Live In My Room

Hey, pigs! If you've ever wanted to live in my room, I swear to god, there's no better time than now! That's right, I'm leaving my humble room on West 107th St. There's a Craiglist listing here.

Looking at the pictures tells some stories, some good times.

Back in the spring of 2006, when my buddy/roommate from college told me he had an extra room, I was pretty psyched. I knew I had to do it.

Since I've been here I can honestly say I'm a changed man. Why wouldn't I have changed? "Yes," I am aware, but still. The first time I walked the streets alone...

Insert flashback to July 2006; JT's "Sexyback" playing everywhere you go, like Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" was the year before.

I didn't have any kind of job lined up, so I knew I had to get one, and I couldn't get by on the same button-downs that I've had since college to get the job done. I spent my first day alone, walking the city to seek and find dress clothes for job interviews. Interesting, I know. After several hours, I had my hands full of bags and I was making my way home.

After a sweaty subway ride, I was making my way home when I "bumped" (barely) into Mr. Scary New York Man. Whatever, I don't care what you think, he was bigger and had a crazy eye. Confrontation ensues. My bags accidentally hit his bag (barely), he dropped it, sounds of glass breaking, red liquid spilling on the concrete (what the fuck is that shit?), me trying my best to pretend I didn't notice.

"HEY!"

I was being called out.

"You made me drop my daughter's prescription medicine," he grunted angrily at me.

I was half thinking "bullshit," I half wanted to make things right. I offered to take him back to the pharmacy to get the prescription refilled. He wanted to take me away in a cab. I refused and offered him money instead. "Why couldn't he have just dropped a 40. I could have giving him $5 fucking dollars and he could've bought TWO fucking 40s," I thought to myself.

He told me the medicine cost $20 dollars. When I pulled out my wallet, I could feel his eyes on my money. He then told me there was TWO bottles in his broken bag (who is he kidding?), so he needed $40! I protested in a way you'd expect, trying to reason. Fuck, it was light outside. He was drunk and getting loud. Then he quietly told me to GIVE HIM ALL MY MONEY... I looked around, of course there was no one. To avoid further confrontation (keep in mind I had NEW clothes in bags, in my hands, on the ground during all this. What am I supposed to do, fucking slap him and run for it? Mr. Scary New York Man wasn't playing. I gave him all my money... roughly $60 buck, I'd guess.

I felt kinda band about it, but I also felt proud of it. It was a fun story to tell. People couldn't believe it and apologized, very sweet, but it's a fun story nonetheless. Fun because violence was avoided. Some of my friends thought I was naive and fell for the oldest trick in the book. The ole "drop your 50 cent red drink that every alcoholic walking the street buys and blame it on someone and then take his money" trick... Obviously I had never heard of that one. I learned my lesson. Or have I?

For all those who were wondering, I'm moving in with my love here real soon. New place on May 9th. Party time/excellent.