Slick Rick was an erotic dancer by night, and a highly-demanded personal trainer at the gym where I worked by day. Not tall, but adorned with beautifully sculpted muscles and maybe the prettiest skin I'd ever seen on a man. On any given day, you could catch Rick swiveling his hips a little if the right song came over the gym speakers, even at 8:00 A.M. He was somehow always in the club scene, no matter where he was. Rick was a firecracker and a little bit of a know-it-all who enjoyed some unheard-of sublet deal on 81st between 2nd and 3rd, so close to the gym that he could walk there in seven minutes and go home if he had an hour to spare between clients.
The head of the trainers was Jake, a dangerously good-looking and arrogant guy who knew someone who knew someone who handled this apartment. Rick and Jake approached me one day at the gym and explained that the place was becoming available.The guy who lived there was in Sweden or something with an undetermined return date, and Rick had decided to move out.
Why? Where? For what?
Easier, cheaper, back to Brooklyn, girlfriend, something, blah blah blah...
I don't remember the whys or what-fors, none of it seemed like a good enough reason to me, but whatever. I was tired of the rats and the sunless room at Todd and Joey's. If I had to be at work at 5:30 or 6:00 A.M., I'd like to sleep to the last possible minute and still be on time. Rick showed me the apartment. Sunny, interior brick, hardwood floors. Beautiful.
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In Cincinnati a couple of days ago, and searching for the "best coffee shop in town," natives pointed me down Race Street and couple of blocks and then a left turn on to East Central Parkway. It is the best. The first treat you will experience upon entering is the smell (they roast their own.) Then the decor: quaint, kitschy, casual. They have communal tables where, sadly, customers are mostly occupied behind laptops, communing with each other only to ask, "how's your signal?" (This the shop owner was bemoaning good-naturedly.) The staff was so friendly I thought I was on a sitcom. Nope, that's just the difference between New York and Ohio. Also, their soups of the day were Veggie Chili and African Peanut. Tough choice, but I went for African Peanut because it is an unusual find. As I carried it back to my seat, another customer said, "Is that the African Peanut?" Yes. "It's incredible." She was right. Go to Coffee Emporium. |
When will the guy come back from Switzerland or wherever?
Don't know -says Slick Rick- I've been here for three years.
I want it. Yes. Thank you. Can I please give you $800?
I had a ball decorating. I bought a small cafe table and set of two chairs to be the home of my morning writing, some pillows and cushions, and I always had a supply of good coffee because I lived near an Oren's Coffee shop and the coffee there is simply divine. I spent that Spring walking everywhere and eating Frozen Yogurt for dinner while watching American Idol (that was the season of Fantasia and Jennifer Hudson); these were good times, I should specify. I hosted a clothing-swap party at that apartment and thanked my lucky stars daily that I could afford my own place. But good sublets, like all good things, must end, and not even two months into my "open-ended stay," Slick Rick and Shady Jay informed me that "Rolf" --I shit you not that is his name-- is coming back from Sweden and I need to get. out.
I was entirely sucker-punched. I would've cried, but my rage overpowered my sadness that these two knuckleheads had suckered me. And if they are knuckleheads, what does that make me?
I hate it when I live up to my Midwestern naivety. (Clenches fists and frowns.)
"Easier, cheaper, Brooklyn, girlfriend . . ." My ASS! Rick got wind of Rolf's return and hooked himself up in advance. I was nothing more than the $1600 that bridged the two tenants. I simmered with rage and humiliation for the next several weeks.
Before long, I heard from my dear friend Uma that she and her boyfriend would be out of town for work during the very months that I needed a home between losing 81st St. and heading off to Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. (One of the handiest aspects of a circle of theatre friends is that apartments often become available and shared.) In late May, with plans to attend my friend Bryan's birthday party, I had everything in boxes, had taken a shower, and found myself with 45 spare minutes in which I would take a nap.
In the dim light of 5:00 slipping to 6:00, I mused in my half-awake state ... is this Rolf guy was really coming back? Or was that just a story to get me out and get Slick Rick's girlfriend into the cheap sublet? Did anybody know when I was leaving? Who was exchanging this info? My only contact was Shady Jake.
But sleep eventually overcame me and the questions of twilight went unanswered.
Briefly.
Because, then, the door to my (the) apartment opened, and silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hallway, stood an enormous Swedish Bodybuilder. He stooped, actually, for he was of a monstrous height.
FIRST MATTER: Why had I left the door unlocked? Great question. I almost never leave a door unlocked... but I had been in and out moving boxes and bags into the trunk of my car and then back up to the apartment, and, well, ... I flaked. (If you intend to read more v & b entries, you should know, sometimes I'm flaky. I suggest you get used to it.) I would like to argue that it was midday and I knew the people in the building, but ladies and gentlemen, never use that excuse. (Sadly this is my second blog about disastrous unlocked doors.)
SECOND MATTER: What the fuck is he doing here a day early? Which is almost exactly how I articulated this concern when I bolted upright in the bed that was probably his.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!!"
(There may have been more exclamation points than that, but I fear that too many (!s) lessens credibility.)
And from the Swedish Giant (No, I am not making this up, and yes, I have read The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo) came a deep boom of vocality: "I'm Rolf. Who're you?"
Now. I am, in entirety, the size of this man's single thigh, but I have a well-trained voice and I said loudly back, "I'm Ginna. And you're not s'posed to be back until tomorrow." (So there!)
I must have appeared to Rolf, much like I did to my mother, when at age three, and a mere 35 lbs, I crossed my arms and announced, "I'm Ginna. And I don't want to take a bath/nap/go to preschool/whatever." In these moments my mom or dad would scoop me up and drop me --furious-- into the bath or bed or car-seat, which is precisely what I expected of Rolf. In less than a minute, he could just pluck me by the sweatshirt and deposit me on the sidewalk of 81st Street like an unusual bug that had invaded his kitchen.
A few more tense sentences were exchanged, and then, realizing that I had little claim to the bed I wanted to sleep in tonight, I decided to befriend Rolf. We were in this together, after all. It was not an immediate friendship, but I started by inviting him beyond the doorframe and into a chair at my two-seater cafe table. He made it look like doll furniture. I offered him coffee and I didn't refrain from crying as I told him my story. (I know, it's manipulative, but Rolf had a soft heart and I needed an advantage if I wanted a place to sleep that last night.) It worked. Rolf sighed and called a friend with whom he would stay the night. I assured him my stuff and I would vanish the following day by noon. It was a shitty situation, but there was no need to take it out on each other.
I stayed at Uma's place in Queens for two months before I went to Edinburgh. I never saw the Swedish hulk again.
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