One night during the winter of 2008 I had the apartment all to myself and was exercising my liver with some whiskey. Of course I purchased it from the liquor store on lex between 122 and 123--the owner loved me as I was a regular and was one of the only customers he allowed to use a credit card. Even in sobriety, I still miss that liquor store; I was never embarassed to be buying liquor in a neighborhood so rife with problems of greater magnitude.
Anyways, I was on the couch in the living room, the Queens skyline to my left, Lexington ave 350 feet beneath my terrace and a Pacino flic on my TV, when I realized I smelled smoke. When I drink, my sense of smell dulls almost immediately after the first shot. I was about eight or ten shots deep, so my smelling anything indicated it was potent. I opened the door to see if the hallway was on fire.
In 1990, a garbage fire was not unheard of. I'll never forget, one night I'm packed in the elevator after a hard day's work, the doors open at 10 and putrid, acrid smoke comes rushing into the elevator. Apparently some of the building's young thugs decided to light the recylcing/garbage on fire in the compactor room. An older lady in the elevator said something to the effect of "that's the kids doin that." I got to 33 and called 911.
No fire in the hallway. In fact no one was in the hallway. 33 was always a quiet floor. 4 or 5 of the 12 apartments up there were "new market rate apartments." I know this from being friends with my neighbors and also from spying the work order sheet from Riley, or Al. The sheet broke down whether an apartment was a regular tenant or a "new market rate apartment." I wondered who got the better services...
As I returned to my apartment I looked through the doorway (I left the door wide open, because whiskey makes me invincible) to see smoke billowing past my terrace, and clearing the roof, into the Manhattan sky. This was a new one. I bounded straight through the doorway, across the living room toward the view of Laguardia Airort and opened the sliding glass door onto the terrace. The smoke smell was strong, but it was moving rapidly past my terrace and didn't overwhelm me. I fumbled with my key to open the iron gate...I kept it locked at all times because, you know, security is a concern. I found myself hanging my head over the guard railing of the terrace looking down at flames and embers from about 150 feet below.
It is a unique experience to live in a high-rise apartment and witness a fire blazing beneath your feet. The NYFD responded promptly and knocked the fire out with one line of highly pressurized water.
My problem now was that Wing Wah chinese, over on first avenue was going to be closing soon and I needed my anti-hangover Chinese food delivered to my gentripad. I returned to the hallway to find the elevators completely shut down. 10 minutes to go before the Chinese food call would prove futile, I decided to order and have faith in the infrastructure of 1990 Lexington. Returning from the elevators, I ran into a fireman who must have been a descendant of Paul Bunyon. Other than my roommate, this was the first white male I had seen on the 33rd floor. All my white neighbors were female. Bunyon Jr. advised that the elevators would be working shortly. After a few more shots, my phone rang and identified the call as "Wing Wah Dlvry Man." He had his own number in my phone because this guy was a trooper. He'd bike Chinese all over the streets of East Harlem, sometimes carrying upwards of $100 in his pocket. One time I saw a guy in the lobby shaking his head as the deliveryman was sifting thorugh a pile of 10s and 20s. It's a statement when a tenant from 1990 is looking at you thinking, you're nuts for rolling around town on your Chinese Food bike with that kinda cash. Hey, ya gotta make a buck and I always tipped him well. I threw him an extra dollar because the booze was treating me well and why not, if this story went another way my money might have been burned to ash that night and I wouldn't be here writing to you.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Demographics Part III
By early 2007, the gentrification of 1990 Lexington Ave was in full-swing. Every week I would see a new group of white, recent college grads unloading their belongings into the lobby. To my delight, most were female. It's a unique experience--I'm a white male, I had lived there for almost half a year and was becoming well acquainted with the neighborhood, so I welcomed the chance to share my recent discoveries with a girl whom I had known for all of ten seconds. I'm sure they were merely happy to realize they were not the only newcomers to 1990 and gladly foregave my ulterior motives.
June of 2007 saw a stark uptick in new, white residents. College was out, it was time for the future corporate lackeys of America to move to New York City and chase their dream. Tensions were at an ebb and flow rate. By this time, most of the community residents of 1990 accepted that they were going to be living amongst newcomers. I was operating on some new found street instinct, booze and corporate Kool Aid adrenaline--Harlem's wannabe Gordon Gekko.
