Tales From The Apartment Hunt: The Perfect Place For Someone Who Isn't Me

I once saw the movie Transformers and found it completely bewildering. Then I was hit with the realization that absolutely no part of this movie was made with me in mind. Everything that was leaving me cold was the most awesome thing in the world for someone else. One of the apartments I saw was a little bit like that. It was actually a sort of cool place, but not for Clara Berg.

The apartment was in Williamsburg, on the other side of the expressway [the east coast term for freeway, apparently] from all the Bedford centered hubbub. The building was a former toy factory, and much of the interior still looked like an abandoned warehouse. The door to the residential area was reached through a series of concrete hallways and industrial metal doors. The apartment itself had a small upper level and a large lower level. The living room had tons of windows, several couches, and a swing attached to the ceiling. There was one bathroom and six bedrooms, all of which seemed quite small and stuck into odd places throughout the space. The available room had a very low ceiling and the only windows looked out into the living room. In one corner of the living room there was an elevated platform. It was pointed out once as the location of someone’s room, and a second time as the DJ booth when they have parties. They admitted that they had just thrown a pretty serious party last night, and were still recovering. One of the housemates had a recording studio set up in his room, and there was no room for a bed. He explained that he had various places to go and spend the night.

The residents were showing the place in an open-house style, so there were several other prospective roommates milling about. I saw other people’s eyes light up when they saw the space, and they started to aggressively sell their personalities to the roommates (this was one of those situations where everyone interested writes down their name and the current tenants pick their favorite). I asked a few standard questions and made small-talk, but eventually said to myself “who am I kidding? I am not enough of a bohemian for this.” Even if I thought it was a good idea, there was no way that they would pick me. I was sure these hipsters were bloodhounds for prudery and could sniff out my awkwardness from a mile away. I politely declined to put my name down for consideration and headed for the door. Then I had to come back and get directions for finding my way out of the building.