The Cable Guy

On a rainy Thursday, much like this one, sometime in the middle of November about four years ago, I got home from a long day of teaching and grad school to find that our cable wasn't working.  I tried the second television (remember, Dirty Artie needed to be able to access multiple football games at once, in the same room), but alas, it wasn't working either.  At first I thought the problem might be related to the storm.  There was an announcement on the screen imploring the watcher to call the cable company to get to the bottom of the problem, so I did.  After the inevitable 30 minutes on hold hearing how "Time Warner appreciates your business.  Your call is very important to us and one of our representatives will be with you shortly," I finally got an answer -- no one had paid the bill since June and thus had managed to rack up more than $600 worth of charges.  I would have turned off our cable too.

You might be asking yourself, has does one manage to become that delinquent?  First of all, with the three different cable boxes and the internet, our bill was pretty substantial to begin with, multiply that by five and you've got quite the bill.  How Dirty Artie managed to forget to pay the bill in his name, that came to the apartment addressed to him every month, we'll never know.  For my part, it did occur to me that I hadn't paid any bills since moving in.  No one had asked me for them, and while I was suspicious, I rationalized away any thoughts of the bills by thinking that I'd moved in at the end of August, making me responsible for September bills that would come in October and be due in November.  I mean, no one likes paying bills, so it's pretty easy to pretend they don't exist.

Back to my phone conversation with the Time Warner Customer Service Representative, who was, despite working for Time Warner, perfectly pleasant and actually helpful.  I explained to her that I'd just moved in, the bulk of the cost wasn't mine, but I'd had a long week and really just wanted to watch "Grey's Anatomy."  She told me the minimum payment needed to turn the cable back on, and I charged about $350 to my credit card.  Then I wrote a note.  I tried to be nice.  I said that "somehow" we hadn't paid the bill in awhile and our cable had been turned off.  I calculated exactly what each of the three of us owed, and then what each of them owed me for taking care of the problem.  I expected to see checks on the board the next day.  If it were me, I would have been really embarrassed that my roommate had had to clean up my mess.  Brandon the Bartender delivered and wrote out a check as soon as he saw me.  Dirty Artie was another story.

I think one of the reasons why I was constantly frustrated with Dirty Artie was that I assumed he would act like a considerate human being about things, but instead he was as dense as a doorknob about almost everything.  Friday came and went with no check from Dirty Artie, no apology.  I got angrier.  He could watch one of his three televisions at any time because I fixed his mess.  The cable company could cut off the cable if we didn't pay, but what could I do if he didn't pay me?

Saturday morning, after Dirty Artie woke me up late Friday night by blasting the aforementioned T.V. that I paid for, I decided to remove the remote controls.  It wasn't exactly cutting off the cable, but it would be irritating and make the cable less easy to use.  I went to the gym and the grocery store, and came back to find Dirty Artie watching T.V. and using the remote from his bedroom!  Curses.  My plan was foiled.

At this point, I had to stop being passive aggressive and just confront the oaf.  I steeled my resolve and asked him if he'd seen my note about the cable bill.  He said he had, and "Oh yeah, thanks for taking care of that."  Hmm, shouldn't we be more concerned about the time, effort and money that it took for our roommate to clean up our mess?  

          

         "So, do you think you could pay me back?  It's a lot of money and I can't really afford to cover you," I say to the pajama-clad couch potato lying inert on the brown and orange flowered frat couch.

          

         "Well, my checkbook is at work, so I can get that for you next week," he says as he stares glassy-eyed at the pre-game coverage of some college football game.  I'm pretty sure at this point there was actual steam coming out of my ears.  I'm sure that he would have seen a better show if he'd looked in my direction.

         

          "If you're not going to pay for the cable now," I say, my voice careening into a bit of an angry shout, "then I would prefer that you not watch the TV.  I spent the good part of an hour and more than $300 fixing this mess so that I could watch TV, so as far as I'm concerned anyone who hasn't paid me back should treat the TV as if the cable company has cut it off."  Artie looks at me with this face of dawning recognition, like it just occurred to him that his inability to pay the cable bill for five months might have inconvenienced me.  He got up immediately, put on a more respectable pair of pants, and went to the ATM.  I was happily reimbursed in less than twenty minutes, and Artie once again had three remote controls at his disposal.

