Friends who don’t live in New York City often ask me what’s the toughest thing about living here. My go to answer is always: Finding a place to live. I want enough space for all my ridiculous possessions and fabulous frocks. I want my bed to not be part of the kitchen. Though the thought of grabbing a beer out of the fridge while in bed has its appeal. I don’t want my bathtub to double as my kitchen sink. But the number one challenge of finding an apartment in NYC; I have to be able to afford it.  Aye, there’s the rub.

When I first moved to New York, I stayed with my friends on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, sleeping on their futon. From there, I ended up moving in with a gaggle of girls whose configuration was constantly shifting. Sometimes there were five of us and sometimes four and sometimes we had a guy move in to mix it up even further. Bottom line—it was impossible to keep my stash of tampons under the bathroom sink. It was empty every time I needed one.

When our lease was up, we decided to go our separate ways. I had an incredibly tough time finding anything and ended up putting everything in storage and sleeping on friends’ couches. I sublet an apartment for a month and was desperate enough to look into staying at the local Y. 

Back in the good old days, the 1990s, before the internet, we had to wait for the Village Voice or other local newspapers to come out to find apartment ads. By the time I’d call the listed phone number, the apartment was always rented. Or even more scammy, the apartment never existed at the listed price.

At the time, I was working at an upscale restaurant, Coco Pazzo, and one of the waiters graciously shared his leads with me from a company called Roommate Finders. For a fee, the company provided listings from people seeking roommates. 

One listing sounded quite attractive. It was in Chelsea, in a complex called Penn South that covers almost an entire city block. The apartment had a balcony and two bedrooms, and my roommate would be a guy named Ed. I didn’t mind that I’d be rooming with a guy. I knew I would have my own room, and simply hoped he’d be semi-normal.

I met Ed and he indeed seemed okay. He was in his late 30s with dark hair and a bit of a belly. He told me that his parents also lived in the complex in another building where he had grown up, which helped him get his own apartment there later. He worked as a driver for a car service, mostly at night.

The apartment, on the 15th floor, was clean and comfortable.  There was a balcony, overlooking a church. My room was the smaller of the two bedrooms, but that was understandable; it was Ed’s apartment. I would have my own phone put in, and we would share the cable expense, each having a TV in our bedrooms. Ed offered to paint my room whatever color I wanted. I went to the paint store and picked out a shade called Purple Haze — my very own Jimi Hendrix boudoir! My rent would be about $700 a month. (I know. I am gasping right now as well.) 

In January, I pulled my stuff out of storage and moved in. Most of my belongings were in my bedroom, but I had a bookcase in the living room full of my books and photo albums and some dishes in the kitchen. I had access to a coat closet and several shelves in a bathroom closet. 

It wasn’t until after I moved in that Ed informed me that he was an alcoholic and would prefer that I not keep any beer or booze in the apartment. I was okay with that. And really, I was fine with everything about the setup. We didn’t bother each other, did not mess with each other’s belongings, did not wake each other up and didn’t get in each other’s way as far as using the bathroom or cooking. It seemed to be an amiable arrangement. 

One weekend I went out of town to visit friends. When I returned, Ed sat me down and told me he had invited a friend over who he had left alone in the apartment, and that when he’d got back, the friend was gone—along with some of my things. 

Of course, I freaked out. I inventoried my closet and bedroom and found that the friend had swiped a full-length shearling winter coat and a massive haul of my makeup. It was soon revealed that the friend was a woman. Not much of a close friend; Ed did not know her last name or how to reach her.

I kept insisting to Ed, “Let’s call her! Let’s go to her apartment and get my stuff back. What is her name?” Ed was utterly evasive. 

So, I decided to call the police. Ed didn’t want me to, but I did. He argued with me, but I was adamant. A crime had been committed, and I wanted it on record that a robbery had occurred. Two officers came, separated us and listened to our stories.

