I ran into Jeanie tonight on my way into the building. There are 2 doors that have to be unlocked to get inside. I was beyond both and checking for mail in the last silver box with someone else’s name on it because I haven’t gotten around to writing my own. There was also a pile of misc envelopes and publication on the long radiator underneath the mailboxes to check though. The radiator is painted a cream color like the rest of the entry and I wondered if the thin plastic on the window envelopes ever melted when it got hot in the winter. I was thinking along these deep and intellectually stimulating (hah!) lines when I noticed Jeanie and her boyfriend outside. She was searching deeply into one pocket of her white shorts and then the other. Her boyfriend looked frustrated but in a way that was practiced. As if Jeanie locking herself out was a not-so-unusual occurrence. Here we go again. Can’t you just remember you keys for once? I opened the outside door while propping the inside door open with a foot so it wouldn’t lock on me. I think his name is Vince. I assumed it was him from past conversations about her boyfriend Vince. She was carrying an orange bucket that was slopped with the same white paint that was smeared on her legs. She said that he’d hired her to paint so she could make a little more money. The landlord is trying to kick her out. Not because she can’t pay her rent but because she’s lived in that apt for 11 years and pays such a low rent compared to the rest of us. He’s taken her to court on small little items in his attempts, but so far, she’s holding out. I think it’s shitty. I understand that he wants a fair market rate yada yada, but trying to evict a paying tenant? NYC can be so sick sometimes. But it doesn’t surprise me and it happens all the time, especially in a neighborhood like this where large chunks were undesirable until within the last 5 years. Landlords and building owners want their investment to pay off. Interesting how my current landlord goes to court to try and get a higher rent while my past landlord did nothing about the welfare state that inhabited his buildings--buildings with apartments he could start charging ridiculous amounts for because they are now part of “Prime park Slope”. Buildings with hypodermic needles in the back yard that he never cleaned up. Buildings with children and dogs and people who walk around in those backyards. Jeanie cooed at KT the Cripple as I opened the door and he fell over on my foot. Yes, handicaps can be endearing folks. Especially if one is furry and gray with small feet. Goodnight. Goodnight, take care. She must have had to have keys afterall to open her apartment door.
I am spending Friday nite alone with my classical guitar concertos, the cats, and my old microwave that lights up the time, but for some reason, no longer nukes anything. The timer counts down, but there’s no lighting up or turntable action or hum. For now, it serves as an oversized bedside clock. Bedside, of course, meaning the fridge within view down below my new loft bed. I have 12 foot ceilings. When I sit up in my loft, my head just barely scapes under the ceiling. Dave is not so lucky. Not only does is limit his upward mobility, it limits the sorts of nightime activities that can occur on the loft. Not to mention the fact that it’s ever so slightly wobbly and positioned in the corner of the room as to bang on the walls with any excess sway. No need for that. And no worries about it tonight. Dave is on his shift of a week of night call. I don’t mind the quiet time. We’re going to the Mercury Lounge tomorrow night with a bunch of friends to hear a Brit-pop band that Dave is interested in. And on Sunday, we have dinner and a show with his parents and sister. Plenty of time to socialize later. For now, it’s just me and da felines. My fan blows air back and forth and sometimes the windchime above the sliding door tinkles like musical pins dropped on crystal. 5 1/2 years living in Brooklyn. Am I an NY’er yet? 2 weeks in my new place, the first place that’s ever been mine, that for no part of my residence has been shared with a roomie or significant other. And I have my own garden to boot! I don’t feel like it’s home yet, but Im not overwhelmed by a sense of unfamiliar visiting anymore. I know that Im never going back to 4th Avenue. The bed over there was taken off the curb by the neighbors anyway.
It’s hot in here again. No more strange dreams, please.