During the weekends, I would turn my 2 bedroom into a pseudo-meatpacking district lounge. The house music was flowing, the purple lighting was resonating from wall-to-wall and my terrace was the smoking section. Despite the fact that most of my friends were too afraid of making the trek to 121st street, I threw one hell of a party. The ambiance was entirely out of place for East Harlem and also a bit over-the-top for my poor roommate who just wanted to teach kids in his classes well enough so they could graduate from high school.
When my empty nightclub living room wasn't enough, I would hop on the express train to bars in the east village and alphabet city. Imbibing just enough to not black out for the return trip uptown. Many of the new white kids took taxis back from the clubs downtown, but I had something to prove. I would always get an adrenaline rush from hopping the 6-train uptown from Union Square, blasting house music on my iPod and remaining in the train car after the 96th street stop. The border between the posh and proper Upper East Side and the darkness and difference of those streets that throbbed above this de facto racist boundary--an American Iron Curtain.
* * *
The drunk walk at 4am on a hot summer night was when adrenaline overtook intoxication. Three and one-half blocks from the mayhem of 125th street, past the phone booths where the dealers hungout, to my home of 1990 Lexington Avenue. By the time I would reach the front of the building, I would be met with looks and utterances from the dozen or so youths and 20somethings on the sidewalk. Often smoking weed, drinking Henessey or 40s, they nearly always left me alone. By that time of night, the dice game down the alley leading to the fire exit had already been broken up. A street fight may or may not have taken place, without any police involvement; entirely resolved as quickly as it had been conceived. The block between 121st and 122nd on Lexington had an organic street vibe to it. One group hung out on the downtown side of the entryway, one on the uptown and another across the street. At night, the block lived, breathed and died on its own accord. Law enforcement had little or no interest in containing and probably too little muscle to confine the street culture. Furthermore, the bloods had such a strong presence in the area, no rival gangs dared venture into the territory.
In the brightness of the Manhattan night, swimming in liquor and dreams of luxury, I would often hear gunshots in the distance. Helicopters would swarm, sirens would blare, my police scanner chirped incessantly. But I was alone, protected and insulated. Perched atop my crow's nest of isolation, aloft from that deck of hard Harlem life.
June of 2007 saw a stark uptick in new, white residents. College was out, it was time for the future corporate lackeys of America to move to New York City and chase their dream. Tensions were at an ebb and flow rate. By this time, most of the community residents of 1990 accepted that they were going to be living amongst newcomers. I was operating on some new found street instinct, booze and corporate Kool Aid adrenaline--Harlem's wannabe Gordon Gekko.
During the weekends, I would turn my 2 bedroom into a pseudo-meatpacking district lounge. The house music was flowing, the purple lighting was resonating from wall-to-wall and my terrace was the smoking section. Despite the fact that most of my friends were too afraid of making the trek to 121st street, I threw one hell of a party. The ambiance was entirely out of place for East Harlem and also a bit over-the-top for my poor roommate who just wanted to teach kids in his classes well enough so they could graduate from high school.
When my empty nightclub living room wasn't enough, I would hop on the express train to bars in the east village and alphabet city. Imbibing just enough to not black out for the return trip uptown. Many of the new white kids took taxis back from the clubs downtown, but I had something to prove. I would always get an adrenaline rush from hopping the 6-train uptown from Union Square, blasting house music on my iPod and remaining in the train car after the 96th street stop. The border between the posh and proper Upper East Side and the darkness and difference of those streets that throbbed above this de facto racist boundary--an American Iron Curtain.
* * *
The drunk walk at 4am on a hot summer night was when adrenaline overtook intoxication. Three and one-half blocks from the mayhem of 125th street, past the phone booths where the dealers hungout, to my home of 1990 Lexington Avenue. By the time I would reach the front of the building, I would be met with looks and utterances from the dozen or so youths and 20somethings on the sidewalk. Often smoking weed, drinking Henessey or 40s, they nearly always left me alone. By that time of night, the dice game down the alley leading to the fire exit had already been broken up. A street fight may or may not have taken place, without any police involvement; entirely resolved as quickly as it had been conceived. The block between 121st and 122nd on Lexington had an organic street vibe to it. One group hung out on the downtown side of the entryway, one on the uptown and another across the street. At night, the block lived, breathed and died on its own accord. Law enforcement had little or no interest in containing and probably too little muscle to confine the street culture. Furthermore, the bloods had such a strong presence in the area, no rival gangs dared venture into the territory.