After talking to Ed, the cops sat down with me in my Purple Haze bedroom and told me Ed’s friend was probably a prostitute. The fact that Ed only knew her first name, did not know where she lived and was being very sketchy all added up to hooker. This friend that he had invited over and had left alone in the apartment … he barely knew who she was. Why would he leave her alone in our apartment? Had he gone on a condom run?

My mind began to swirl. How did I know Ed didn’t tell her to help herself to my belongings? Maybe he didn’t have enough to pay for her and told her she could take what she wanted. And even more curious — how did he even know she took things? He wasn’t aware of every item I had in the closet. 

After the police departed, Ed got belligerent and yelled at me. He was angry that I had called them. I defended myself and stood my ground. I knew getting this on record with the cops was important if any other shenanigans went down in the apartment. Somehow, his wrath never frightened me, and I was cool as a cucumber during his rants. It’s amazing how I was the victim of a situation Ed had created, and yet he was livid at me. 

I was completely grossed out by the idea of a prostitute going through my stuff. I imagined her in my room, looking through my clothes, my underwear, my shoes. I pictured her laying on my bed, using my brush and lotion, sniffing my perfume bottles, putting on my earrings, trying on my clothes. I don’t know how I managed to go to bed that night; but I put my head on my pillow, curled up in the fetal position and survived.

I soon called a locksmith and had a deadbolt installed on my bedroom door. Later, while Ed was out, I moved everything of value that I had in the living room and kitchen area into my bedroom, which made it an absolute jam-packed nightmare. 

When Ed came home and discovered I had moved my bookcase and other items into my bedroom, he began banging on my door and furiously screaming. I didn’t understand why this upset him so much. These were my things. Why did he care where my F. Scott Fitzgerald books were?

But he continued hollering through my locked bedroom door: “Why did you move your bookcase?”

I screamed back, “Why do you care? It’s not yours!” He wanted me to come out of my bedroom, but I wouldn’t. I think he was drunk, which meant he was back on the sauce. 

I was unnerved that night but still not worried that Ed would physically hurt me. I just thought of him as a drunk who was spiraling downward with whores. Not an ideal roomie, obviously, but I always felt that when we argued, I could hold my own.  But as brave as I might have seemed during this entire debacle, that was the night I was most panicked. From then on, when I went to the bathroom, I would lock my bedroom door and then lock the bathroom door once inside as well. I did not want to come back from peeing and find him in my room. 

Soon, I discovered proof that Ed was off the wagon; empty booze bottles and beer cans appeared in the trash. Yep, the downward slide was on. I questioned him about it and he said he was fine, just having a couple of beers. 

The situation was deteriorating, and every day I was waiting for the next shoe to drop. One of those shoes turned out to be our expenses. I gave Ed my share of the rent by writing him a check. He then supposedly paid the full rent. I paid my own phone bill and had my own landline. Ed said he would take care of the cable bill, so each month I would give him my half of the cable costs in cash. One night, I turned on my TV only to find that the cable was kaput.

I confronted Ed. He had pocketed my money and neglected to pay the bill. No more cable. He said he would get it turned back on. That never happened. 

Sometimes, I would pick up our mail, and one day I found a letter to Ed from the building management company. It looked — and felt — ominous, so I opened it. It was the start of eviction proceedings. Had he been pocketing my rent money and not paying anything?  Or was my supposed portion of the rent actually the total cost for the place? I had no way to know. 

I did not tell him about the letter, since that would reveal I had opened his mail. But by this point, I knew I had to get out of there.

During this time, I changed jobs and was working on Wall Street. With everything at the apartment feeling so fishy, I decided to go home in the middle of the day to check on what might be going on.

I took the train to Chelsea on my lunch hour and went into the apartment. Ed was there with another “friend,” who was in the bathroom at that moment. I unlocked my bedroom and stood in the open doorway as Ed and I began to argue. He was furious that I had come home in the middle of the day .

