Looking for female roommate. In NYC. Thoughtful/quiet/laidback personality.
Farrah told me in a phone call that I can see the apartment on Thursday.
It was the first week in July. She said that she hasn’t shown the apartment in two months because she’s been out of town, enjoying herself in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Must be nice. While on the phone, Farrah assumed I was from the country because I’m from Alabama. As if everyone in Alabama lives on the farm and shucks corn. I didn’t hesitate to tell her I was from the suburbs. How the heck did she even find out I was from Alabama in the first place? I knew I didn’t include where I was originally from in the email conversations with her. That information wasn’t even listed in your housing profile. I checked Facebook and under my occupation and college I attend was Alabama. Yeah, Facebook.
Thursday rolled around. I was across the street from Central Park, and I met Farrah at her garden-level apartment. She was older than I expected. What I also didn’t expect was a man coming to the door as well to introduce himself as her husband…Farrah mentioned having two parrots and a rabbit as pets, but she failed to mention her husband in the email or the description of the apartment. How convenient. I automatically decide in my mind that the apartment isn’t for me. I didn’t feel comfortable with an older man in the apartment. Even though my mind was made up, I allowed Farrah to give a tour of the apartment anyway. I didn’t want to walk out and be rude.
The bedroom was bare but a decent size. From one of the windows, I could see a garden in the backyard. It was…okay. The washer and dryer combo were located in the bathroom. I was used to them being in the basement of a building or have a separate room at home. Not chilling in the bathroom. Next was the kitchen. The space was nice. The table, however, was covered haphazardly in books of all sizes. How did she eat at the table with all this mess? Did she and her husband eat food in their laps? I noticed Farrah’s laptop was on the table as well. She could’ve cleared this stuff off before I came in. Apparently, she didn’t think it was a mess. The tour ended in the living room with me sitting on the couch and her in the armchair.
“I had to clean the couch before you arrived. The parrots sometimes poop on the couch. I worry about buying a new one,” she said, then laughs it off.
I unconsciously scoot to the edge of the cushion. Gross. After she recovers from laughter, Farrah pelted me with questions like I was on a job interview.
Are you a student at Columbia? (Yes. A grad student.) What are you doing this summer? (An internship at a non-profit.) Where is it? (Midtown.) What do you plan to do after graduation? (Still working on that.) What are your sleeping habits? (Wake up early during the week and sleep in on the weekends.) She went on and on, but all I was concerned about is leaving, maybe tweaking my thesis, and taking a nap.
Then she asked about religion, mine and my parents’ faith. I was a little caught off guard. I told Farrah, hiding my annoyance. My answer was satisfactory to her. I wonder how she would’ve reacted if I happened to be agnostic or an atheist.
What did religion have to do with apartments? I just wanted a roof over my head when my lease ends. If I was still considering this place. After a few more minutes of talking, Farrah released me and asked me to call her next week for an update on the room.
I didn’t call her back.
*
Likes animals.
The next woman, Kamala, said to stop by next week. It was also on a Thursday and, unfortunately, during a heatwave.
I was disappointed when I walked in and understood why the rent was so cheap. The lights were so dim that for a second I thought something was wrong with my eyesight. The couches, on each side of the room, were almost touching. I wasn’t that tall, but I swear I could touch the ceiling just by standing on my toes. I smelled used cat litter but didn’t see a litterbox. Or a cat. The heat had me imagining things. Something dashed across the floor and hopped onto the TV stand. I almost panicked until I see it was a shorthaired cat. That explained the litterbox smell. Kip — Kamala would later tell me his name — reminded me of my cat back home, except she was long-haired.
Kamala hugged me, and her head stopped at my clavicle. She smiled, pushed up her glasses on her nose, and led the way to show me the bedroom. I fanned myself with my hand.
The bed took up nine-tenths of the room. It wasn’t that big of a room to begin with. One breath could make the room fall apart. Various items, bags, and clothes were overflowing from two rectangular shelves. The closet wasn’t much better. Every inch, and some, was completely filled with clothes. A sheet of paper couldn’t fit in there. I was surprised the closet hadn’t collapsed. Kamala said that I will be sharing the closet space with her…I wanted to look away as if I was looking into the camera from The Office. I had containers of fall/winter and spring/summer clothes back in my apartment. I doubted I could squeeze a crop top inside a closet the size of a cracker box.
“I’ll be sleeping on the couch,” Kamala said suddenly.
Wait. Why did she say I’d be sharing the closet with her and she’d be on the couch?
“Where will you be sleeping?” I asked, thinking I misheard her.
“On the couch. But it’s not a problem!” she said. “I usually fall asleep there anyway.”
Her comment about her sleeping arrangement didn’t make sense, but Kamala didn’t give me a moment to respond and ushered me back through the living room and into the kitchen. Like every other room in the apartment, it was tiny. A table, a fridge, an oven, missing an eye and with one broken knob, and a microwave. The petite woman pointed out the washer and dryer, which were stacked on top of each other. How did she reach the dryer? As if she read my mind, Kamala pointed to a step ladder in the corner of the room. A baby cockroach crawled across the wall. I tried not to shudder. She showed me the bathroom (nothing out of the ordinary) before returning to the living room.
Kamala asked similar questions that the first lady did, but she was surprised to learn that I was a graduate student because my face portrays someone younger, maybe a freshman in college. Kamala was about six years too late.
Next, she stated that I was mature. I couldn’t handle a compliment to save my life, and I could feel myself blush a little. Kamala was also proud of how I strived after moving up North and went into her own story about moving to the city twenty-five years ago. I tried to pay attention, but I was also distracted by Kip who was zipping across the floor, onto the couch, back onto the floor, jumped on the TV stand again, hopped down, and repeated the cycle.
Someone get this cat a box to sit in.
“So you’ve decided that you’re moving in?” Kamala finally said.
“I’m still looking at other apartments,” I said, almost too quickly.
“When do you plan to move?”
“Around mid-August.”
“I’ll be moving, but I haven’t decided on the date yet.”
Hadn’t decided? Why did she wait to tell me this after I spent time to see the space? Not that I was going to move-in after viewing all the rooms. That explained her comments about the closet and crashing on the couch. Even if I liked the apartment, sharing it for an undetermined amount of time was not part of the plan. Another apartment catfish.
Not even the cute cat could save this visit.
Part 2: https://jadetheeditor.medium.com/revolving-door-part-2-49c328bc65