The Boys: Dirty Artie and Brandon the Bartender

Let me introduce you to my new roommates:  Dirty Artie and Brandon the Bartender.  I'd met Dirty Artie when I first came to see the place, but Brandon the Bartender was out so I actually didn't meet him until after I moved in.  During the week I rarely saw either one of them.  Dirty Artie was a paralegal at a corporate firm in midtown and basically made his own hours, usually leaving our place around 10:30 am and getting back almost twelve hours later.  Brandon the Bartender and I worked completely opposite hours -- I would run into Brandon as he got home in the morning when I was getting ready for school.  He generally got back up around dinner time.  The funniest thing about Brandon is that when he got home from work he would smoke a little pot in his bedroom, which was the converted room in half of the living room right off the kitchen.  Since he worked nights, though, I would generally be in the kitchen getting a cup of coffee in my bathroom when the smoke wafted under the door.  Kind of ridiculous.

Dirty Artie was also a little ridiculous, but not in a silly, "isn't it funny that I'm going to teach eighth graders in a hour and you're smoking pot?" kind of way, but in a "you belong on an episode of 'Hoarders'" way.  Dirty Artie's room was the biggest of three, but he didn't have much to show for it.  His bed was pushed over, almost all the way to closet, leaving a space almost as large as my old bedroom (10' x 7') between the bed and the window.  He could have fit a couch and entertainment center over there, or a nice desk and workstation, but no --  Dirty Artie had piles and piles of garbage.  I'm not joking, he literally lived in garbage.  There were also piles of dirty clothes and old newspapers.  All of the piles reached the height of his bed and there wasn't even a way to reach the window (unlike most self-respecting hoarders, Artie hadn't managed to make any little pathways through the mess).

Now, God knows I am not the neatest person.  I have a relatively high threshold for dirt.  At the moment there is a half-unpacked backpack on my floor that I keep stepping over rather than picking up and my kitchen floor could definitely use a good mopping, but seriously, leaving garbage on your floor, and then sleeping there?  Sober?  And, this is the kicker, chivalrously offering up your bed to your mom and sister when they come to visit and taking the couch . . . without even touching the piles and piles of clutter, newspapers, drycleaning, and old take-out containers?  Disgusting.  It never occurred to me to take pictures, but I did take people on a tour of the filth when they came to visit just so I'd have corroboration for my story.  I am not exaggerating, his room kinda looked like this, but with less floor space and more actual garbage:

The Frat House

After the terrifying events of moving out of my SoHo apartment, I was overjoyed as I helped the movers shuttle my stuff off of the elevator in my new building.  As I helped them bring boxes into my new room, complete with a door that opened all the way and a full on closet with doors, I couldn't help but be relieved and excited.  Once everything was in and the movers were paid, I realized I was starving, and headed out to grab some dinner.

Back in the apartment with my grub, I settled down to watch some TV.  Oddly, the TV was on, but no one was in the apartment.  As I looked around, wondering whether I should change the channel, possibly rocking the boat on my first day in the apartment, I noticed some odd things about the living room.  First of all, there were two TVs -- the big one that was left on by the mystery roommate while I was out, and a small one next to it.  They both had cable boxes.  I was sagging into a 20+ year old couch with orange and brown flowers on it.  The other items of furniture in the room consisted of an armchair, and a table with two chairs, all of which were made of plastic, a small coffee table, and a CD/DVD tower.  I was dumbfounded.  I had no memory of seeing any of this when I'd come to visit.

It appears that, in my excitement over the size of the apartment, the dishwasher, and the roofdeck, I'd neglected to notice that I was moving into an apartment decorated by overgrown frat boys.  Just as the full weight of the football banners push-pinned to the wall and the cardboard cutouts of football players started to hit me, Artie (who will quickly be rechristened "Dirty Artie"), walks in the door.  We exchange pleasantries about my move, and he mentions that he went out to get food, but had left the TV on because he was going to watch some pre-season football.  And so it begins . . . 

