc or ID when I got
hired. I could have given any name. Knowing this, I could have a friend
that I trust go there and get my job when I quit.
He could have cleaned out the safe and then never showed up again. That
gave me one more degree of separation, although his new-ness would make him
suspect. I didn't think that they were going to call the police, though,
since they were such an illegal shop. The only way to guarantee him or
her getting a job though would be for me to recommend him. This would
associate me with him.
In the end I just tapped out the hinge of the gumball machine every
night and in almost plain view, I supplemented my pitiful hourly wage with
the bounty of quarters that suspiciously didn't match up I'm sure with the
gumball man's refill accounting. I was very sneaky, I must confess. It
takes a very creative person to disguise the sound of quarters sliding
across hollow plastic by the handful and then being carefully transferred
to a pocket without making a very conspicuous noise. Usually, I struck
when they were counting money and blocking out everything else. This provided
me evening beer and perhaps cigarette money. Galil contributed greatly when we got together and, like
many of my friends, I probably owe him a few cartons of cigarettes.
I worked from 4PM to Midnight. I woke up around noon. I didn't have a TV for a long time.
Evil E floated around in parts of this time period. After a few months working there I was really sick of it. I
started faxing out resumes (they were really, really, really bad resumes) to the numerous postings I would see on
the internet. Rarely, if ever, got a reply and I don't blame them. Through David, Renato's brother, I ended up
getting a job in Norwalk, CT.
I then worked there for a while, got sick of 10 hour days, and Loot, after some consideration and I suppose
regretfully declined proposals to other friends to hatch a business with him, worked some funny magic and I ended
up at Reader's Digest. We started a company and contracted here and there. They were good times. They were tough
times. I was making about 1000 a week or so after taxes, and still living in my room on 135th.
Andrea, an old proxifriend, had her lease end and was now ready to move somewhere else. I happened to be a
decent candidate I suppose, and she found a place. I signed and we moved there.
It was at 147th and 7th. The bottom of Sugar Hill I think. Maybe I'm dead wrong. It was pretty ghetto. It
was beautiful. I had a much larger room and I was the more psycho roommate, so I'm sure my experience there was
different than Andrea's. A large and great piece of dining room furniture was left in the apartment. I
moved it into my room. Boxer John has it now, and does not appreciate it. The sun was really great in there. I
would drag and find random things to put in it. Sometimes very heavy things. I found a large white carpet with a
small stain. It was perfect at first and then it got dirty. We didn't have a vaccuum cleaner. It became
populated with stuff slowly, never entirely. I live like a boy, a little boy. I am very messy. I scatter my
clothes all around my room. As much as a freshly cleaned and organized room feels good, so does having a layer of
clothing which covers every inch of floorspace. I never want people to come into my room though, because they step
all over my gear, which is usually clothing, and sometimes clean. Other things including palm pilots, cell phones,
records, computers, etc. could also be beneath, so the unadept traverser of my room can cause a lot of damage
and heartache for me.
Andrea worked as a census taker, and wsa privy to a very intimate view of our neighborhood. I would get calls
early in the morning from a client that I had to go to every day. I would watch hours and hours of the simpsons on
tape and smoke parliaments. I drank a lot of beer. I drank a decent amount of wine. I ate Andrea's food
sometimes. Sometimes I didn't and it went bad. Sometimes I didn't and she enjoyed it later. The next time that I
go to Andrea's house I should do her dishes, because I'm sure I owe her a few.
At some point I must've run into Double A and we had a short lived amorous episode. Evil E resurfaced and that
distracted me. My bed was uncomfortable. It was hot sometimes. I would play records and fight the tarantella on
occasion. Andrea was probably driven crazy. There were insects. Not at first, but then slowly they increased and
ultimately I was afraid to turn the kitchen light off. Not "afraid" but preferred not to deal with my sneaky
little friends. We never held a proper party but people came over and celebrated the smaller things like boredom.