In the brightness of the Manhattan night, swimming in liquor and dreams of luxury, I would often hear gunshots in the distance. Helicopters would swarm, sirens would blare, my police scanner chirped incessantly. But I was alone, protected and insulated. Perched atop my crow's nest of isolation, aloft from that deck of hard Harlem life.
Demographics Part II
I spent the next several weeks drinking away my sorrows and fueling the anger I had for being let go from my company. A few interviews and a lot of job applications, yielded nothing. One day, while transporting my laundry from 33 to the laundry room in the back of the lobby a middle-aged, black gentleman asked how I liked living there.
"I love the building, the view is great, but I'm concerned because I lost my job earlier this month."
He graciously replied, "Well check the community board in the lobby, and I'll let you know if I hear about any jobs for you." I was shocked. Here I was, obviously an outsider in a building comprised almost entirely of Section-8 tenants and I was being welcomed and more beautifully, offered professional assistance. The tenant I met seemed intent on me finding a new job and being able to afford the cheap rent I was paying to live there. Completely opposite from some my previous elevator encounters...
Something else struck me though. He mentioned the community bulletin board. Community. I was living in a real community. Real people, real tenants, real rent, real problems. Gentrification. This gracious gentleman was willing to help me out despite the fact that my presence in the building quite possibly jeopardized his keeping his own home.
After a few months of residing in 1990, I realized that this community was not a transient population. The population of Manhattan who are used to moving when their 12month lease ends. The population which looks for deals, for upgrades, for luxury. Many of the tenants in 1990 were not seeking luxury, they were not seeking a place with a view, they were seeking to maintain community. Their community. A community which, while rough around the edges and plagued with gangs and drugs, was not only sustaining but is vibrant.
By mid-november, I found an entry-level position in New York's thriving advertising sector. I was off to the races once again. And as my lavish wardrobe grew and booze consumption took a newly corporate turn, I began to see the number of new faces in 1990 sharply increase.
Let's face it, in 1990 Lex, a new face is not a hard one to spot. It was never hard for me to strike up a conversation with a young female who was hauling boxes up to her new place. I relished in the fact that I had moved in first, had the model apartment on the top floor and that I refused to admit that I was a bit scared of living in this neighborhood. Despite the tensions I experienced while waiting for the few elevators to arrive in the lobby, or the dirty looks I would get from the teens while confined to the elevator car enroute to 33, most of my neighbors were entirely pleasant.
I'll never forget the one lady who sized me up as soon as the doors closed on our way upstairs and stated, "You new here, right?"
I stated the obvious and she replied, "Well welcome. And you in the hood now, so when you hear *pop! pop! pop!* just get down on the floor!"
She was polite though, spoke the truth to me and had a good fucking point.
"I love the building, the view is great, but I'm concerned because I lost my job earlier this month."
He graciously replied, "Well check the community board in the lobby, and I'll let you know if I hear about any jobs for you." I was shocked. Here I was, obviously an outsider in a building comprised almost entirely of Section-8 tenants and I was being welcomed and more beautifully, offered professional assistance. The tenant I met seemed intent on me finding a new job and being able to afford the cheap rent I was paying to live there. Completely opposite from some my previous elevator encounters...
Something else struck me though. He mentioned the community bulletin board. Community. I was living in a real community. Real people, real tenants, real rent, real problems. Gentrification. This gracious gentleman was willing to help me out despite the fact that my presence in the building quite possibly jeopardized his keeping his own home.
After a few months of residing in 1990, I realized that this community was not a transient population. The population of Manhattan who are used to moving when their 12month lease ends. The population which looks for deals, for upgrades, for luxury. Many of the tenants in 1990 were not seeking luxury, they were not seeking a place with a view, they were seeking to maintain community. Their community. A community which, while rough around the edges and plagued with gangs and drugs, was not only sustaining but is vibrant.
