Picking up myself

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that had seen better days. Probably in the seventies.

I stood in the doorway with the last of my boxes, staring at the empty space that was supposed to be my fresh start. The walls were beige, that sad kind of beige that wasn’t trying to be neutral, just existing because no one had bothered to paint over it. The floor was worn hardwood, scratched and dull, with a stain near the window that looked suspiciously like old water damage.

One room. That was it. One room that served as bedroom, living room, and whatever else I needed it to be. A tiny kitchen area shoved into the corner with a two-burner stove, a mini fridge that hummed louder than it should, and about two feet of counter space. The bathroom was through a door so narrow I had to turn sideways to get my boxes through.

But it had a window, a  decent sized one that looked out onto the street below, letting in natural light that made the beige walls look slightly less depressing.

“It’s not bad,” I said out loud, testing the words.

They felt like a lie, but I said them again anyway. “It’s not bad for a fresh start.”

The door clicked shut behind me, and suddenly the space felt even smaller. This was my home now. Not the townhouse with its exposed brick and vintage light fixtures, not the place where Ethan and I had slow danced in the kitchen and made love on lazy Sunday mornings.

This cramped studio apartment in Queens that had taken every penny of my savings just to get into.

First month’s rent, last month’s rent and security deposit. Jessica had tried to negotiate the broker’s f*e down, but the landlord wouldn’t budge. Three thousand dollars gone just like that, the money I’d been saving for years for emergencies or maybe a dream vacation, just gone. Although I never thought a day like this would come, that’s why it’s always good to save, no matter how little it is.

I had eight hundred dollars left in my account, to feed myself until I found a job. Eight hundred dollars that absolutely could not go toward furniture or anything that wasn’t survival.

I dropped the box I was holding and looked around at my pile of belongings, suitcases of clothes, boxes of books and picture frames, kitchen stuff I didn’t have room for, my lamp, and some few throw pillows. All of them sat in the middle of the empty floor because I had nothing to put them on.

There was no bed, couch, table or chairs. It was just the floor and my stuff.

I started unpacking slowly, my body still aching from last night with that motherfucker and from hauling boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken. I hung my clothes in the narrow closet that barely fit half my wardrobe. The rest were folded and stacked along the wall. The books went under the window in neat piles and the kitchen stuff in the cabinets, though I didn’t have much, just a few pots, some plates, mugs and silverware.

I spread my bedding out in the corner farthest from the door, making a little nest on the hardwood floor with the sheets, blankets, and pillows. It looked pathetic, like a child’s fort, but it would have to do.

The bathroom was the only part of the apartment that wasn’t terrible. It was small, but clean and manageable. It has white subway tiles that were a little cracked but not gross, and a shower with decent water pressure, which I tested immediately. The mirror above the sink was spotty, and the light fixture flickered when I turned it on, but what was I expecting? Definitely not something better than this.

I caught my reflection and almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair was all over the place, tangled and greasy. My face was pale and drawn, dark circles adorned under my eyes that made me look ten years older. I looked exactly like someone whose life had fallen apart.

“You need a job,” I said to myself. 

“Right now, today.”

My degree was in Marketing and Communications from NYU. I’d graduated with honors, done internships at good companies, and worked my way up at Carter & Associates for six years. I was good at my job. Social media management, campaign development, and brand strategy. I could write copy, design graphics, and analyze metrics. I could get a job anywhere anytime. I had to get a job.