The Welcome Wagon
October 20, 2007
The new girls who moved into the apartment down the hall are very small and look much younger than they probably are. They don't dress like hipsters — yet — and are most likely college students. Deborah was walking behind two of them and overheard one of the girls ask her father for money to pay the ConEd bill.
A few days later, Deborah was hanging out with our next-door neighbor and asked her if she'd met the new girls. Yes, she had, our neighbor said. "They invited me over for a drink."
She told Deborah that the father of one of the girls had done some nice construction in the girl's loft, dividing it into bedrooms for them. Likely the same father who had been hit up for money to pay utilities.
"How many people live here?" our neighbor asked them.
"Only four."
Only.
It's a tight squeeze for four people, but plenty of people in this building do it. I remember visiting the loft of four girls who used to live on the top floor, who had divided their unit by hanging bed sheets from clotheslines.
It's a lot easier when you're young and eager to be in the thick of things, simply happy to be on your own, celebrating your independence with an explosion of dirty laundry and crusty dishes. But I'll bet that at least three out of the four girls won't be on speaking terms by the time they all move out.
When our neighbor walked into the girl's apartment, they offered her a beer from the warm six-pack on the coffee table. Next to the beers was a mirror with six lines of coke laid out on it. They didn't offer her any of that.
"I wonder how long before the Irish guy down the hall does his mating call," our neighbor wondered. Despite the visual evidence that he'd already done it, none of us could be sure.
Whenever a new girl moves onto the floor, the Irish guy opens his door a crack, puts Morrissey on the stereo, and waits. Nine times out of ten, the only way I know a new girl even lives on the floor is when l either catch them stumbling out of his apartment at 9 a.m., or when I see them knocking on his door in the middle of the afternoon, desperate to spend their ConEd money.