By mid-november, I found an entry-level position in New York's thriving advertising sector. I was off to the races once again. And as my lavish wardrobe grew and booze consumption took a newly corporate turn, I began to see the number of new faces in 1990 sharply increase.
Let's face it, in 1990 Lex, a new face is not a hard one to spot. It was never hard for me to strike up a conversation with a young female who was hauling boxes up to her new place. I relished in the fact that I had moved in first, had the model apartment on the top floor and that I refused to admit that I was a bit scared of living in this neighborhood. Despite the tensions I experienced while waiting for the few elevators to arrive in the lobby, or the dirty looks I would get from the teens while confined to the elevator car enroute to 33, most of my neighbors were entirely pleasant.
I'll never forget the one lady who sized me up as soon as the doors closed on our way upstairs and stated, "You new here, right?"
I stated the obvious and she replied, "Well welcome. And you in the hood now, so when you hear *pop! pop! pop!* just get down on the floor!"
She was polite though, spoke the truth to me and had a good fucking point.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Demographics Part I
In Autumn, 2006, I lost my job. Almost a year in to the construction industry and I was now forced to reevaluate how to devote my time and apply my Bachelor’s. The apartment had become all I had ever dreamt and more. Lounge lighting, paintings, and mirrors adorned the abode, but the view was the real feature of the apartment worth speaking of. During daytime a shimmer of light refracted from the skin of an Acela Train could catch your eye and at night, the twinkling lights of Manhattan, Queens and Long Island would fuse with the distant stars, creating an the illusion that the horizon was indiscernible. All of my apartment’s trend and beauty, mastery and mystery would be a ruse—an unacceptable illusion in this case—if I did not have a career to back it up. It would be like putting a silk hat on a pig and in many ways, this pristine gem atop 1990 Lexington Avenue, already fit that expression.
Shortly after moving in, I noticed an increased presence of newcomers. First, there were my neighbors who resided diagonally across the hall from me. Two bubbly girls from Syracuse, NY who had also decided to take the city by storm. Their storm however was not the dreams of paper money in torrential downpours, but of humor, positivity and rambunctious energy, mollified by their happy-go-lucky attitudes. We were perfect compliments from our very first meeting.
The fact was, like it or not, new residents were easy to spot due to their skin color. By my approximation, the 1,000+ tenants of 1990 Lexington were 85% black and 15% Puerto Rican. I was not sure where the four of us living up on 33 fit in to that ratio—in statistical actuality (using whole numbers) we did not.
The first incident of overt racism occurred no more than two weeks after my lease began. While the heat wave had broken, a new climatic anomaly was beginning. Several weeks before losing my project management job in construction (late August, 2006), I piled into the overcrowded elevator after a 12-hour workday. By the 20th floor, it was only me, two other women and a small girl (probably 11 years old). One woman turned and looked at me, baking away in my wool pants and heavy cotton shirt, swiveled her gaze over the adolescent to her friend and said, “A lot of new faces here, a lot of new faces…” The woman she addressed remained silent while the girl laughed. Having gone through 24 years of an admittedly wild, risky lifestyle, I had never once encountered this type of situation before. I too remained quiet. Could be worse, I thought…
Several weeks after the first elevator incident, I had already met and introduced myself to almost a dozen neighbors. Most of who purported to have resided in 1990 for many years and by their looks and age, they certainly seemed to have weathered their own storms, yet most were cordial. Early in September, the increasing number of longtime tenants being displaced became much more real to me. I trailed a group of middle-aged women through the main door and into the lobby. Another group of women was exiting the elevator, unloading lamps, chairs and various other personal effects. Along with the group of women I had followed from the street, we took occupancy of the still waiting elevator. A round woman with a push-cart launched into a heated tirade with her friends. It sounded something like, “She’s leavin’ now?! I ain’t movin’ out! They may want me to move outta here, but I ain’t leavin’! Been here too damn long for this shit!” Had it not been for the upwardly accelerating elevator car, her rising blood pressure might have sent her packing right then and there. Her friends nodded, Mmmhmm’d, but also looked concerned for the rotund woman’s health. Once again, I found myself playing the dumbfounded mute.
