My apartment has been downgraded from sucking dick to sucking balls. There is a leak. Two. One in my hallway (inside the apartment), one right outside the door.
the culprit and source of it all
the floor outside my apartment
These kinds of situations make me realize that if I ever get married, I am perfectly happy “bringing home the bread” (or wine) while my husband deals with this shit.
Or maybe I just need an assistant (but you have to pay those).
Since I asked for your help with the apartment search, I should detail what I’m looking for:
CHARACTER! COMMUNITY!
Hardwood floors
Big windows
High ceilings
Cat-friendly
No pale wood cabinets
Brooklyn
Bonuses:
Exposed brick (painted or otherwise)
Bushwick
It checked out on paper. Loft apartment. Hardwood floors. Artist community. Excited and optimistic, I set up an appointment to see this sounds-too-good-to-be-true, Brooklyn building last Monday.
I stepped off the L at Morgan with a couple of plaid-clad fellows and, consulting my Google Maps printout like the Bushwick n00b I am, made my way back west. (I think.) Past the basketball courts, past the park, past the playground, I reached address 248. I looked up at the big, dirty windows; at the banner screaming “WE NEED A GUITARIST”; at the limp, tattoo-covered arms dangling cigarettes; at the bikes parked outside the coffeehouse; at the graffiti-splattered brick. Then it hit me. Oh fuck. This was McKibbin Dorms.
The McKibbin Lofts are a pair of converted apartment buildings I’d heard stories about but never visited. It sounded like a magical place: kids my age, open loft spaces, band practices, all-night parties. Plus, the price was right and it was a block and a half from the train. About twenty minutes to Grand Central. So I waited. It was 5:45 — the time we had arranged. The dark haired couple chain smoking outside Potion Café continued to ignore me. 6 pm panic. In his curt emails, the agent had never given me his number. I sent a desperate message from my iPhone.
About fifteen minutes later, a van raced into an open spot and a bear-like, man draped in a rekel with his peyot swinging from his big, black hat emerged. Hipsters and Hasidim? I would have signed right there.
He led me up a dark staircase to the second floor. Not many residents were there, although a few filtered through, bringing in the laundry, taking out their dogs. Some skinny kid walked by with a case of Yuengling. The hallway seemed quiet in the gentle light of evening.
Jacob opened the door to a large, airy loft. “These floors will be refinished,” he assured me in his gruff voice as I gazed through the rectangular window at the building’s sister across the street. I was too busy mentally moving in (my bed on the second floor, the couch on the right wall) to ask the questions I’m supposed to. What are utilities like? Can I have a cat? Is it cable-ready?
Friends, I had fallen in love. It reminded me of my apartments in Chicago (at twice the price and half the space). I had a coffee at the ground-floor coffeehouse before returning to Manhattan.
Time for the next step. To the internet!
This New York Times article about the thin walls, housing violations, and poor management freaked me out, but I told myself that a lot can change in a year. But bedbugs are not as easy to get rid of. Disruptive weekday parties would be hard on my 9-to-whenever lifestyle. I also knew that a more corporate girl would never be accepted by this indie brand of artists that likes never-will-be-popular music, has violent opinions about art, and knows where to get the good drugs. I’d have to burn my sorority sweatshirts.
My hopes had been so high, but this apartment sucks.
outside McKibbin (source)
bedroom (click for more images from the New York Times)
My apartment sucks. I live in what is technically called Gramercy Park, but that sounds far too posh for this shitty, carpeted, one-bedroom walk-up. The bathroom door has been torn from the hinges and I’ve never had a bedroom door. The carpet is stained. The fridge is constantly broken and full of freezer frost, only one of the burners is functional, and my oven is the size of a shoebox. None of the outlets in the kitchen work, and there are serious electrical issues. It’s always too cold or too hot. My cat isn’t even legally allowed to live here although I know of two dogs who live in the building. This is bullshit. My apartment sucks!
It is no secret that I am currently on the hunt for a new apartment — somewhere in Brooklyn where there are more artists and fewer small dogs. But apartment-hunting isn’t easy, and many of these apartments are even worse. This is the “documentary” of my journey to find the perfect place. Home.
Where I live now and where you should not live ever (18th Street):
broken AC and stained carpet (although it looks worse in photos than it is)
bathroom door off its hinges
broken bathroom light
broken stove (left front works) above my mini-fridge (the only fridge)
tiny oven
Know of a place I’d love? Leave it in the comments. If I sign a lease, you will be rewarded — but probably just to a night out with me (I’ll pay for every round, of course).
At the least, I’ll help you other apartment-hunters know what not to view.
Let’s find me a home!
