New York Stories, Part V
....moves back in, sadly. And "shoebox" is precise; the dimensions, no joke, were about 12' x 7' in this bedroom. A wall had been erected straight down the middle of the former room, but only one doorway remained, so when you entered, you either went left (his side) or right (the other guy). The other guy also watched TV well into the evening. WWF if he recalls correctly. To say the partition was paper thin is to be most generous. He missed Astoria greatly.
It had only been a little over a month since he'd lived in the Washington Square hovel, previously on the other side of the unit in a MUCH bigger bedroom, but complete turnover had occured. All new residents. One new couple occupied the middle bedroom down the hall. At the risk of sounding derogatory, these folks was white trash. But as our guy always tries to be affable, and he got along with them just fine. Until. One night our guy was looking through the frig and noticed some of those Budweiser King Cans. Now, our guy never had a taste for Bud, as its maltiness and hoppiness were the very essence of liquid mediocrity (being generous again), but that night he was craving nonetheless. He had also had roommates before, and knew the rules about refrigerator goods that he had not purchased. Just then, the guy on the other side of the wall walked in. He saw my dilemma. "Go ahead, they won't mind," he stated, referring to the white trashers. After all, he knew them far better. Our guy grabbed a can and killed it in 2 minutes. As crappy as it was, it still hit the spot. He went to bed.
Upon returning from work (details of which to be described later) the following evening, the couple was waiting in the hall, obviously quite miffed about something. You know the rest. The shoebox neighbor was either very misinformed or a trouble maker. Our guy explained the scenario, but there were no smiles or apparent understanding. He promptly went out and got 'em a sixer to heal the wound. He felt like he was back in grade school. This mistake ensured future reception that was as chilly as the damned beer had been between our guy and the couple. It was all like a bad movie line: Trust. No. One.
Actually, something similiar had happened the year before while he was working in Atlanta. He was working late one night when that Wendy's Frosty appeared to him yet again; it must've been there for a week. Assuming someone had either forgotten it or not longer cared, he partook. He found himself in the boss' office the next day, being interrogated as if he had committed something heinous. If you saw the look in the Frosty owner's eyes as she glared at him from one seat over, you would not be remiss in thinking so. Ridiculous. Maybe growing up an only child had contributed to his evident thoughtlessness.
His plight in NYC never improved. His money had just about run out and the cash flow coming in was not sufficient. It became unbearable. He would spend his work and free time alike just feeling miserable. The city is great when you have money and time; he had little of both. He miscalculated the whole notion of living there. It was so odd, he thought, falling to such depths as to be placing a call to a Waldenbooks back in Florida(!) to see if they were hiring?! How desparate! He was standing near the Virgin Megastore in Times Square as he placed the call! Something was very wrong. Maybe he wasn't giving it a chance, but funds and patience were running out.
Later that day, wandering about Manhattan, he saw a place called Lois Lane Travel. He barely knew what happened when moments later when he found himself standing with one way tickets back to West Palm Beach. He was a little sad but knew it was the right thing to do. When he returned to the apt., his shoebox neighbor informed him that he was going to watch the Macy's balloons being filled with helium for the annual parade in a few days, would he like to join him? It sounded cool, all right, but it was too late. Our guy would be home for Thanksgiving. But our time machine needs to back up a bit before the journey home, to re-examine his experinces at work with not only a psychotic Yankees fan pharmacist, but also none other than Frank Oz. Until next time...
It had only been a little over a month since he'd lived in the Washington Square hovel, previously on the other side of the unit in a MUCH bigger bedroom, but complete turnover had occured. All new residents. One new couple occupied the middle bedroom down the hall. At the risk of sounding derogatory, these folks was white trash. But as our guy always tries to be affable, and he got along with them just fine. Until. One night our guy was looking through the frig and noticed some of those Budweiser King Cans. Now, our guy never had a taste for Bud, as its maltiness and hoppiness were the very essence of liquid mediocrity (being generous again), but that night he was craving nonetheless. He had also had roommates before, and knew the rules about refrigerator goods that he had not purchased. Just then, the guy on the other side of the wall walked in. He saw my dilemma. "Go ahead, they won't mind," he stated, referring to the white trashers. After all, he knew them far better. Our guy grabbed a can and killed it in 2 minutes. As crappy as it was, it still hit the spot. He went to bed.
Upon returning from work (details of which to be described later) the following evening, the couple was waiting in the hall, obviously quite miffed about something. You know the rest. The shoebox neighbor was either very misinformed or a trouble maker. Our guy explained the scenario, but there were no smiles or apparent understanding. He promptly went out and got 'em a sixer to heal the wound. He felt like he was back in grade school. This mistake ensured future reception that was as chilly as the damned beer had been between our guy and the couple. It was all like a bad movie line: Trust. No. One.
Actually, something similiar had happened the year before while he was working in Atlanta. He was working late one night when that Wendy's Frosty appeared to him yet again; it must've been there for a week. Assuming someone had either forgotten it or not longer cared, he partook. He found himself in the boss' office the next day, being interrogated as if he had committed something heinous. If you saw the look in the Frosty owner's eyes as she glared at him from one seat over, you would not be remiss in thinking so. Ridiculous. Maybe growing up an only child had contributed to his evident thoughtlessness.
His plight in NYC never improved. His money had just about run out and the cash flow coming in was not sufficient. It became unbearable. He would spend his work and free time alike just feeling miserable. The city is great when you have money and time; he had little of both. He miscalculated the whole notion of living there. It was so odd, he thought, falling to such depths as to be placing a call to a Waldenbooks back in Florida(!) to see if they were hiring?! How desparate! He was standing near the Virgin Megastore in Times Square as he placed the call! Something was very wrong. Maybe he wasn't giving it a chance, but funds and patience were running out.
Later that day, wandering about Manhattan, he saw a place called Lois Lane Travel. He barely knew what happened when moments later when he found himself standing with one way tickets back to West Palm Beach. He was a little sad but knew it was the right thing to do. When he returned to the apt., his shoebox neighbor informed him that he was going to watch the Macy's balloons being filled with helium for the annual parade in a few days, would he like to join him? It sounded cool, all right, but it was too late. Our guy would be home for Thanksgiving. But our time machine needs to back up a bit before the journey home, to re-examine his experinces at work with not only a psychotic Yankees fan pharmacist, but also none other than Frank Oz. Until next time...
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