My forgetful neighbor rises to his feet and takes a step behind me as I push open the door. This is the third time in the two months I’ve lived here he has locked himself out. That I know of, at least.
We met just like this. The first time, I was petrified to let him in. I didn’t know if he was homeless or some psycho trying to break into my building. Granted, we don’t live in a lavish high-rise uptown. That would be the type of building someone would want to rob. Instead, ours is a modest prewar on Mott Street. The rent is cheap and the building is clean, even if the floors are slightly slanted.
It didn’t take too much convincing to realize he was harmless. Mattie is an undergrad from Boston, enrolled at NYU. For a genius, he sure is forgetful.
“Thanks for letting me in. Have a good night,” he says, passing me in the hall and heading up the stairs.
“Any requests?” I ask, unlocking my apartment door.
Mattie stops on the step and thinks for a moment. “Something soothing. I had a wicked day.”
I give him an affirmative smile and head into my apartment.
Closing the door behind me, I flick on the light and immediately walk over to the window facing the street. Living on the first floor means I have to utilize heavy-duty blackout curtains to keep the passersby from gazing in through the curved security bars.
When I first saw the apartment, I was hesitant about living on the first floor. But after considering the twenty other apartments I’d seen that weren’t nearly as nice, I decided the luxury on the inside was better than its level off the ground.
Perhaps luxury is the wrong word. Stepping into my home, you are in the living room where I have a sofa, TV and bookcase. To the back left is a small galley kitchen, so tiny it can’t house standard-size appliances. So I have a two-burner stove, a modest-sized refrigerator, and a half sink. No dishwasher, of course.
The kitchen is separated from the living room by a half wall that creates an island. In the living room, my coffee table doubles as a dining table and my bookcase as extra storage. I have a secretary desk that was once my grandmother’s in the space where one would put a dining table. Beside it is a wing backed chair and a floor lamp that composes my reading nook.
Behind the kitchen wall is a bathroom with a shower, stall, and pedestal sink. The plumbing is ancient and echoes throughout the building whenever someone flushes.
The real luxury to the space is the bedroom. It’s not big or even nice, really. The luxury is the fact that it exists. In my price range it was hard to find an actual one-bedroom. Every apartment I saw was a studio and I really wanted a sleeping space separate from my living space.
Studio apartments are fine but when I’m paying nearly double the rent to live in New York as I was in Pittsburgh, it makes it hard to downsize completely.
Despite the spatial limitations, I have made a great space for myself here. I wasn’t supposed to paint but I did it anyway. I didn’t want to start the next phase of my life staring at white walls. Instead, I painted the living room a fun purple, and I bought a turquoise sofa that cost more than my rent. The living room was inspired by the nineties television show Friends. They are the epitome of what a girl from Ohio thinks living in Manhattan is about. Some would say Sex and the City or even Girls, but not me. I am a Friends gal all the way.
I even put a picture frame around the peephole on my front door.
Walking over to my speakers, I synch my iPhone and select an allegro by Joshua Bell. Mattie mentioned a few weeks ago he could hear my music through the floorboards. When I profusely apologized, he commented on how it actually helps him study. So now I take requests and let some of my favorite melodies drift upstairs.