Three Years

Today I calmly marked my third year on Melrose Street. Three years ago Fritz and Luswin dropped me off with my two suitcases, a few boxes, and the green duffel bag I purloined from their laundry room. With Fritz's hand-me-down mattress strapped to the top of the SUV, we drove from New Jersey into this unexplored Bushwick. "Oh the stories this mattress could tell," he said, distant memories swirling through his mind. "This bed saw me through my final years in LA." I had already been sleeping on the bed for four months as their house guest. "Will I need penicillin before summer hits?" I asked.

Three years ago I was still uncertain what I was doing (is anyone ever certain what they are doing?). I had been working in NYC for just shy of two months, found the apartment through the recommendation of a casual friend and now neighbor. It was described as "raw" and had been vacant for quite a while. I don't think it was intended for anyone to occupy. The first time I saw it I didn't love anything about it. It had 1960s tiles in all the rooms, the living room was painted a hideous shade of orange that in the afternoons looked like Hell ablaze, and the glass on the French doors had been painted over. To make up for lack of closet space, plywood shelves had been installed in every room with suspension cables. What little charm the apartment had was bastardized by someone long before I was given the keys.

Three years in Brooklyn (and by extension the long hours each day and night in Manhattan) have brought me calm. I frequently say my happiest time as an adult has been in NYC. In these raw quarters I've furnished, painted, created, repainted, and recreated my living space. The move to France and then the move from France was marked by purging. I arrived on Melrose Street with one load of things. And then began the American dance of acquiring more things.

Tonight, the Boy in the Checkered Shirt invited two of his (our) friends over for dinner. I worked late and arrived as they were still on the first bottle of wine. It felt nice to come home to their friendly voices, the door cracked to let the smell of dinner waft downstairs. "Your home is beautiful" Hope said. "I like these touches" Mark said, pointing to the inlaid trim work on the living room walls.

I still joke that I worry some day I'll come home and discover that the kitchen has fallen off the back of the building. In truth, I simply hope that if it happens it be while I'm not in the apartment. Maybe that's a good metaphor for my life in NYC. I'm in a comfort I've created, but with the edgy fear that it could all crash down around me.

In which circumstance, I would just move on.