Shortly after moving in, I noticed an increased presence of newcomers. First, there were my neighbors who resided diagonally across the hall from me. Two bubbly girls from Syracuse, NY who had also decided to take the city by storm. Their storm however was not the dreams of paper money in torrential downpours, but of humor, positivity and rambunctious energy, mollified by their happy-go-lucky attitudes. We were perfect compliments from our very first meeting.
The fact was, like it or not, new residents were easy to spot due to their skin color. By my approximation, the 1,000+ tenants of 1990 Lexington were 85% black and 15% Puerto Rican. I was not sure where the four of us living up on 33 fit in to that ratio—in statistical actuality (using whole numbers) we did not.
The first incident of overt racism occurred no more than two weeks after my lease began. While the heat wave had broken, a new climatic anomaly was beginning. Several weeks before losing my project management job in construction (late August, 2006), I piled into the overcrowded elevator after a 12-hour workday. By the 20th floor, it was only me, two other women and a small girl (probably 11 years old). One woman turned and looked at me, baking away in my wool pants and heavy cotton shirt, swiveled her gaze over the adolescent to her friend and said, “A lot of new faces here, a lot of new faces…” The woman she addressed remained silent while the girl laughed. Having gone through 24 years of an admittedly wild, risky lifestyle, I had never once encountered this type of situation before. I too remained quiet. Could be worse, I thought…
Several weeks after the first elevator incident, I had already met and introduced myself to almost a dozen neighbors. Most of who purported to have resided in 1990 for many years and by their looks and age, they certainly seemed to have weathered their own storms, yet most were cordial. Early in September, the increasing number of longtime tenants being displaced became much more real to me. I trailed a group of middle-aged women through the main door and into the lobby. Another group of women was exiting the elevator, unloading lamps, chairs and various other personal effects. Along with the group of women I had followed from the street, we took occupancy of the still waiting elevator. A round woman with a push-cart launched into a heated tirade with her friends. It sounded something like, “She’s leavin’ now?! I ain’t movin’ out! They may want me to move outta here, but I ain’t leavin’! Been here too damn long for this shit!” Had it not been for the upwardly accelerating elevator car, her rising blood pressure might have sent her packing right then and there. Her friends nodded, Mmmhmm’d, but also looked concerned for the rotund woman’s health. Once again, I found myself playing the dumbfounded mute.
Heat Break
The first night was accompanied by unrelenting, immobilizing heat. Having to drink 2 40s of Coors Light to get to sleep in my brand new bed, I numbed the experience of adapting to the sounds, smells and sights of this hulk of a building. After work, the following day, I made sure to buy an air conditioner. Supplies were limited, and many of the retailers were price-gouging, but I managed to purchase a hefty unit which would fit in the deep sleeve under the window of my bedroom. I then raced from union square to 125th Street on the express, to the oven of my true first apartment.
The delivery between 8 and 10pm became more of a fantasy by 10:45 and I opened another Coors on the terrace. I listened to Hot 97 on my roommate’s portable stereo, sipped my 40—covered with sweat and beer, I made my first attempt to blend. In fact, it was more like basking in my recent accomplishment of the job and the apartment in Manhattan. To any sane outsider, I was more basting than basking, however. The temperature inside the apartment was over 100-degrees, it was nearing midnight and the air conditioner was presumably somewhere between 14th and 122nd street. Several futile phone calls to the retailer on 14th yielded no more than the store hours. As it looked like I was going to spend my second night of true freedom saturated in sweat and beer, an unmarked white box truck slinked into an open parking spot across Lexington avenue; seconds later my phone rang.
After generously tipping and gratuitously thanking the deliverymen, I affixed the air conditioner into the sleeve using nothing more than a swiss army knife. Cutting through the rubbery adhesive surrounding the spacers was trying to slice through a Pirelli with a penknife, but youthful exuberance and light beer prevailed. Soon, the modern LG, tapped into the decades-old circuitry of 1990 Lexington Avenue, was pulling amps and pushing cool air. With gaps on either side of the machine wide enough to fit a family of mice and their pet cockroaches through, the heavy, stagnant city air could commute to-fro my bedroom and my terrace. The air conditioner had a twofold affect: curing the air to ease my body and drowning out the incessant sirens to ease my mind.
