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)
Tags: apartment, artists, bedbugs, brooklyn, bushwick, chicago, cigarettes, coffeehouse, community, craigslist, dorm, google, grand central, hardwood floors, hasidim, hipsters, internet, iphone, l train, loft, manhattan, mckibben, mckibbin, morgan, mta, musicians, parties, podmajersky, potion cafe, sorority, tattoos, windows
