A Clean Loft, But A Very Dirty Year

Part Two of Dispatches from Bushwick, 1999

As promised, here’s part two of the story I wrote about living in the McKibben Lofts.

Anyone who knows me knows I hate cleaning. When I was young, my grandmother used to say to me that when I grew up I would need to find a man that could afford to pay for a housekeeper because Sienna, men like a clean house. So when, I found out my new roommate had an “assistant” who cleaned our loft, I was willing to overlook the fact that the place had no walls.

I’d been living there for about a month while she was traveling when I came across a letter this so-called assistant had written to her. In it, he described how he liked to lie on top of our bathroom (which was built into the wall of the loft, with a little ledge on top) and listen to her pee. At first, I was traumatized, but the rent was cheap, so I stayed on as her roommate. That was just one of the many stories that came out of living with this woman, who I ended up sharing a space with for a full year.

There were so many bizarre moments. The many, many nights I had to sleep with a pillow over my head because she was having sex so loudly. One time I overheard her say she wanted to squash her boyfriend’s balls like peanut butter. Ouch!

I have so many stories from my time living there, I once thought about writing a book just about being her roommate. The real question isn’t why I didn’t finish writing this, it’s why I kept living there for so long in the first place.

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“I like your hair,” she said.

“You do? Thanks,” I said and I took a quick peek at myself in the mirror that hung over her fireplace mantle. I had straightened my bleached blond afro into a bob and I wasn’t so sure about it. Most of my friends said I looked like Marilyn Monroe in Black face and not in a good way.

Her mother kept popping into the living room asking us if we wanted something to eat. “Let’s go upstairs. We can speak in private,” Roxanne said. Roxanne’s mom seemed solid and strong compared to her frail daughter. She was built like a potato, while Roxanne looked like a wilting stalk of a celery. I was kind of hungry, but I followed Roxanne up the steps anyway. The stairway was wallpapered with photograph after photograph of children and even more crucifixes.

“There’s seven of us. We’re Catholic,” she said.

“Duh,” I thought.

“Well, Dad was Catholic until he had two more kids with the next door neighbor,” Roxanne said.

“Oooh,” I said and made a face I hoped looked sympathetic. “So about the loft,”I said and changed the subject. When people started divulging too much information about themselves, I usually started divulging too much information about myself, and I didn’t feel like getting into a discussion about my father’s infinite brood. It could take hours and I needed an apartment now.

“Well,” she said and she sat down on her bed. “I am a fashion designer and I am working on my collection, Smashin’ Fashion. I work out of the loft, but the place is big enough for my studio and for living space. What do you do?”

“I’m a writer. Well, that’s what I went to school for. I’m trying to get a job writing for a magazine, but I also write short stories for myself.”

“Well, there’s definitely space for you to write. And I’m sure you will find inspiration for your work living with me. It’s such a creative environment. The whole building is filled with young artists. There is one, minor thing. The loft doesn’t have any walls. I like open living, but if you like privacy, we can put some fabric up if you like.”

“No walls?” I said.

“Yeah, it’s very Feng Shui.”

“What do you do for privacy?” Do you have a boyfriend?” I didn’t. But I planned on getting one if I was living in a building filled with young artists.

“Oh, I just broke up with my boyfriend and I am really trying to focus on my work,” Roxanne said. She looked down, patted her stomach and sighed. “If it really bothers you, you can just put up some screens or something.”

“Umm,” I said.

“I’m not going to be around much anyway. I’m going to Costa Rica for a couple of months. I am going to try to find a cure for what’s wrong with me. I heard there’s a healer there that can take care of my problem. You’ll have the whole loft to yourself.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you think is wrong with you?”

“Something is wrong with my stomach. It’s been off for a while,” Roxanne said. Even though she was really skinny, her belly looked a little swollen and slightly puffy through her pajama bottoms, like a deflating balloon. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to move in. What if I caught something weird from her?

“The best part about living with me is that you won’t have to clean or anything. I have a personal assistant who comes in once a week and cleans the whole loft and will do your laundry for you.”

I moved in the next week.

The loft wasn’t really in Williamsburg and there was really no such thing as East Williamsburg as the realtors liked to call the neighborhood. It was in Bushwick, in a section crowded with housing projects and factories. Although adjacent blocks had become somewhat gentrified, our street, McKibben, was a new frontier. I could look out at our loft’s floor to ceiling windows and see groups of women hunched over their sewing machines working day and night at the sweatshops across the street. Although our building was a gray, squat warehouse, one would never know it from looking at our living space that it had once been home to factory parts and rusted bits. Roxanne had decorated the living space with colorful fabrics, plush cushions and flowering plants. Her bed was built onto a frame that hung from the corner that faced the windows. Roxanne’s work space, which consisted of a drafting table, a computer and bolts of cloth were down below. She had told me to feel free to make myself at home anywhere I wanted as long as I didn’t block the “flow.” I placed my bed in an area of the loft catty-corner from her space, off from the kitchen and hoped for the best.

