A Strange Day on Planet Earth

When I first saw apartment 1R it was midway in a birthing process called “reconstruction.” A friend lived on the third floor and informed me it would be coming to market.

I had scouted dozens already: This kitchen too grimy, that street too creepy, a few rented while I was on the train to see them.

I had lived in some 12 apartments in the past five years. I had weathered bed bugs, mice, burglary, boiling heat, no heat, dysfunctional appliances, and hostile housemates. In one brief but not unpleasant stretch, I lived in the basement bedroom of a row house while seven men occupied the top two floors.

My bones were aching for a home in a primal way I could not articulate. Moving was starting to feel like a seasonal migration, and I a species insufficiently evolved for the trek.

My friend’s apartment had its original crown-mold character and appeared well-maintained. She gave me the number of her landlord, Victor; I was surprised he answered on the second ring. Yes, the apartment was being renovated, but it was far from finished. He was there now, but doubted I’d want to see it in its current state.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

I lived a few blocks away, in a midfloor apartment where the heat cut out all winter.  When I called the landlord to complain, he shouted at me and then stopped answering my calls.  I had been told he would sign the lease after I did, an action he found increasingly wild excuses to avoid  — making my legal status as a tenant unclear.  I questioned if the man who ignored my phone calls had buried the building’s rightful owner in the basement.

I arrived outside apartment 1R on a cloudy afternoon in late August. Victor was working inside with a jackhammer. He came to the door with a thin layer of dust on his arms. He had a shock of white hair and the Brooklyn accent that is its own endangered species. 

The apartment had an overgrown yard and new white fence. But the interior was only exposed brick and potential. No appliances, no doors, no cupboards, no bathtub, no light fixtures, and — in some places — no floorboards.

“I’m going to make it look real nice,” Victor said. He looked me in the eye as he spoke. His eyes were blue and creased at the edges.  The estimated completion date was two weeks after my current lease ended, suggesting a logistical nightmare of storage and friends’ couches.  I would need to find a housemate for the second bedroom, a chancier lotto.

“I’ll take it,” I said.