 My Room

 My brother sitting on the new couch.  Sadly I don't have pictures of the orange and brown flowered one.  You can see some of the plastic furniture and the one framed piece of art -- a picture of an olive doing the backstroke in a martini glass.

 I was opening graduation gifts when this picture was taken.  You can see one of the TVs, the DVD tower, and a taped-up magazine article on the bathroom door.

Kitchen

On the amazing roofdeck.  Please note the Empire State Building in the background.

Parking in SoHo

After a year of living in my little shoebox apartment in SoHo, it was time to move on.  By this point I'd realized that I could get something bigger and cheaper, in an area where I could actually afford to eat and drink.  I settled on the East Village and started planning my move amidst finishing up my thesis for grad school, and starting my student teaching.  I scheduled the movers for 12:00 noon and, having turned in the thesis the day before, finished up the packing just in time for them to get there.  Unfortunately, they were not on time.  They weren't even a little late -- they didn't get there until 3:30!  They told me some sob story about getting a couch stuck in the stairwell of a fifth floor walk-up, and how it took forever to figure out how to get it out.  At this point, on the Friday before Labor Day of 2006, almost four years ago to the day, there was absolutely no parking for the van anywhere near my apartment.  They parked around the corner and started to bring stuff down the stairs (luckily only the third floor with a very wide staircase) as I waited on the street guarding my stuff/scouting for a parking spot.

Just a few buildings down there is a fire-hydrant spot, which I thought would be perfect, except that someone else was already using it to idle in.  When the movers got toward the end of bringing my stuff down the stairs, they told me it would probably add an extra hour to the move to have to bring it all down the street.  At this point, since I was paying by the hour, I went to talk to the man in the car.  He was very nice, but explained to me that he was waiting for some friends from Europe who were shopping and they'd planned to meet back at the car.  He thought they would be back soon, but, being from Europe, they didn't have working cell phones so he had no way of contacting them.  He said that, when they came back, he would let me know and wait in the car until the truck got there.  I went back to stalking for parking spots.

I should mention that my movers were not professional movers.  I found them on craigslist and had hired a guy just to carry my stuff up the stairs when I first moved to the city.  He was great, so I went back to them this time, but went with two men and a van.  They were a white guy with a huge afro, who sounded stoned but carried boxes like a sober person, and his wiry hipster friend who appeared to be in charge.

The wiry hipster had instructed me to jump on any parking spot I saw and stand in it until they could go get the truck, which I did.  Right as they made the last trip up to my apartment, a spot opened up right across the street.  I ran and stood in it, much to the chagrin of other people circling for spots.  Some people just glowered, one woman rolled down her window and asked what I was doing.  She was angry, but moved on.  The next guy who stopped started to pull into the spot.  The movers, who were at this point back down on the sidewalk took notice and started to cross the street.  The driver yelled at me to move out the window; I tried to explain why I was there -- that I was moving and that my stuff was piled on the sidewalk and that my movers were going to get the truck, how all of this would cost me a lot more money if I couldn't park there.  Afro guy tried to reason with the driver, who instead of answering slammed on the gas and tried to run me over.

Yes, indeed, this jackass man thought that the best way to get his way would be to simply kill me.  As the car started to come at me I screamed and the wiry hipster JUMPED ON THE HOOD OF THE CAR.  He slid across shouting something to the effect of "What the fuck is wrong with you?  You thought you could fucking run over a fucking girl to fucking get your way?"  Afro guy is shaking his head in disbelief saying profound things like, "Man, this is really heavy," and I'm shaking with rage.  I'm more angry that he won the parking spot (by now I've moved out of the line of fire) than incensed that he tried to run me over.  I yell, "What the fuck were you thinking?  You fucking asshole!  I'm moving today and all of my worldly possessions are on the sidewalk over there and you think YOU are more deserving of this parking spot?"  To which he replied by pointing to a nearby building and saying, "This is my house and I have luggage to take inside."  His luggage consisted of one rolling suitcase.  

