The Jump

I walked down the bus stairs and onto the crowded sidewalk. To my right, I could see the Chrysler Building rising just above the concrete urban jungle. To my left was the Lincoln Building, where I would report early Monday morning. Straight ahead was Grand Central Terminal, with its gothic architecture serving as an island of aesthetic beauty amidst a sea of corporations and caffinnated commuters. Behind me, was my entire life. No, no, I don't mean metaphorically. That would be so cliché. I mean literally...I managed to fill my whole life into two small suitcases, and now I was here in Manhattan, homeless and alone.

So, what happened? I was ready to start law school at Notre Dame, but at the last minute, I decided that it just didn't feel like the right choice in my life right now. After exploring several alternatives, I was offered a job working at a law office in New York City. A one-way flight from Detroit to LaGuardia, and a shuttle ride from the airport to Midtown, led me right to this spot.

Perhaps fortunately for me, I have had a lot of recent experience being homeless and living out of a suitcase. I recently spent a month in Europe, where I kept my entire life in a backpack and moved from hostel to hostel. My introduction to New York City was just an extension of this nomadic lifestyle. No, I had never really been to New York before, but I wasn't worried. All I needed was a subway map and my laptop and I was ready to seize the day.

First thing's first: Finding a place to live. Through the magic of CraigsList, I spent the past few days emailing people who had rooms available. I had a list of six addresses and phone numbers. I walked into Grand Central Station, purchased my monthly subway pass, and commenced.

The first place was in Woodside, Queens. There was an unfurnished room available in a house with three guys in their twenties. The guys were all chefs in Manhattan, and all very nice. The place was a pigsty, though, and it was obvious that they were all pretty unhealthy. Still, the location was not bad, the rent was cheap, and the room was nice. But then they told me that the room wasn't available for another month. Gee, guys, thanks for letting me know. I crossed that one off my list.

Next stop: East 28th Street in Manhattan. I had high hopes for this one. On the map, this looked like a great location. The rent listed was also reasonable. The owner was a middle-aged guy named "Sal", and he met me on the steps of his apartment. Now, apartment may be an overstatement here. This was a glorified closet. The kitchen was just a sink and microfridge. The bathroom was just a shower with a curtain, and the toilet was sort of in both the bathroom and the kitchen. Also, the "available room" was not really a bedroom. In the small entryway between Sal's bedroom and the kitchen, there was a curtain set up with a bed behind it. Nice. Apparently, Sal was able to take pictures for CraigsList from angles that made it look like an actual place a human being could inhabit. Alas, it wasn't. Cross that one off.

The next place was on East 32nd Street in Manhattan. This was a little more expensive, but sounded nice, so I figured it was worth checking out. It was owned by an older couple, and the man had a clear accent over the phone. I called him to schedule a time and place to meet. When I walked to the meeting place, there was no one there. I tried calling his number, and there was no answer. Not even a voicemail. Awesome. Cross that one off, too.

My next try was a room that was available on Roosevelt Island. This is a small island in between Manhattan and Queens. It seemed a little isolated, but it does have a subway stop, so I thought I'd give it a try. The CraigsList had said "must not have an aversion to Chinese food." Sweet! I love Chinese food. The owner seemed nice in his emails, and he told me to call him when I got to the island. Upon my arrival, I dialed his number. Unfortunately, this guy's accent was so bad that I could not understand a single word he was saying. He tried to give me instructions in his broken English, but it was useless. At that point, I knew this one was a dead end. I told the guy that I would try to call back or email him later, and I got back on the subway. Yup, cross that one off, too. (Note: I emailed him that night to tell him I wasn't interested, and he angrily responded saying that I wasn't "man enough" to check the place out. Sheesh...even the best Chinese food isn't worth this much trouble.)

At this point, I was getting a little worried. My best bet was the first place in Woodside, but I would have to couchsurf across the city for a month before I could move in. My next try was a place in East Harlem. It was conveniently located on the 6 line, which goes right to Grand Central Station. It seemed promising. The room was being used by a 20-year old from South Africa. He was really nice in his emails, and desperately wanted to find someone to find his room because he already had a new place lined up for himself. This apartment was in the slums of Harlem, and, like Sal's place, was way too small to be inhabited by human beings. Nevertheless, the were four people living there. Two didn't speak English, and one was a Russian bodybuilder woman named Olga. The young man showed me his "room". It was astonishing. There was a mini twin bed inside, which took up 90% of the room. The other 10% consisted of a small schooldesk...like, the kind you use in elementary school where the chair and desk are attached. It was a disaster. This poor guy was a fool to think he could find someone to live in these conditions.

"As you can see, it's fully furnished with a bed and a desk," he said to me. I suppose that appeared to be true.

"Actually, I think I'm going to take the desk with me to my new place when I move out," he added surreptitiously.

"Of course," I thought. I mean, who would ever want to part with a magnificent piece of furniture like that. Sigh...this place was a disaster. I told him I'd give him a call and let him know what I decide.

East Harlem

I had one place left. This was bad. None of the options seemed reasonable so far. Perhaps my price range was too low and I needed to look at more expensive rooms. Well, anyway, the last place on my list was in Jackson Heights, Queens. It was two stops beyond Woodside on the 7 line. The apartment was on the top floor of a law and realtor's office. The overtenant's name was Jackson (Jackson in Jackson Heights...weird). He and a guy named Dave, both in their mid-twenties, were living there. Both of them were from Michigan, in fact. The available room was furnished with a bed, had a decent amount of space, and had a closet. The bathroom and kitchen were both small, but manageable. And the living area had a nasty-looking couch and a TV.

Overall, I thought it was fine, but I wondered if my standards had dropped throughout the day. I walked around the block to check out the neighborhood. Most of the signs were in Spanish, and the restaurants and people were all Latin or southeast Asian. Around the corner were two supermarkets, and the groceries were far cheaper than what I saw in Manhattan. Down the street was a public library, a post office, and a small school. The subway stop was a block away, making the commute to Manhattan just under 30 minutes. This could work.

Under the 7 train in Jackson Heights.

So, there you have it. In one LONG Saturday, I went from being homeless, to becoming a resident of Jackson Heights, Queens, New York, with a solid job at a Manhattan Law Office.

And so began my year as a California boy and Michigan grad living and working in The Big Apple.