An Old Brick Studio

I occupy the top floor of a red-brick walk-up tenement at 199 Avenue A, nestled between 13th and 14th Streets, in the thick of the East Village. It has typical pre-war quirks. The hot water flow tends to take a lifetime longer than my general, two-second-tolerance-level of patience, and of course, none of the electrical plugs are in ideal places. Nonetheless, the place does boast a few truly winning qualities. Relatively speaking, it has a generous layout. The sun pleasingly illuminates the studio, throwing graceful light beams across the high, bleached ceiling—absorbed eventually, by the exposed burnt-red brick. This genuine, brick wall that actually sheds gritty cement crumbles when your hand meets its texture is a highly desirable amenity— my idyllic idea of cozy, urban décor, since the very beginning of my Manhattan obsession. The whiteness of everything else juxtaposes (my decorator mom’s term) magnificently against the brilliant, old brickwork. A Turkish immigrant in his 60s owns and manages the continually renovated building and sets in place the outlandish, noncommittal rent prices. The recent additions of washers and dryers, stainless steel kitchens and polished oak floors that shine in the worst of situations have seemingly provoked crazy-elevated rents. April is a particularly stubborn, inflexible month for him. He targets tenants like me who respect authority and make mistakes in judgment that never occur to the 21 year-old brain beforehand. I paid his inflated fee last month; but then got wise to myself the next time. I appeared as a prettier, girlier girl in a delightful sundress with my pointer finger (wearing a silver band) coiled around a small grab of my black curls. The sugary smell of my perfume disarmed his greed and he conceded to a small discount.

These bricked walls are so thick, that on two different occasions when I screamed out loud (either for emotional relief or in utter dread) with all three windows widely opened, none of the city people were summoned to curiosity. It sometimes feels like I’m alone in the world here. That first heart forsaken scream was just that: my tender, romantic heart had been shattered into shards of glass— like a porcelain figurine knocked off a table or a finished whisky bottle flattened by rush-hour traffic or a light bulb that spontaneously ruptures upon your return home. Perhaps I was hoping that the echoes of my mourning would commute further downtown and barge silently into my old lover’s office, with the translated message of everything I felt entitled to vent. But alas, not even the stray, city cats seemed stirred. My second earsplitting screech occurred in my tiny, shiny metal kitchen, while leisurely washing plates. A bulky, overfed rat scurried quite un-nervously across my big toe. The fuzzy creature seemed confused and bewildered by my horror, as I shrieked and kicked and terrorized it out the door. I’ve since, chosen to never, not even for a moment, allow my feet to go bare—even though the cool, smooth luster of the oak planks are sole soothing after a frantic day of working for a publication. The rodent encounter is mildly bittersweet, because I’m truly not the type to be pitiless toward animals.

Ernest (yet another lover lost) whose charming, five feet nine stature, dry, but robust wit and quiet intellect could deactivate any girl’s heart-guard. He has a way of showing sincere interest in the most mundane of life’s events that arouses a weird feeling of special-ness. His baby-like face, and dimpled cheeks, and eyes that are big and brown and loving are entirely compelling. His top lip forms a perfect “m”. That flawless, beige skin remotely reminds me of my own. When lazy, he sports a skimpy, black beard, which makes him appear manlier than his boyish smile that causes his cheeks rise so high that his twinkling eyes squint. Rather characteristic of a man in his late twenties and works in a bank, his attire is atrociously neat. For a pretty conventional, loner type, somewhat opposed to change by nature, he’s unusually verbal about starting a family in the next five years. To the contrary, Ernest appears as uncommitted to relationships as he is to Manhattan apartments. During the short period that I favored his company, he moved three times: from midtown to Morningside; from Morningside to Chelsea; and then again to Greenwich Village. In clearheaded hindsight, I suppose there were many times, when he didn’t make me feel so extraordinary. The final time was on a gray, nasty, rainy day, when he called me “a chronic sufferer of failing romance.” I was deeply offended by this all-too-familiar reminder. Why can’t I seem to keep a boyfriend or a dating partner or a monogamous lover or cuddle buddy for any longer than a willful teenager can handle a glass of scotch for the first time? I’ve been single since elementary school in my suburban, hometown in Texas—a predominately married population of Jones’, who act very much alike: the phony laughs, the upward noses, the yard-playing children, the bricked mailboxes and manicured landscapes, the arguing that is never heard on the street.