That Friday the heat finally broke.
The delivery between 8 and 10pm became more of a fantasy by 10:45 and I opened another Coors on the terrace. I listened to Hot 97 on my roommate’s portable stereo, sipped my 40—covered with sweat and beer, I made my first attempt to blend. In fact, it was more like basking in my recent accomplishment of the job and the apartment in Manhattan. To any sane outsider, I was more basting than basking, however. The temperature inside the apartment was over 100-degrees, it was nearing midnight and the air conditioner was presumably somewhere between 14th and 122nd street. Several futile phone calls to the retailer on 14th yielded no more than the store hours. As it looked like I was going to spend my second night of true freedom saturated in sweat and beer, an unmarked white box truck slinked into an open parking spot across Lexington avenue; seconds later my phone rang.
After generously tipping and gratuitously thanking the deliverymen, I affixed the air conditioner into the sleeve using nothing more than a swiss army knife. Cutting through the rubbery adhesive surrounding the spacers was trying to slice through a Pirelli with a penknife, but youthful exuberance and light beer prevailed. Soon, the modern LG, tapped into the decades-old circuitry of 1990 Lexington Avenue, was pulling amps and pushing cool air. With gaps on either side of the machine wide enough to fit a family of mice and their pet cockroaches through, the heavy, stagnant city air could commute to-fro my bedroom and my terrace. The air conditioner had a twofold affect: curing the air to ease my body and drowning out the incessant sirens to ease my mind.
That Friday the heat finally broke.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Moving In...
I moved in to 1990 Lexington Ave. on August 1st, 2006. The heat wave was several days from breaking, but over 2 dozen people in the city had already died from the intolerable climate. Having moved away from my parent’s only months prior, I had very few possessions and had just purchased a bed which was slated to be delivered to my new apartment that very day.
I floated down Lexington ave. from the 125th street stop, donning my best shirt and tie. As I approached the entrance to the tower, I noticed an unmarked box truck across the street, parked in front of one of the three bodegas on the block. I shouted across to one of the workers from the truck as he hoisted the trucks rear-door and confirmed that they were in fact there to deliver a mattress. As my mattress slid off the back of the truck I heard a female voice call my name from behind. Spinning on my axis I found myself face-to-face with a former college classmate, whom I had not seen in about a year-and-a-half. More surprised than I was to see her, she inquired as to whether or not I was moving in and I emphatically told her yes, and pointed out my mattress being trudged across Lexington avenue through rush hour traffic. It turned out that she had been shown my apartment (being on the top floor and having a great view, it was the model apartment that the broker chose to bait the clientele with). While she was mildly jealous that my roommate and I had leased the place in front of her, she was happy to see a familiar face in a land of strangers. She wound up living 2 floors below me, on 31 (the thirty-first floor).
Following my mattress being carted through the bland lobby of 1990, I was met with a series of inquisitive, yet unabashed stares. In the elevator, which surprisingly could hold a full-size mattress and about nine other passengers, an elderly woman asked if I was moving in. When I acknowledged she said, “Well, welcome.” I thanked her profusely, and was happy when I was the last person off the elevator on the 33rd floor.
I floated down Lexington ave. from the 125th street stop, donning my best shirt and tie. As I approached the entrance to the tower, I noticed an unmarked box truck across the street, parked in front of one of the three bodegas on the block. I shouted across to one of the workers from the truck as he hoisted the trucks rear-door and confirmed that they were in fact there to deliver a mattress. As my mattress slid off the back of the truck I heard a female voice call my name from behind. Spinning on my axis I found myself face-to-face with a former college classmate, whom I had not seen in about a year-and-a-half. More surprised than I was to see her, she inquired as to whether or not I was moving in and I emphatically told her yes, and pointed out my mattress being trudged across Lexington avenue through rush hour traffic. It turned out that she had been shown my apartment (being on the top floor and having a great view, it was the model apartment that the broker chose to bait the clientele with). While she was mildly jealous that my roommate and I had leased the place in front of her, she was happy to see a familiar face in a land of strangers. She wound up living 2 floors below me, on 31 (the thirty-first floor).