Luckily, while all of this was going on, another neighbor with a car had come outside and said that he was leaving and we could have his spot.  Wiry hipster started barking orders.  To Afro guy:  "Stay here with her and don't let anyone, for any reason take this spot."  To me:  "Go back across the street and watch your stuff."  He then sprinted down the street in the direction of the truck.  He came back a few minutes later, and without further incident we loaded up my stuff and trekked over the East Village, and I said "Good Riddance" to SoHo snobbery.

Toilet Paper Capers

After a few months, Paul the Stomper moved on, taking over a friend's lease on a midtown studio.  Jake and I went back to craigslist to find yet another resident for our little apartment.  We found Tyler, a slightly pompous and full of himself Harvard grad who meant well, but could be a little much sometimes (once he came into the living room and announced, with glee, that he'd cleaned the bathroom!  well, congratulations, what do you want?  a cookie?).  Mostly the three of us got along well, but there were a few things (like the need for a gold star the one time cleaning was done by someone other than me) that got under my skin.  One of our issues regarded household supplies.

When Paul the Stomper lived with us, I felt like we were all buying our fair share of toilet paper, paper towels, soap, etc.  I bought things sometimes when they ran out, but there were other times when someone else brought stuff home.  After Paul moved I realized that this wasn't really the case.  I might have been buying 1/3 of the stuff, but Paul was definitely buying the rest.  After a couple of months of clearly being the only one buying everything our little place needed, I sent the following e-mail in reply to an e-mail Jake sent us about the bills :

On a related note . . . I was wondering if we could start a fund for apartment consumables?  I really don't mind picking up toilet paper, paper towels, soap and sponges for the apartment, but I can't afford to be the only one who does it.  So, I thought that if we each put $10 into an envelope, the next time we run out of something or need to buy consumable community property for the apartment we can use those funds.  I'm open to suggestions if you want to do something else.

Both boys responded positively and apologized for not buying more stuff.  I thought the issue was resolved and breathed a sigh of relief.  I'm not terribly confrontational, and I hate talking about money.  Even more, I hate asking for money -- even if I'm deserved it.  I was definitely happy to have this whole situation over with . . . or so I thought.

Despite their written positive feelings about the plan, the boys didn't act too quickly.  A few days later we ran out of toilet paper, neither of them was home and the "consumable property envelope" had yet to be fully established (and by this I mean that it existed, with my $10 in it, but no one else's).  I didn't quite know what to do, but I definitely needed some toilet paper, so I ran down to the bodaga and got some.  

After some careful contemplation, desperately not wanting to have to ask them again to pitch in some money, I came to a decision -- if they weren't going to pay for the toilet paper, they couldn't use it.  When I left the bathroom, I took it with me.  For a solid week my mobile roll of toilet paper was the only one in our apartment.  The boys were both home frequently this week and never said anything about the lack of toilet paper.  This turn of events raises a lot of questions:  1)  Why did it take them a week to do something about the situation?  2)  What exactly were they doing after going to the bathroom?  3)  What about going #2?  Were they saving it for the office?  4)  What did they think I was doing in the bathroom? (my secret stash kept a low profile.  I did no flaunting of the private toilet paper)  5)  Why are boys so weird? 

The Stomper

101 Thompson St was a revolving door of craigslist residents.  When I first moved in in the end of August 2005, I lived with Jenny and Jake.  Jenny was a couple of years older than I and Jake a couple of years younger.  They were both typical NYC white collar professionals, working in finance and PR, and both pretty easy to live with.  The girl whose room I moved into was a Michigan transplant who hated Manhattan and moved back home just six months after arriving.  The girl she replaced was a Turkish national who, after declaring bankruptcy (which was evident from the vast amount of correspondence we received for her from creditors and collectors), fled back to Turkey.

A month after I moved in, at the end of their year-long lease, Jenny moved out.  In moved Paul, who, like me, found the place off of craigslist.  Paul also worked in finance and seemed nice enough.  We all socialized on the couch while watching TV and occasionally grabbed a beer together.  The thing was, he was the loudest walker I have EVER encountered.  He practically stomped around the apartment.  To be at his job on Wall Street, he got up a lot earlier than Jake or I did and would routinely wake me up just by walking to and from the bathroom.