He kept asking, “Why are you here?” The girl in the bathroom was becoming nervous and frightened, repeatedly saying, “I can’t come out. I can’t come out.”  

To exit the bathroom, she would have to walk by my bedroom door where I was standing.

Ed finally said to me, “Can you go in your room and close the door so she can come out?”

“Why?” I said.

He finally blurted out: “She doesn’t have any clothes on, OK?”  Ed was clearly in the midst of some Afternoon Delight, and I had ruined it. 

“Fine!” I yelled, shutting my door and waiting to hear her walk by. She was still yammering confusedly, and I heard her ask Ed, “What’s happening? Who is that?” 

He managed to get her into his bedroom and closed the door, then came back and chewed me out some more. I had to return to work, so I locked my door and headed back to the train. How I was able to go back to work and do my normal day, I will never know. From then on, I would constantly worry about whether my belongings would be there when I got home. They were locked in my room, but it wouldn’t take much effort to break the door down. 

On another evening, I came home from work to find a woman sprawled in front of our apartment door, passed out. Somehow, she had gotten herself buzzed into the building and made her way to our apartment. She sat up as I came towards the door, and in a voice layered with Camel No Filters, croaked, “Are you Eddie’s roommate?”

“Yes,” I told her. “And I am not letting you in. “

I managed to get the key in the lock reaching over her body. Once I got the door open, she started tilting toward the opening, so double quick I straddled her, hoping she would not grab my leg and pull me down.Slamming the door behind me, I heard her head thwack against it as it banged shut. I was concerned she would start pounding on the door to be let in so she could wait for Ed. But she either left or went back to sleep; I never heard another peep out of her.

Had she previously visited the apartment, seen photos of me and knew what I looked like? She knew I was Ed’s roommate. 

By the time Ed arrived home, she was gone.  I never told him he had another “friend” come calling. I was not his social secretary.

Now a note on the hooker thing. I have no proof that any of these gals were prostitutes except for what the cops told me after the robbery. But looking at Ed from a completely unbiased and impartial perspective, he looked like a guy that would have to pay. Just saying.

Clearly, the time had come to find a new place to live. After the robbery, Ed told me to add up the value of all my stuff that was taken, and he said he would pay me back. At that point, I was not paying him any rent, to make up for the stolen items. But I feared that Ed was not paying any rent, and we would soon be evicted.

 My name was not on the lease. As such, while I had no claim to the apartment, I also had no responsibility for it either. 

I had never felt so alone. Friends would let me crash on their couches, but a couple of nights away would not solve anything. And sleeping somewhere else might only encourage Ed to have more “friends” over, which exacerbated my anxiety about my belongings. 

Every day, I’d come home from work and hunker down in my room, almost guarding it. If I was in there with the door locked, at least I knew my possessions would be safe.

Despite all the difficulty, I look back on this time with some pride. How I was not scared out of my wits, I still don’t know. I never called my parents and told them what was going on. I figured they’d just chastise me for making a poor decision in moving to  New York, not to mention moving in with a stranger. And moving back to Iowa with my tail between my legs was not an option. I had to get out of this jam on my own. 

A friend tipped me off about a vacant apartment in his building and put me in touch with the landlord. I went to take a look, and although the apartment was in the rear of the building and lacking in a lot of ways, at least it would be all mine. 

After having lived with Ed for 10 months, I drew up a plan to move over the Thanksgiving holiday. Secretly, I packed, contacted movers, paid my deposit on the new place and was ready to go. I wasn’t telling Ed any of this; my plan was simply to move out and leave him behind for good. 

There was just one last little thing: I had one item of value remaining out in the open in Ed’s apartment — my microwave, which was still in the kitchen. 

One night, I got home around midnight. The next morning at 7:30 a.m., I went to the kitchen and found the microwave was gone. A note from Ed was on the counter, saying that the microwave had blown a fuse, and he had taken it to a nearby repair store and would bring it back to me. 

