Just North of Whoville

Street broker, Alex’s apartment left much to be desired. Fifth floor walk-up and the plaster crumbling off the walls and ceiling. He admitted it was a dump, but worried that fixing it up would seem a little gay.
But even Celia, who could attest to his virility, wasn’t in favor of the idea.
“The floor needs work, too,” Celia explained. “You’d have to strip it to the bone to get it in shape. And god knows what kind of hazardous materials are underneath all that. You’d need professionals. For a rental? It’s ridiculous.”
“Why doesn’t he just get rid of it?” I asked as we shared a bottle of Chardonnay at her penthouse on the Upper West Side.
“That’s what I said! He keeps telling me that the rent is so cheap it would be a shame to give it up. But I know the truth. He won’t let go of that apartment until he’s sure of us.”
“Well, it’s a cheap apartment in Manhattan. You can hardly blame him.”
“Say,” she suddenly brightened. “That apartment would be perfect for you!”
A week later, I was ensconced in my “very own” large, railroad-style studio apartment in Midtown for the same price I was paying for sharing a two-bedroom with three other people way uptown. My good fortune was tempered only by the words she spoke as she handed me the keys.
“You’re going to be a great director. I just know it. I’m so proud of you!”
Suddenly, my life flashed before my eyes---a series of crappy, low-paying jobs peppered with a few (I thought) brilliant, but unknown theatre productions. Most likely, Celia was the first person I’d ever known who truly believed in me. It was frightening.
I set to work right away, taking only the minimum amount of time to discreetly move my things into the abandoned apartment. Shannon and his partner agreed to help---though the two of them didn’t look like they could lift a mattress, let alone a box spring. They both carefully maintained the look of heroin-chic, without the heroin. But if you can get anybody to help you move into a fifth floor walk-up, you don’t ask how much they can bench. You just say “thank you”.
After much consideration, Saturday night seemed to be the best choice to quietly sneak myself and my belongings into the building. The likelihood of a super, landlord or building owner being anywhere in the vicinity at nine o’clock on a Saturday night was pretty slim. It was early enough to not really disturb anyone, and yet late enough that if there were any noise, fellow tenants would just rack it up to the usual Saturday night crowd coming and going. I rented a budget truck and within two hours, we had hauled all my crap up the stairs. I say crap because after two hours of hauling boxes, bags and assorted bits of furniture up five flights of stairs, it all becomes crap.
Two hours later, our arms were mushy, our legs jiggled, and our entire bodies ached. I offered to do the moving thing and order some pizza.
“Oh….” Shannon began uncomfortably. “That’s okay.”
“But I bought some beer…”
“No,” Hajji piped in. “Really. We should go.”
I had a feeling they had discussed the eventual offer of beer and pizza in the stairwell between transfers of my many boxes of books. They just wanted to get away. From me and all my crap.
Within seconds, they were gone.
And there I was. Alone. With all my crap.
That first night, I unpacked but one thing----my computer.
I had to make Celia proud. I had to get a real job.
I spent that entire first week sending out cover letters and resumes, called pretty much everyone I’d ever met asking for job tips and advice, and even applied for numerous unpaid (but prestigious) positions hoping for an “in”.
My second week in the apartment, I finally began to unpack. I felt positive. I waited for the calls and emails to come in. Surely there would be a few rejections. But I was a good interview. People liked me. I was a people person. I’d been told that. By people.
And sure, I might not be the perfect person for every job. Let’s be honest---there’s some stiff competition out there. Someone just might have more experience than me. Nothing beats experience. Not even good interview skills. Or perhaps the fit just wouldn’t be right. Maybe not for this play….but we’ll keep her in mind for our Fall production. Or maybe, just maybe, someone just plain old didn’t like me. It could happen. And you know what I say to that? Well then, I don’t want to work with that person. Why work in an uncomfortable environment, I say?
But I felt good. Positive.
In one week, I applied to fifty-six jobs. I did some kind of creative mathematics and calculated that out of those fifty-six applications, I would get nine interviews and would be offered three jobs.
I would probably have many more offers than that. But I tried to keep my optimism in check, not wanting to get too disappointed.
In the end, the amount of jobs I got was none. Amount of interviews? Zero.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I might as well have sent my resumes and carefully worded cover letters to Santa Claus, North Pole.
I sunk into a deep depression. The way I always did when this happened. Because, despite my optimism, the exact same thing had happened many times before. No one packs their bags and comes all the way to New York City to be a waiter.
I’d been doing this routine ever since I moved to the city. It always resorted in nothing.
I felt horrible. Avoided family and friends. And stayed up late nights pondering what I could possibly have done wrong.
At the end of my usual week of depression and self-examination, I had come to no deep