Initially, I couldn't figure out how a skinny white guy from Long Island could make such a colossal amount of noise.  So, I started studying how he walked through the living room.  After some careful observations I discovered the problem -- he walked like a tyrannosaurus rex.  Even though he was a small guy, he walked slightly tilted forward, putting all of his not-so-significant weight on the balls of his feet, producing a loud, stomping effect on our hardwood floors.

As much as I wanted to say something to Paul about the stomping, I couldn't figure out a way to say "Please walk more softly" without sounding completely crazy.  One night, when only Paul and I were home, someone knocked on the door.  It was our cranky downstairs neighbor, AnneMarie.  See, 101 Thompson was a coop building, even though we were renters, and most of our neighbors were older, cranky, and complete with a sense of entitlement.  I once got berated by the super because someone else left a futon downstairs and of course, only the renters could have done something so untoward as to leave furniture in the entryway.  Anyway, AnneMarie was pretty typical of our neighbors and had no problem complaining to us about our many transgressions.  

On this night, she came upstairs to tell us to buy carpets.  Apparently, Paul's stomping was waking her up too.  She stood in our doorway and, with a straight face, proceeded to tell us that for the past month or so, someone had been walking very loudly around 6:00 am everyday and she kept getting woken up.  We needed to buy carpets because she needed her beauty sleep.  Paul and I both apologized and said that we would take her suggestion under advisement, but couldn't guarantee that we'd buy carpets as we weren't bothered by the noise.  We also offered the very helpful comment that sometimes living in an apartment building was hard.

You might be thinking, "But Margaret, this was the perfect opportunity for you to say something about the stomping!  Cranky AnneMarie opened the door for you!"  The thing was, as soon as the words came out of her mouth, they sounded absolutely absurd.  Any concession that she might be on the right track would instantly make me look as unstable as she did.  The worst thing about it was that Paul suggested he not put his shoes on until right before he left the apartment, thinking (mistakenly) that his dress shoes made the noise.  Unfortunately, having shoes on actually made Paul's posture better and therefore lessened the sound of his lumbering.  My only consolation, while being woken up daily at 6 am by the stomping for the next few months, was that cranky AnneMarie who insisted we buy carpets, was being woken up too.

The Perks and Perils of Living in SoHo

Saying I lived in SoHo certainly sounds like I was living lavishly, but I assure you that I wasn't enjoying much of what makes SoHo famous . . . and desirable to live in.  Smashed into my 500 sq ft apartment with my two craigslist roommates, I couldn't afford to take advantage of many of the posh restaurants and bars in our immediate vicinity.  Despite loving shopping, I couldn't really shop at any of the cute little boutiques scattered around the thirty block radius below Houston Street that constitutes one of the most coveted neighborhoods in all of Manhattan, at least until I got a little infusion from my parents.  For Christmas 2005, my parents gave me an American Express gift card with money on it earmarked for a purchase from one of the shops in my 'hood.  I bought this shirt, which was marked down 75% to $95 because one of the little beads was missing . . . 

One of the perks of living in SoHo was that people who can afford to live there quite lavishly, often do.  It is a mecca of celebrity sightings.  I'm often pretty oblivious to who's around me while I'm walking, so I'm sure I missed many that sharper eyes would have caught.  As I was reminded yesterday when I took a little trip back to my old block -- walking in SoHo, celebrities or no celebrities, can be a bit perilous.  The sheer number of people, mostly slow-walking, map-waving, funny-pack-wearing tourists, makes it really difficult to walk at any pace above glacial.  I often end up (as I did yesterday) walking in the street rather than even dealing with the sidewalks.

But I digress . . . back to celebrities.  I've seen Debra Messing, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and a whole slew of Saturday Night Live cast members.  My best celebrity sighting EVER, though, was Bon Jovi.  And not because Bon Jovi ranks higher on some list than the others, but because he filmed a video in the park right outside of my window!  There were screaming fans pressed up against the chain link fence, and yet, there I was, sitting in my open window enjoying the show for free!