Start Spreading The News.
Yesterday I forgot to mention the series of apartments and townhouses my father lived in after the divorce, where I stayed on Wednesdays and alternate weekends. His apartments before and after his marriage to my stepmother were all in the suburb adjacent to the one where my mother lived. “Brown,” is probably the adjective that best describes the buildings, all near the highway, all with white walls and beige carpet, containing literally thousands of books, shelves of polyhedra models, and a thick haze of pipe smoke. He and my stepmother (though she ought more properly to be called My Father’s Wife, as she openly disliked children) lived in two consecutive townhouses in that same suburb. One of these had a closet which, if you pushed through the hangers to the far back, opened into a basement-like cubby that was too short to stand up in, but was the perfect Lair for a 12-year-old. I filled it with pillows to sit on and lugged in my books and papers. There was one tiny lightbulb with a chain, giving the whole place a yellow cast that would have been creepy except for the comforting sight of the coats that made up one of its walls. It was Narnia, without the Christian parables and with the addition of spiders.
We now return to the program already in progress:
In my senior year of high school, my mother and I went to New York to visit Sarah Lawrence. As the cab drove into Manhattan on the way to our hotel, I felt a powerful sense of calm and familiarity. I had never had such an instantaneous reaction to a place. I found the city soothing, possibly because it is more difficult to sustain an inflated sense of the import of your own problems when you are surrounded by so many people. Still, I was afraid to travel across the country to live among strangers, and deferred my admission for a year while I waitressed full time and girded my loins. And then I moved, arriving on campus clutching a suitcase and my pet bonsai tree.
Sarah Lawrence is located in Westchester county, in Bronxville. I didn’t care for the fact that the people who worked in Bronxville couldn’t afford to live there, or for the ridiculous women I saw wearing FUR COATS to take their lawn mowers to the hardware store, but otherwise it was lovely. It was a picturesque commuter town: campus was a ten minute walk from the train station, and the train station was a twenty minute ride from Grand Central. I loved that I could be in the city in half an hour, and that I could return to trees and grass and graceful old houses just as quickly. There was a stationery store, and a Korean grocery where I bought litchi and muscat gummis by the armful (the muscat package bore this copy: “Its translucent color so alluring and taste and aroma so gentle and mellow offer admiring feelings of a graceful lady.”) The Chinese restaurant had the best fortune cookie fortunes ever, from the intriguing (“The dim haze of mystery will add enchantment to your life”) to the disturbing (“Remember, you are always on our mind…”) (Yes, singular, and you try opening that cookie and not looking around apprehensively.)
And OH, did I love Manhattan. I loved riding trains and subways, I loved wandering in and out of shops and restaurants, I loved the solid old buildings, and buying coffee (It came with milk and sugar in it! So strange!) or pigeon hot dogs from street vendors. I loved sitting in the bar at the Warwick, or outdoors at my favorite restaurant—home of lobster ravioli with saffron cream sauce. It was tiny, cheap, and delicious, this restaurant, and used to be near Union Square, down the street from Air Market, where I’d gorged myself on Mr. Friendly merchandise during my visit in high school. I loved people watching, and the park, and having tea at Takashimaya. In New York, I wasn’t perpetually overdressed, and no matter how late it was, I was never the last one awake. Oh, how I dreaded being the last one awake! My favorite time to fall asleep back then was about 6am, just as the sun was rising companionably over the horizon.
My first dorm room was on the third floor of a converted mansion, and my roommate was a friendly, sensible girl who looked EXACTLY like Tobey Maguire, right down to the haircut. Our floor had three rooms, and my roommate and I shared a bathroom with two other girls. Also on the floor was a gratuitously loud gentleman from the Bronx, who was friends with a guy from Jersey who lived on the floor below. I called them Hoodlum Upstairs and Hoodlum Downstairs. They were bizarrely anachronistic, and I often wondered how they had ended up at Sarah Lawrence in the first place. There were only a handful of straight guys in attendance, mostly sensitive artist types, which these two emphatically were not. Perhaps they had been lured by the 75% female population, not realizing that most of those females were lesbians.
Anyhow, another of their friends was a youth perpetually clad in a puffy North Face jacket, and one night, at the end of the semester, Hoodlum Upstairs had a party. I returned home, depleted by last minute paper-writing (and also, it should be noted, somewhat stoned), and opened the door of my room to see two people—NEITHER OF THEM MY ROOMMATE—having acrobatic sex. One of them, the one whose naked ass faced me, was still wearing his North Face jacket.
I would like to say that I came up with some scathing, witty remark, but to the best of my recollection, I could muster only an icy (and baffled) “Excuse me?”
You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you cannot extricate her pathological aversion to conflict.
They left, the girl giggling, and I called a friend. While on the phone I heard…noises.
THE FORNICATORS HAD SIMPLY MOVED TO MY BATHROOM.
After I had banished them for good (and resolved never, ever to take a bath again), I composed a Very Strongly Worded Letter to Hoodlum Upstairs, stomped down the hallway, and slapped it furiously on his door.
Ah, communal living! How I don’t miss thee in the slightest.
(Out of time again, damn it. You will have to wait until tomorrow to hear about The Man in The Hole.)
31 Comments
LOVE this post.
Also, muscat gummis & lobster ravioli in saffron cream sauce? You’re killing me!
