All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(17)

I walked inside and took in the space; I had never seen anything like it. It was cavernous, more like a warehouse than an apartment. Salvation Army furniture littered the room. The floor was wooden and uneven but beautiful in its own right. The kitchen was covered in multicolored graffiti with a metal basket stocked with potatoes, onions, and a couple of lemons hanging down from the ceiling. This place looked lived in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a wooden swing hanging from the ceiling, like something you would see in Georgia outside a modest colonial with a white picket fence. I took a perch on a soft lime green couch and gave Shawn my practiced spiel, and he nodded in agreement. He laid out the downside, trying to make sure I knew what I was getting myself into. The apartment was cheap, but there was only one bathroom; would that be an issue for me? There would be five of us. Sharing one bathroom.

I weighed the pros and cons as he showed me what would potentially be my room. Small and dark with a tiny window off to the side, it had obviously been part of the original kitchen before it was subdivided. I asked about the previous roommate, a man who had in some LSD-infused trip painted a maroon man on the wall, like a prototypical caveman. I tried not to notice it. Shawn shook his head. “He partied too much and disrupted the flow of our home. Do you like to party?” He smiled slyly as he asked.

I wasn’t sure what the correct answer was. I knew how I drank, but he didn’t really need to know this.

“I drink every now and then,” I responded nonchalantly. I told him I would pay cash, and I had the deposit and first month all ready if he wanted to pull the trigger. I didn’t even ask to meet the other roommates—that would be adding more variables to this already complicated process. I had charmed Shawn and he said yes, I could move in in a couple of weeks.

Jill and Dad agreed to spend half a day moving me and my sparse belongings into the apartment. My dad was the first to enter the space. Once again only Shawn was home. He and my dad shook hands. My dad laughed at my choice and said, “Yep, this seems about right.” I elbowed him in the ribs and said, “Well, this is what I can muster on a $27,500 salary.” He nodded in agreement, knowing all too well what it was like to be barely getting by. He was just glad to be rid of the visa and rent red-flare emails I continually sent him from London.

My dad dropped off the dinged-up cardboard boxes in my new hobbit hole. I was going to use the bed that the previous tenant had occupied—I had no cash for a new one. Jill was fairly disturbed, reminding me to “disinfect this entire room before sleeping in it.”

We did a quick taco dinner at a restaurant nearby before they sped away back to New Jersey. I felt like I had when they’d dropped me off at college, a little nervous to begin my own life without the gimpy training wheels.

I bought some Clorox disinfectant wipes and haphazardly ran the cloth along the dusty surfaces. I needed to turn my attention toward prep for my first day at VICE New York. I spent time on the website, dutifully taking notes and trying to ascertain what material they felt allegiance toward. I fell asleep with my laptop beside me.

My alarm beeped loudly at 7 A.M. I didn’t have to be at work until 10:30, but I wanted to give myself time to compose myself for the day slowly and thoughtfully. I poked my head outside of my makeshift door. The bathroom was occupied. No worries; I could do some more research on Twitter. From inside my room, I heard muffled conversations and a door opening and closing. Another person had beaten me to the morning shower. With growing annoyance, I realized that this is what life would be like with a mess of roommates. Damn, I wanted to get into the shower. My face was oddly itchy, and it was cold as hell in my room. Was the heat even on?

After waiting (not so) patiently, I finally hopped into the decrepit shower, still damp from someone else’s body, and felt repulsed. Suddenly, I missed yelling loudly at my kid sister to hurry it up. I missed bouncing down the white-carpeted stairs to arrive at the dining room with my dad seated amid a flurry of newsprint. I’d ask which paper I could read, and he’d hand me the front section of The New York Times. The coffee pot would gurgle with anticipation, and I’d delight in the sounds of domesticity. Now, though, I was on my own.

I threw on a dress and a shitty purple peacoat I picked up from Forever 21 and rushed out the door, the wind bitterly whipping my face near the headquarters of VICE. I felt alive and full of fear. Would it be different this time?

Listening to Le Tigre, I walked briskly toward my new job. It was early December, and leaves blanketed the street. It looked idyllic. I knew this was where I was meant to be. In London, I’d felt unsure every time I stepped outside—where was I going, what tube was I taking, did I have enough money in my account to eat that day and pay rent for my flat at the end of the month? Here I was living cheaply and about to start a real nonintern job at my dream company. I knew how the organization was run and I was hopeful that once there, I would find my footing.

At reception, I was told to have a seat and wait for my supervisor. Glossy VICE magazines littered the textured wooden table, and I picked one up. My dad had taught me not to be that dork on her phone while waiting to meet with someone above your pay grade—it is crucial to express curiosity about the world around you instead of staring at the tiny device we use to combat our own loneliness. I registered footsteps all around me, but didn’t look up until I heard my name called. A Latino man in his early thirties appeared before me. He introduced himself to me as Santiago, Santi for short. He was the director of content and my new boss. He told me there were a couple of other associate producers starting along with me; he also told me not to be nervous. Ugh, was I telegraphing my anxiety that clearly?