Micheal lived there for a while. Double A has a green TV. I watched a quite a bit. The Matrix was played
sometimes two or three runs in a day. I didn't watch the whole thing each time, I would be on my laptop or doing
something else, but I used the TV to keep or lose track of time. I don't know which.
I bought nicer clothing, ate well, communed with God and other voices in my head. My shower had an incredible
view of 147th and further North. I tried to address big problems. Hunts for the Universe's Grand
Dis-Unified Tear in the Ether were engaged in.. partially inspired by watching The Matrix too many times. I say
only
partially because when I can remember that life is really bizarre and that it doesn't make sense I still find
myself trying poke a hole in reality with my finger or whatever device I think may work. My desperate need for
glasses adds to this. Life was good. I took the bus to work, even when I was late. The bus takes at least twice
as long. Life isn't bad now. It seems more mundane.
At about the same time my love was mummified and sealed I left my partnership with Loot and the company. Andrea
decided to move in with Matt and I thought that I had broken free. Now I'm back in Queens making agreements with people to do this or that and pay this or that and show up for work and be too shy to talk to the girls that know
they look good. Remember that this is a very strange place, this earth, and nothing reinforces that like
experiencing unfamiliarity. I left and didn't even move the furniture that I bought out. We were breaking the
lease anyway. I wrote this overly explanatory letter to the landlord and he called me back with a very clear, "Ok,
well give me the apartment back." We did.
I had been in NYC for a maybe a month and a half or two. This was
probably October or November of 98. I was staying between Ivans, Galil's,
David's and Yukichi's apt on 2nd and 7th and Samuel's down on Broome and
W. Broadway. I had saved up enough to pay for security and rent with my 5
dollar an hour wage at Action Discount. Earlier, much earlier, I had been
endowed with my P100 laptop that Blackula Jones still needs about $350
for. This allowed me, by calling long distance to Delaware from NYC, to
connect to the internet for free through udel.edu. I searched the village
voice online and found a bunch of stuff out in the ghetto way out in
Brooklyn and then something Uptown. While looking for a room under 500
per month, I met some interesting people. One guy told me flat out that I
may not feel comfortable because I was white more or less. Another older
guy told me that I was a very nice person and things would
work out for me, but that they were looking for an older roommate. That
apartment was nice. Sculptures and weird lighting. I got into a cursing
screaming match with some woman with an Indian accent because she was
being rude about younger people. I think I shocked her with my
straightforward, "go fuck yourself and your ghetto apartment" monologue.
She got all flustered and said, "what?!" and a "you don't talk to me that
way!" to which I'm sure I responded, "that's right, go fuck yourself!" We
went on like that until she hung up. I felt like I didn't get my phone
call's worth. For some reason I think that I was at Evil E's apt. and she
may have overheard this exchange. She may not have been there.
I found this ad that said "Uptown Renaissance blah blah blah" and ended up
getting the keys right then from my dear landlord Andrew with the sores on
his lip. What a sketchy man. He would tell me of his adventures in St.
Nicholas park with random men buggering each other in the bushes. He
always walked his little annoying dogs in the middle of the night in a
dark and sort of scary park. He was nice, though, I think, and had loaned
me a few bucks here or there. I paid him back. At one point, I was
supposed to be subletting to Pat Guthrie and Little John but they decided
it wasn't cozy enough and that they couldn't pay me, even though I would
have moved out had I known that this was the case. I ended up owing him
like 660 dollars or something for 6 weeks. I paid him. At the time, 660
beans was really a lot of money for me. It's still a lot, but then it was
even more.
So, I moved in. At first, since I didn't own anything, I never wanted to
stay there. I had to share the bathroom with 3 or 4 other people, none of
whome I ever spoke to or knew anything about other than who they got mail
from. We all hid in our rooms. SRO I think it's called. Single room
occupancy. There was a semi-nonexistent person named Juan Fernandez who
got tons of summons and eviction notices all of the time. Something was
really sketchy. I wrote a notarized statement of what I experienced while
living there and gave it to Andrew to use in some eviction case that was
supposed to be a ploy to get this undesireable fellow named Arlan out. I
saved all the letters I could.