Following my mattress being carted through the bland lobby of 1990, I was met with a series of inquisitive, yet unabashed stares. In the elevator, which surprisingly could hold a full-size mattress and about nine other passengers, an elderly woman asked if I was moving in. When I acknowledged she said, “Well, welcome.” I thanked her profusely, and was happy when I was the last person off the elevator on the 33rd floor.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Meeting 1990
My experience with 1990 Lexington Avenue began during the heat-wave in late July, 2006. My recently found roommate and I had callously left ourselves with only a few weeks to find a new apartment before our present lease in Bedford-Stuyvesant expired. He, a green teacher in the Bronx and myself, a greener construction project assistant in Midtown, immediately set our sights on upper-Manhattan. Craigslist yielded an ad for an apartment on Adam Clayton Powell and another, boasting a great view, on Lexington Avenue. After a long, hard day in the construction trade, my roommate and I rendezvoused with a real estate broker on 125th street.
Racing down the corridor from 125th to 122nd we passed a smattering of homeless people, raucous youths and your everyday, upstanding Harlemites. After a few months of residing in BedStuy and working in Manhattan, nothing phased me. The broker, however, was talking fast and walking faster. Part of me perceived it as aggressive salesmanship, but his wavering tone and trembling hands, which fumbled around for the correct key to open the main door to the brick tower, lead be to believe otherwise. Upon entering the lobby of 1990, my first thought was of a being in a run-down school building. The tan-latex-paint-covered bricks in the lobby and the brown elevator doors looked like remnants of what was once considered modern architecture by public sector standards.
Upon stepping out of the elevator on the 33rd floor, the aesthetics remained consistent with the lobby. The temperature had risen about 20 degrees, bringing the Fahrenheit reading to triple-digits. We raced for the rightmost corridor and found ourselves at a brown door surrounded by more tan-painted brickwork. The door opened to a fairly large living area (by Manhattan standards) and a sliding glass door which separated the living room from a long and narrow terrace.
By the time the four of us returned into the apartment after witnessing the view of all of East Harlem, Queens, the South Bronx and the Upper East Side of Manhattan, we were all but sold. A quick inspection of the two bedrooms introduced us to a walk-in closet, shoddy sheetrock and more tan paint. According to the real estate agent, the bedrooms would be upgraded to wall-to-wall carpeting and the living room would have “wood” flooring installed. The kitchen already had brand new black appliances and beautiful wood cabinetry.
After a brief viewing of the apartment on Adam Clayton Powell, we opted for the 33rd story 2-bedroom on the top floor of 1990 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY 10035.
Racing down the corridor from 125th to 122nd we passed a smattering of homeless people, raucous youths and your everyday, upstanding Harlemites. After a few months of residing in BedStuy and working in Manhattan, nothing phased me. The broker, however, was talking fast and walking faster. Part of me perceived it as aggressive salesmanship, but his wavering tone and trembling hands, which fumbled around for the correct key to open the main door to the brick tower, lead be to believe otherwise. Upon entering the lobby of 1990, my first thought was of a being in a run-down school building. The tan-latex-paint-covered bricks in the lobby and the brown elevator doors looked like remnants of what was once considered modern architecture by public sector standards.
Upon stepping out of the elevator on the 33rd floor, the aesthetics remained consistent with the lobby. The temperature had risen about 20 degrees, bringing the Fahrenheit reading to triple-digits. We raced for the rightmost corridor and found ourselves at a brown door surrounded by more tan-painted brickwork. The door opened to a fairly large living area (by Manhattan standards) and a sliding glass door which separated the living room from a long and narrow terrace.
By the time the four of us returned into the apartment after witnessing the view of all of East Harlem, Queens, the South Bronx and the Upper East Side of Manhattan, we were all but sold. A quick inspection of the two bedrooms introduced us to a walk-in closet, shoddy sheetrock and more tan paint. According to the real estate agent, the bedrooms would be upgraded to wall-to-wall carpeting and the living room would have “wood” flooring installed. The kitchen already had brand new black appliances and beautiful wood cabinetry.
After a brief viewing of the apartment on Adam Clayton Powell, we opted for the 33rd story 2-bedroom on the top floor of 1990 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY 10035.
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