My son lives one avenue over from the East Village burned-out building, destroyed by a major gas leak explosion a few weeks ago.
He had been worried that it was a matter of time before areas of the city, particularly the Village, imploded. The infrastructure is just too old and jerry-rigged, he complained, as we munched on delicious Korean dumplings, hand rolled by Korean ladies standing behind the counter in front of us.
I have always worried about someone pushing him onto the subway tracks or his being mugged on a dark street at two a.m.-never imaging a gas explosion around the corner from his apartment, destroying an entire building and quarantining several neighboring ones.
There was constant worry when my son was growing up: playing ice hockey, driving, drinking, studying enough, applying to college. The list goes on… Now, we’ve moved onto the big leagues. Living in Manhattan has hazards that rival all the above.
In the seventies and eighties, when I lived in NYC, we all complained about cockroaches and mice. Those critters don’t even get a mention compared to what these kids have to worry about. Now, you can get run down by bicycles in Central Park.
Heading to the Big Apple after college is a rite of passage, as is finding a crummy apartment with two other college friends. I kept my mouth closed when I helped him move into the ground floor of an old brownstone next door to a Chinese cleaners and a rowdy neighborhood bar.
Being garden level, any meth addict could have broken into his bedroom window from the poorly-fenced back garden. “Garden” is a euphemism for patch of bare earth with an overturned table and chair. The fire escape, placed there by law, gave easy access to my son’s 8×5 cellblock.
After a year of no break-ins or neck-breaking falls down their Hitchcock spiral staircase to the subterranean bedrooms, my son decided to move into a two-bedroom downtown closer to work. Excited to see this so-called spacious apartment, my husband and I came to help on moving day. We were shocked to find that he and his roommate had chosen a railroad flat in a dilapidated tenement building.
While it is one of the more desirable neighborhoods for twenty-somethings, it came at a steep price tag. He was paying five hundred dollars more for much less. This apartment was smaller and dingier. This kitchen was filthier than the last with a teetering stove not even level to the floor. In order to enter the bathroom, there was a step-up. A big hole in the bathroom wall was covered with masking tape.
However, this was no problem, according to the boys, since the super needed access if there was ever a leak in their bathroom. To add to a mother’s worry, there was no fire escape outside of his second floor walkup. It was just too high to jump in case of fire, but jump he would have to.
Their building is quite famous – it’s on the cover of a Led Zeppelin album from the seventies, called Physical Graffiti. Mick Jagger also recorded a video on the front stoop titled “Waiting on a Friend.” Tourists hang around on any given day taking photos of the famous façade. “Do you live here?” they ask. I don’t have the heart to tell them what a dump the place really is.
“What were you thinking?” we asked in our most controlled crazed-parent voices. “It looked much bigger the day we were looking,” he answered, knowing he had screwed up big-time. He spent those first weeks in terrible buyer’s remorse since he had used up all his savings on broker fees, security, and first month’s rent. He complained that there had been too much pressure to decide, when they were touring apartments with other prospective tenants following closely on their tails.
So, here he is now, planning on moving this summer when his lease is up. There is not enough room to entertain friends and, more importantly, too shabby and embarrassing to bring back a female guest. He and his roommate need to find a building without broker fees. But, this time, he has come to his senses. “You’ll help me look this time around? Right, Mom?”
You bet I’m helping this time. Bring on those listings.