Now, I know New York City is the city that never sleeps. But where do you take a microwave to be repaired in the middle of the night? And even if it had been broad daylight …  are there microwave repair stores? Damned if I know. 

For days afterward, Ed avoided me. He would leave cryptic notes saying he was checking on the microwave and should have it back soon. He just kept the lie going. I figured it was probably at a pawn shop. It was the very last thing of value I had out in the open. There was nothing else left for him to steal or use. 

I had to wonder how much a small, used microwave could possibly fetch in the middle of the night? Maybe $20? Was Ed truly so hard up that he unplugged my microwave and carried it down the elevator and out the building to a pawn shop on 8th Avenue at 3 a.m.? 

At one point, I called him from work, and we got into a huge argument. I said, “Tell me where the microwave is, and I will go get it.” He refused and kept saying he was taking care of it. Then he even said it was none of my business where it was. 

Then one bright morning just days before I planned to move out, I woke up and found that the microwave had returned! It was on the kitchen counter. Plugged in. The glass plate was intact inside. The clock was set. Somehow, Ed magically was able to get it back in the wee hours and set it up for the morning.

Later that week, the movers came and started loading up my things. Ed came out of his room, saw what was happening and silently returned to his room and shut the door. I was worried that he would interfere, yell at me, and create a ruckus, but he left me alone. 

However, I had one last “Fuck you” for him. Once the movers had taken all my stuff out of the apartment, including the microwave, I locked my bedroom door and left for the last time — with the key in my pocket.

 My new place had a shotgun layout. There was no shower, just an old claw tub. My friends told me to hook up a curtain and get a shower nozzle for the faucet. But the water came out of an incredibly weird spigot, and no shower nozzle would ever attach to that. So, each morning before going to work, I had to take a bath, which sucked.

The toilet flushed by pulling a chain, which would empty water from a tank above the toilet. I actually loved that thing. Being in the rear of the building, my windows looked onto the brick wall of the building next door, so close that I could not tell if it was day or night. But it was all mine. And there were no whores popping in.

I wasn’t quite done with Ed though. When I moved out, he still owed me the deposit I had given him when moving in, as well as money for the items his “friend” had stolen. Fortunately, I knew a lawyer. A divorce lawyer, but what the hell. Getting something in the mail on lawyer letterhead will put the fear of Jesus into anyone. Even Ed. 

My lawyer friend wrote a letter giving Ed the what-for, demanding a refund of the deposit and additional payment for the stolen items. Ed called my lawyer, frightened and ballistic. He went on and on about how I had locked my bedroom door when I had departed, and how he had to break it down. 

Ed finally agreed to pay me back but said he could do only $100 a month, which was an acceptable arrangement. But I didn’t want him to know where I was now living, so he would write a check every month and mail it to my lawyer’s office, and my lawyer would then send it to me.  Pretty slick.

I’m pleased to say that Ed paid every red cent he owed me. He kept track and knew when it was the last $100. It took a while, but he never missed a payment. My lawyer friend had brought the hammer down, and it worked.

I was proud of my resilience and dealing with everything. The cops, the bedroom lock, the new apartment. I HANDLED it. All caps intended.  I stuck up for myself and did not show fear and managed to get myself out of there and got all my money back. 

When times are bad and I am going through a rough patch in New York City, I always harken back to my days with Ed. If I can step over a crack whore to get into my apartment, I can do pretty much anything.  

To this day, only Ed knows where my microwave went for those days and nights. That microwave is still with me and is keeping the escapades it witnessed hush hush, even while continuing to perform its duties in admirable fashion. 

***

Laurie Joachim is writing a book of essays about her experiences in New York City entitled “Lucky.” The title is based on the E.B. White quote, “No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.”  She lives in Manhattan and is indeed, lucky. She also has a brand spanking new Substack, @luckynycgirl, which she promises to load up with tales of shenanigans and buffoonery.