Soused
by Sion Dayson
All I can say is thank god I'm unemployed with plenty of time to spare. I returned from West Coast beaches to find that a flood had been taking place in my apartment for the better part of a week--a burst pipe within the south wall. It's embarrassing to admit, but my apartment is in such disrepair that on an initial, 36-hour sleep deprived glance, I could not actually tell if something was amiss. I didn't seem to remember those cracks in the wall, or that odd maze of rust-colored dirt, or that huge piece of plaster hanging precipitously over the microwave. But, maybe it had always been this bad and it was just the absence that allowed for a fresh viewing of the old abode.
The next morning (ok, afternoon) I woke up and only then fully grasped that the cryptic crevices were a large problem. In ragged pajamas and with tangled hair I stumbled out of bed in search of my super, usually a hard man to find. He was standing on the street, along with the landlord, and to my surprise, both started heading straight for me.
"Where have you been?" they accused.
"Yeah, I've been gone for 2 weeks and my ceiling's about to fall down."
"I know," Jacinto, the super, said. "The people below you have had standing water in their kitchen for a week and there was no way to get into your apartment."
I show him in and lead him down the hall, ready to let the evidence clear me of blame.
"Oh, no," he says. "It's coming from above you." He was disappointed.
"You mean, this has been going on for a week and you didn't even think to investigate how high up it went?" I guess there was a tinge of disbelief in my voice, but it was just like him. To let people plod around in standing water.
This could turn into an extended case study of the savagery of New York real estate, conniving landlords, and behind door machinations. I will, however, spare you the long story and say simply that passive-aggressive hassling has been the default since I moved in. It's these kinds of stunts they think will get me out.
Walking down the stairs, we run into one of the neighbors (paying four times what my rent-stabilized apartment costs for the same space) who says, "so there you are" to the super. We are all agitated. "Why haven't you returned my three phone calls?
What I can tell you is that for the following week I too became the victim of unanswered calls and broken promises. I also reluctantly took on the role of tenant organizer, as no one else in the building seemed to be talking to each other about our collective grievance. Oh, the ceiling in 3W collapsed last night? Hey, did you know that so-and-so is having the same problem? Maybe if we all filed a complaint we'd have more power. After knocking on several doors and leaving hand-written notes for everyone, I got weak statements of solidarity, suggestions of a rent strike spoken as they walked away. One of my neighbors called me "proactive"-- a mix of appreciation and cynical disdain was evident in his voice.
After a week of non-action and a growing matrix of suspicious looking cracks, I track the super down at his (well-cared-for) apartment and reproached, "Why hasn't anything been done about this?" to which I receive a tirade about my "attitude" and other hostile traits made difficult to understand as his accent grows stronger with anger.
"This is not my problem," he finishes.
"Oh, it's not your problem," I say, gritting my teeth. "That's really helpful information to know." I turn on my heel and march to the store to develop my roll of film full of incriminating pictures of structural damage.
I called the housing authority, who magically appeared three hours later. The collapsing ceiling was my main priority, but as soon as they walked in, they were horrified.
"What's going on here?" they say.
"Oh yeah, there's that, too." I answer. "It hasn't been painted in twenty years."
"There's chipping lead paint. This is dangerous. Are there babies in here?"
The next day a plumber shows up and the leak disappears. My walls are still unsightly, however. The housing authority wrote up several violations and while the ceiling was at the top of the list, they also demanded that my entire apartment be repainted. For years I've been wanting to repaint, but with 35 years worth of a pack rat's stuff (this is my father's old apartment, you see), it was simply too large a task. One whole room is floor to ceiling boxes. (My father, the avid consumer who spouts communist rhetoric--gotta love him).
A silver lining. With this indictment of unsafe living conditions, I was finally given leave to start sorting through everything. I went on a rampage--throwing out chairs, strange appliances I didn't understand, medical journals from 1985. I have not been given full autonomy, however. Stacks of papers and weird looking gadgets still fill the rooms. One person's crap is another person's....
Well, I am glad that the pipe has stopped leaking, in any case, but I am now enamored with the idea of a space that is not aesthetically atrocious--maybe even pleasant. I'm already planning zinging one-liners to plant on the super and management company to make sure it happens. "See, fellows, right now my full time job is to make sure you do yours." It's good to be back.
To balance out the deluges in my life, I am embarking on an entirely voluntary dryspell. No, not that kind--I'm not drinking anymore.
Ok, so I'm no teetotaller. I'm not saying that alcohol will remain untouched during festive occasions or after particularly aggravating discussions with the super. It's more that I don't deem it a worthy thing to spend my money on right now (see above: re: no job and large scale apartment reconstruction necessary). More importantly, I mainly imbibe to make others comfortable, anyway. To be gracious in the face of "let's get a drink" invitations. For near a decade I've been trying to "acquire a taste" that remains elusively unacquired.
My West Coast vacation spurred the resolution. In San Francisco, my friend and her roommates (of course forming a co-op--it's California) had a large party for Pride. Beginning the evening in sparkly cowgirl regalia and a pink feather boa, I took to the dance floor with high energy. Corona, Corona, Corona, and my enthusiasm began to wane. (People seem to forget alcohol is a depressant). Whereas spirits might make others more bold, they only deflate my otherwise open personality--I begin to crack. By the end of the evening I was wholly insular, enormously fascinated with a new-found physical flexibility and not interested in sharing it. I collapsed.
The next morning, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, perplexed by the tie-dye tapestry. Not my ceiling--Where was I? "Water," I choked, a severe case of dry mouth and pounding headache suddenly making themselves known. Someone (whoa, there are like seven people in this room!) handed me a glass of warm, stale water. The rest of the day was useless, my hangover raining on my parade--the parade. In San Francisco during Pride and instead of enjoying the beautiful day and beautiful gays, I remained sprawled pathetically in bed. And not in any sort of interesting, if ill-conceived entanglement even (re: other dryspell intact). The feather boa matted and wrapped awkwardly around me, I turned my face back into the pillow, the sun an enemy.
Packing the aspirin, I moved onto a hostel in Vancouver where I stayed in a co-ed dorm. Yep, I had 6 Australian lads who would rouse me at 4 in the morning with their liquored whispering, "don't wake her up!" As far as I could tell, they had flown almost 24 hours to spend their vacation inside a bar. When I told them there was a great hike a half hour away, they laughed and said, "yeah, why don't you go take it?" While I had briefly entertained some naughty thoughts centered on Ian, my bottom bunk mate, I decided lying under one of these blokes looking up at the ceiling would not actually be entertaining. I could not, and very vehemently decided, did not want, to keep up with the boys.
Part of me wishes I could take it, be one of those women who could down the whiskey shots with aplomb. My old tomboy tendencies surface as I yearn to hold my own, build some tolerance. Who goes back to being a social pariah? (That was junior high school!) I've tried these abstinent stints before lasting many months, but eventually the questions, the raised eyebrows start to get to me. You'd think people would be more concerned if someone is drinking too much, rather than not at all, but that's not the way it goes. I am in breach of the code.
It's all going to be ok, though. I know in the city where the sky is the limit (even if ceilings cave in), there are plenty of ways to reinvent yourself--just name it. New York witnesses rebirth many times over. Even when pieces of plaster fall as I make my way to the bathroom, I give thanks. This city taught me who I am and how to proclaim it with pride--fierce and funny, saucy and sober. Lug my bottle of Poland Springs out on the dance floor and flash some flexible moves. Move to action any assholes in my way. No one need mess with the featherweight with a feather boa.