I had good times there. There were plaques out in front on the
sidewalk for famous harlem musicians and leaders. Malcom X, Dizzy
Gillespie, Tito Puente, Ella Fitzgerald. I'm not even certain that they
were all Harlem, but no matter. A slice of Harlem pizza place was nearby,
City College of New York had comptuer labs which I was able to sneak into,
the A was nearby, and my life was getting better.
My job was to stand in
the back of Action Discount and make sure all the products on the shelves
were arranged properly. "Facing" they called it. I also had to prevent
people from stealing things, but I never did that because I would have felt
really dumb to care about that since I was making 5 bucks per hour. Many of
the products had fallen off a truck or something anyway. The bar codes were
scraped out and they were striped with UV paint.
I had to stock water and soda and products on the shelves, etc.
I eventually got that job for Pat Guthrie. I think he further spoiled
my reputation with them. They were sick bastards anyway. On the day I
was leaving, one of the nicer owners asked me if I wanted to come
downstairs with them while they played some weird sex game I guess with
some girl that he said
was very nice. At first I thought he was joking. After I gave an
obligatory laugh and noticed he was still expecting some answer I was
like, uhhh, no thanks, that's OK, that's very kind of you. I still have
their addresses and phone numbers, which they generally hid but I got from
the rolodex when I had to sweep the office at closing.
They had their dealer come drop off packages to the clerk at their
store. They thought they were slick or something. I should've taken it.
At this point I was very broke and they were perfectly victimizble. They
very much avoided taxes and I figured that at certain times they had 5 G
or more in the un-alarmed safe. How to get the combination? A
small camera placed under the desk with the safe. Where one's knees go,
up there to get the good downward angle. I could've hid the recording
media if it were too large by drilling a small hole and stashing like a
tape drive inside/under this desk. No problem.
When I went down to do the last stock, I could set it up and turn it on.
When the manager went down to put the money in, the combination was recorded.
I would need only an hour tops to grab the numbers. I could then
regularly check to see how much money was in the safe exactly, without
them knowing I knew the combination. With that knowledge, I could have
either grabbed the money and took off or tried to pull it off without even
being there.
You see, they never asked me for my Soc or ID when I got
hired. I could have given any name. Knowing this, I could have a friend
that I trust go there and get my job when I quit.
He could have cleaned out the safe and then never showed up again. That
gave me one more degree of separation, although his new-ness would make him
suspect. I didn't think that they were going to call the police, though,
since they were such an illegal shop. The only way to guarantee him or
her getting a job though would be for me to recommend him. This would
associate me with him.
In the end I just tapped out the hinge of the gumball machine every
night and in almost plain view, I supplemented my pitiful hourly wage with
the bounty of quarters that suspiciously didn't match up I'm sure with the
gumball man's refill accounting. I was very sneaky, I must confess. It
takes a very creative person to disguise the sound of quarters sliding
across hollow plastic by the handful and then being carefully transferred
to a pocket without making a very conspicuous noise. Usually, I struck
when they were counting money and blocking out everything else. This provided
me evening beer and perhaps cigarette money. Galil contributed greatly when we got together and, like
many of my friends, I probably owe him a few cartons of cigarettes.
I worked from 4PM to Midnight. I woke up around noon. I didn't have a TV for a long time.
Evil E floated around in parts of this time period. After a few months working there I was really sick of it. I
started faxing out resumes (they were really, really, really bad resumes) to the numerous postings I would see on
the internet. Rarely, if ever, got a reply and I don't blame them. Through David, Renato's brother, I ended up
getting a job in Norwalk, CT.