Although the apartment was spacious, and Roxanne had already left for Costa Rica, I felt exposed and vulnerable with my bed lying out in the open. Roxanne had mentioned that her personal assistant Fox’s information was taped to the fridge’s door and that I should call him if I needed any help settling in. I wanted to see if he could put together some partitions for me, so I walked into the kitchen to find his number. Hanging from the ceiling, directly over the refrigerator, were two long strands of sticky tape covered with what looked like fuzzy, black lumps. I looked closely and I could see that the black lumps were dead flies. I hadn’t seen any flies in the apartment and the place seemed to be clean, so I figured there must have been some Amityville-horror type infestation at one time, and now they were taken care of. There was no way, I was going to touch them, they weren’t my flies, they were Roxanne’s. I would just ask Fox to take them down after fixing my screens. I found his number and I gave him a call and he said he would be right over because he wanted to sort through Roxanne’s mail. I liked the idea of having a handy man at my disposal.

When I opened the door to let Fox in I was surprised to find a gray-haired man with posture so stooped he looked just like a question mark. He was wearing a red, cable knit sweater with an embroidered Christmas tree on the front, even though it was in the middle of summer. His khaki shorts were skin-tight, causing the wrinkles on the skin around his knees to bulge tightly like plump sausage.

“Oh you’re Black,” he said and he walked inside.

“I know that. What’s your point?” I said.

“I just wasn’t expecting you to be that’s all. Don’t get all testy with me sistah. All my wives have been Black. I’m just like DeNiro. I was only making an observation.”

“Well, here’s my observation. You’re old,” I said.

“You got that right,” he said. “Now, where are the flies?”

I didn’t know how he was going to get the fly strips off of the ceiling. He could barely lift his head up, but there he was slowly dragging a ladder from Roxanne’s work area to the kitchen.

“Do you need some help?”I called over to him. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t want some crazy old man to break his neck in the kitchen.

“You like to help little old men do you?” he said and he looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “This is what I get paid for.” And he climbed up the ladder and began pulling down the strips.

“Where did all of these flies come from?” I asked Fox.

“I think they came from the dumpster below the windows. I usually clean a couple of times a week, but last month I didn’t come over. Roxanne was in one of her moods and this place was a mess when I finally got back in here. Flies were everywhere. I put the strips up and now I haven’t seen any flies in a long time.”

“Where did you meet Roxanne anyway?” I asked.

“Online. She was looking for an assistant and I was looking for something to do. Roxanne keeps me young.” Fox looked me up and down. His eyes rested on my hips. “She keeps me real young.”

“Right. Well, I have these screens and I was thinking if it wasn’t too much trouble you could put them together for me.”

“And how are you going to pay me? I work for Roxanne and Roxanne isn’t here. I barely get by with Social Security, ya know,” Fox said as he worked his way down the ladder. I could see his liver-spotted scalp peeking through his sparse hair.

“But, I’m not working,” I said. “Roxanne told me that your services came with the place. I would have never asked you over if I knew I had to pay. I feel bad, but I can’t pay you for today,” he said.

“Don’t feel bad honey. The Fox doesn’t need monetary payment. Just flash me your tits and I’ll put that screen together for you. It’s not a big deal. Just think about what Roxanne had to do to get her bed made,” he said.

“This isn’t Mardi Gras. It’s my apartment and it’s time for you to leave,” I said. My hands were shaking, but I tried to keep my voice calm.

“Well, brown sugar, if you need anything, you know who to call. New York can be a lonely place,” Fox said and he limped out of the door.

I wasn’t scared. I was angry. Fox could barely walk, let alone muster enough strength to attack me. But, if what he said about Roxanne was true, there was no way I could stay in the loft. But I had already paid Roxanne a deposit, plus first and last month’s rent. There was no way I could afford to move somewhere else until I got a job.

I decided to call my father. He couldn’t loan me any money, but he gave good advice, sometimes.

“Dad, I think my new roommate is a hooker.”

“Really?” my Dad said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Sooo, when can I come over? It’s been a while. The sensitive poet thing isn’t working for me lately.”

“It’s not funny. My new roommate has this old man who comes over and is supposed to clean for free, but I think she pays him with sex. That’s what The Fox says anyway. He offered me his services. I don’t know what to do. I am going to have to move and I don’t have any money for a deposit. What am I going to do?”

“Why do you have to move?” he said. I could hear him inhaling a cigarette on the other end. I wondered if it was tobacco.

“Did you hear me? Some weird old man comes over and propositions me and my new roommate is prostituting herself. I think that’s grounds for moving out.”

“Welcome to New York, kid. Welcome to New York. Your New York story is only beginning and your world isn't crumbling. Just tell her to do that shit when you’re not at home. We’ve all got our bad habits. You can’t get a job,” my father said and he hung up the phone.