My NY Story: Runaway Rent

So back when I lived in the City while interning, thankfully I had a temporary hookup. My best friend from the Cuse, "Multi-Lingual Lawyer," (MLL) was smart enough to transfer to NY.U sophomore year, and she lived in an amazing condo in the Village. Visiting her during college was how I got to know and fall in love with the City. So naturally I stayed with her for my first few weeks there.

She made it seem like I'd find a crib in no time...problem was, she probably assumed I was coming to the City bankrolled. Ahh, no. Actually I was flat broke. I was never under a much pressure as I was searching for a place to live and a place to make some dough.

I think I found the job first. In market research...which means I called people who had signed up with us, conducted interviews to see if they fit the profile of the demographic specified by the company that hired us to find people to come to their focus groups. Cake walk.

So I worked part time, arriving late every damn day, racing from NBC (on the westside) across town to the office on Park Ave. Scavenged in the green room every morning for bagels and lox. Stopped at the pizza joint next on Park Ave for a $1 slice heading in to work. None of the other interns had to work. None of them were stressed. Btwn the YMCA (which I refused, but my boy Chris swore by) or school housing, they all had some sort of roof.

So I found one in Brooklyn, went there the next day and met this little Mexican at the Broadway stop on the A train in East NY. He's like an oral historian, walking me thru the hood pointing out every nook and cranny, to this little enclave off Rockaway Ave. Quiet little residential street with a rim shop at the end. We walk up to this red house with white wrought iron trim. Walk in and meet this older Jamaican lady and her 3 (fine azz) sons.

She shows me the upstairs "apt." Basically it was one bedroom on the second floor of the house, with a small living room attached (remind me to tell you about the African who lifted me and pinned me against that living room wall one night. Whoa!). It was furnished by Jamaicans which meant a plastic covered couch, doilies, old hardwood floors, figurines. There was a "private" bathroom next to the room. The matriarch's bedroom was on the other side of the second floor, and one of the (fine azz) sons lived in the basement.

Tiny. Like a private prison cell. I could stretch both arms and place my palms flat on each wall. There was little room for anything else besides the full-sized bed and my alarm clock.

$100 per week. Not allowed to cook in the kitchen. No phone line. Utilities included. More importantly, no security deposit.

I took it!

All the other interns lived in Manhattan. MY commute from (East NY) Brooklyn was an hour. My block got gully after dark. Walking home from the train at night was more like a slow jog. Dudes chillin at all hours getting their rims did. Btwn keeping up with my credit card bills ($15 minimum), weekly metrocards, a meal a day (neighborhood Chinese or Kennedy's Fried Chicken on weekends), my cell phone bill (not to date myself, but this was long before cellies could fit inside the palm of your hand)...dough was getting tight. But I was living on my own in NY effing City. With no help from anyone. Working. Pursuing my career. Making sacrifices. It was the most rewarding experience of my young life.

Not sure why I never fcuked the fine azz son in the basement. Probably bec I skipped out of the crib in the dead of night with the help of MLL, a few days early, without paying that last week's rent. A ngga was broke!