I then worked there for a while, got sick of 10 hour days, and Loot, after some consideration and I suppose
regretfully declined proposals to other friends to hatch a business with him, worked some funny magic and I ended
up at Reader's Digest. We started a company and contracted here and there. They were good times. They were tough
times. I was making about 1000 a week or so after taxes, and still living in my room on 135th.
Andrea, an old proxifriend, had her lease end and was now ready to move somewhere else. I happened to be a
decent candidate I suppose, and she found a place. I signed and we moved there.
It was at 147th and 7th. The bottom of Sugar Hill I think. Maybe I'm dead wrong. It was pretty ghetto. It
was beautiful. I had a much larger room and I was the more psycho roommate, so I'm sure my experience there was
different than Andrea's. A large and great piece of dining room furniture was left in the apartment. I
moved it into my room. Boxer John has it now, and does not appreciate it. The sun was really great in there. I
would drag and find random things to put in it. Sometimes very heavy things. I found a large white carpet with a
small stain. It was perfect at first and then it got dirty. We didn't have a vaccuum cleaner. It became
populated with stuff slowly, never entirely. I live like a boy, a little boy. I am very messy. I scatter my
clothes all around my room. As much as a freshly cleaned and organized room feels good, so does having a layer of
clothing which covers every inch of floorspace. I never want people to come into my room though, because they step
all over my gear, which is usually clothing, and sometimes clean. Other things including palm pilots, cell phones,
records, computers, etc. could also be beneath, so the unadept traverser of my room can cause a lot of damage
and heartache for me.
Andrea worked as a census taker, and wsa privy to a very intimate view of our neighborhood. I would get calls
early in the morning from a client that I had to go to every day. I would watch hours and hours of the simpsons on
tape and smoke parliaments. I drank a lot of beer. I drank a decent amount of wine. I ate Andrea's food
sometimes. Sometimes I didn't and it went bad. Sometimes I didn't and she enjoyed it later. The next time that I
go to Andrea's house I should do her dishes, because I'm sure I owe her a few.
At some point I must've run into Double A and we had a short lived amorous episode. Evil E resurfaced and that
distracted me. My bed was uncomfortable. It was hot sometimes. I would play records and fight the tarantella on
occasion. Andrea was probably driven crazy. There were insects. Not at first, but then slowly they increased and
ultimately I was afraid to turn the kitchen light off. Not "afraid" but preferred not to deal with my sneaky
little friends. We never held a proper party but people came over and celebrated the smaller things like boredom.
Micheal lived there for a while. Double A has a green TV. I watched a quite a bit. The Matrix was played
sometimes two or three runs in a day. I didn't watch the whole thing each time, I would be on my laptop or doing
something else, but I used the TV to keep or lose track of time. I don't know which.
I bought nicer clothing, ate well, communed with God and other voices in my head. My shower had an incredible
view of 147th and further North. I tried to address big problems. Hunts for the Universe's Grand
Dis-Unified Tear in the Ether were engaged in.. partially inspired by watching The Matrix too many times. I say
only
partially because when I can remember that life is really bizarre and that it doesn't make sense I still find
myself trying poke a hole in reality with my finger or whatever device I think may work. My desperate need for
glasses adds to this. Life was good. I took the bus to work, even when I was late. The bus takes at least twice
as long. Life isn't bad now. It seems more mundane.
At about the same time my love was mummified and sealed I left my partnership with Loot and the company. Andrea
decided to move in with Matt and I thought that I had broken free. Now I'm back in Queens making agreements with people to do this or that and pay this or that and show up for work and be too shy to talk to the girls that know
they look good. Remember that this is a very strange place, this earth, and nothing reinforces that like
experiencing unfamiliarity. I left and didn't even move the furniture that I bought out. We were breaking the
lease anyway. I wrote this overly explanatory letter to the landlord and he called me back with a very clear, "Ok,
well give me the apartment back." We did.