At least, here amongst my beloved red bricks, I don’t have to worry about being seen while I sulk. My three windows face a tree-lined terrace, which I don’t care to have access to because my allergies are terrible this season. Every now and then, when I’m trying to purge my mind of my agonizing love diagnosis (and quickly drain my sinuses), I opt for a few hits of marijuana over allergy medicine. My mom says pharmaceutical companies are evil and don’t truly want you well, but merely want your money. While burning scented candles several times a week may not be particularly smart for a person with weeping sinuses, I routinely light cinnamon-vanilla candles every day to curb my appetite for baked goodies. After smoking a joint last week, I lit a cinnamon pecan-roll candle that apparently lured the neighbor from 4A, to my door with a request for brown sugar. He appeared unconsciously nervous, and introduced himself with a lethargic opener and awkward mid-sentence pause. “Hi, I’m Michael. From across the hall.” He wore a red and black plaid shirt buttoned to the last hole and dirty black Converse sneakers. I don’t recall if they were high tops or not, because his trousers were so unbecoming. He briefs me about how the sweet, aromatic waves from my apartment drift through the outdated halls, presumptuously convincing him that my cabinets possessed sugar. I handed him the Domino Dark Brown Sugar, in a yellow and white box that read: “we’ll always be your sugar.” Inside the threshold of my doorway, he is more inquisitive than I expect. I am rather taken aback when he bluntly asks, if I smoke pot. Once our shared practice is revealed, he lights up with confidence and becomes slightly more remarkable than his poorly kept presentation. Shortly, we find ourselves passing a bong back and forth, while seated in the middle of my apartment floor, because my living room doesn’t have a couch yet. I refuse to settle for just any old couch. It has to be the perfect sofa—chic, square-shaped, white leather in the Barcelona-style that I once saw through a store window on Broadway. After knowing each other for a half hour, Michael proves he adeptly plays the ukulele and acoustic guitar. He then forces me to admit that I’m a poet, if not a very good poet, but an average or aspiring or unpublished poet. I always remind myself of Erykah Badu’s infamous line, “I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit.” I have the spirit of an artist. Prefaced with this, I read him one of my good poems, and then one of my bad poems. He withholds judgment and claims to have a pathetic poetic sensibility. He can be profoundly cynical and awkward at times and has come to the conclusion, that people only enjoy his company because his humor is unexpectedly dry, unpredictable yet comical. We linger for hours. There seems to be a bizarre correlation between our separate lives. But even if it could have been something, it wouldn’t have turned into anything, because nothing ever pans out for me, amorously. Then of course, it occurs to me that, there is, in fact no true connection. Marijuana has the lovely ability to alter unambiguous reasoning. I said good night to Michael.

I knock off work early on a sunny Friday that doesn’t seem like too hot of a day to be purchasing leather. I’m finally buying my dreamy, white couch from a small furniture store on Broadway. Days earlier, Michael had prompted me to just do it.— as if he were anticipating being a sitter, who breaks in its newness, or one who causes its first crack or stain. I experience the same enthralling whiffs of enthusiasm as I had the first time I moved to New York City. On both occasions, when I stopped to gather my breath and took a look around, I realized that dreams can come true. Jabal, my dear friend who drives a mini-van, yellow cab is madly in love with me. Unfortunately, I’m unable to reciprocate. No matter, he generously transports my much anticipated purchase to my apartment. Riding in the front seat of his yellow cab feels like no other. I have the privilege of seeing things from his disturbed point of view about passengers and the liberty to lower the volume of his Ghanaian Christian soundtrack. Whenever a passenger left a measly tip, Jabal felt dejected. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he’d say as he nervously counted his stash of money held together by a rubber band, and stashed in the middle console. He regularly complains about money, and amuses me with his grumblings on people who either didn’t pay enough, or overpaid or didn’t pay at all. I’ve ridden around with him on several shifts and learned all the thru-streets, spotted the undercover NYPD cabs, and crossed every single bridge in Manhattan.

The first time I hailed a cab from Jabal was when I was living on Water Street, across from the South Street Seaport, in a thirty-two story high rise where the Brooklyn Bridge was the astounding view outside my bay windows. Even though 199 Water Street was a less extraordinary view than that of the East River, or the Fulton fish market, or the people of the financial district, or the convenient vision of the clock tower in Brooklyn, it meant masses more to me. Water Street was my meeting with destiny. It was a sign. I had encountered that exact address on my virgin visit to New York City, four years before NYU ever assigned me to that precise building. As an entranced tourist, I had randomly snapped a picture of that very spot as purely an insignificant NYC address. My intentions were only to have enough photo material to create a meaningful album. I wandered around every energizing section of the city, relishing its eclectic sentimentality and creativity and Xanadu, clicking pictures of every noteworthy locale. I now see signs everywhere. Signs which I have interpreted as pearls, that when stranded together, form a Mikimoto. Once, when accidentally eyeing engagement rings, the residing jeweler obstinately advised me that diamonds were far better choices than pearls. Midway through her informative spiel, I was completely unimpressed with her perceived advantages of wearing a diamond. I had spent a good part of my twenty-one years trying to get to New York City to find my strand of pearls—to discover my purpose in life. My burnt-red brick wall, which creates so perfect a setting for the back of my new white leather couch, is my gem, my pearl, my cultured little bead.