I too had a cubby, actually in my parents’ basement that was my getaway. Oh, I loved it so. Thanks for making me think about it again after all these years tucked away.
How fun! And what crazy & colorful memories. No wonder you’re so awesome. :)
When I was about 6 or 7, I was convinced there was a serial killer living in the basement of my house. In my mind, serial killers were only active at night, so it was okay to go downstairs during the day, as long as the window shades were open.
This fear became somewhat problematic when I was almost 8 and my parents informed me that my little brother and I would be moving into the basement because we were getting a new brother or sister. For a long time, I would make my brother go downstairs first. This wasn’t (entirely) oldest-sibling animus; I thought that serial killers didn’t target little boys.
There was also a secret room — like the one you describe — accessed through a closet. It was under the stairs, and had nails protruding from its four foot high ceiling. It was sort of a secret enclave for diminutive people that tested the mettle of an extra-tall child. Oh how I wanted to make it into a secret library. Alas, I couldn’t cope with the tetanus shots!
I had dreams about the basement of my first house (age 1-5) for many years. It was a standard walk-out basement in a suburban area, but I thought that there was a hidden compartment that had been part of the Underground Railroad. I have a feeling that this idea came from an early 80s television program, but I haven’t been able to identify which one. In dreams, this basement often has a waterfall as well.
After a series of apartments during the 18-24 years, the last two houses I’ve lived in have been basement-free. The one before this had a crawl space, though. Occasionally, a groundhog would get into the crawl space and root around in the middle of the night, driving my dog crazy and scaring the unholy shit out of me.
That house had a fantastic attic that contained boxes of strange stuff from past tenants too. I spent many a lazy afternoon digging in these treasure chests. I even took some of them with me when I bought my own place. Speaking of creepy-amazing attics: Tweed House at SLC? Fantastic!
oh this is very fun!
I do wish, however, that you would give the names of the various suburbs so that us locals can nod in agreement at your obvious accuracy in describing our dear twin cities.
Took me a day or two, but here’s my own description of three-ish decades of moving history.
http://jaruuds.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/starting-with-536-e-7th-st/
Your cubby story brought back memories! I didn’t have one, but our home had a really old safe in it that no one knew the combination to, nor did anyone seem to care about but me. And it was too heavy to move out of the basement, so in the corner it sat. I remember sitting, convinced I was going to break the combination, taking my playschool stethescope and listening like they do in the movies, all the while imagining that Capone’s treasure had been hidden inside (It was around the time Geraldo had been boring into some vault wall, only to look like a fool) I think this contributes to the reason I can’t stand surprises or why I can’t wait until Christmas to open gifts!
Love the memories!
P.S. I had a similar experience with my dorm, only it was my roommate and her guy(s) of the hour. Needless to say, I switched colleges shortly after (to get as far away as possible and to come back to my beloved Chicago), and I still cringe when I see a Winona State sweatshirt!
sarah lawrence dorms are in the city? i never knew that.
i am near union sq and would love to go to the lobster ravioli with saffron cream sauce place… do you know if it’s still there? sounds so delicious. i won’t be able to get it out of my head for a few days.
Oh this is awesome and reminds me of my year of living with two girlfriends and FOUR foreign boys who we found to fill the apartment. They were interesting. Although, thankfully, to my knowledge no one but me and my roommate had sex in my room. Eesh. Oh college.
Also, if you are thinking of another city to move into I can heartily recommend Philadelphia. Lots of row homes in nice neighborhoods which are still the city but slightly more residential. I don’t know/remember what Scott does and whether he telecommutes, but seriously: Philadelphia. I will say though that the good Indian food is all across the river in New Jersey. We have fancy Indian but no good quick take out that I’ve found.
This?
“As the cab drove into Manhattan on the way to our hotel, I felt a powerful sense of calm and familiarity. I had never had such an instantaneous reaction to a place. I found the city soothing, possibly because it is more difficult to sustain an inflated sense of the import of your own problems when you are surrounded by so many people. ”
This was me! EXACTLY! I could’ve written this!! I had never, ever been in NYC before until going to look at, er, you know — the one uptown — and I had the same reaction in the cabride up. My mother thought I was going to Swarthmore and just checking this off my list, but ohhhh nooo. I went there. It was home. It was exactly where I needed to be.
Minus the cute dorm facilities, and sadly, no acrobatic sex either witnessed or participated in. But I did like the subways . . .
These are the best posts ever.
“…I felt a powerful sense of calm and familiarity.”
Same for me, but it was the end of a too-long string of east coast college tours onto the soil of my mother’s alma mater. I had resisted going simply for that reason, but the minute I got out of the car, I said, “This is it.” And, having moved back to the area, I *still* feel that way every time I go to campus.
The feeling you had in New York is exactly how I felt in Boston during my big college tour. It’s like your whole body sighs and says, ahhhh, I’m done looking – here is where I need to be. But I, too, got the best of both worlds as you did with Sarah Lawrence by attending Wellesley – thirty minutes ride out from Boston, but nestled in affluent (annoyingly so) suburbs and acres of lush greenness. City when I want it, quiet when I want it. The ideal college combo.
Ah, the college memories. We had guy roommates from Holland, I think they were, and nobody could ever pronounce their names, so we called them Frank and Beans. And they were constant violators of both of the only rules we had for that apartment. First was even if you mostly finish the vodka you must replace it, and the second rule was if anyone is having sex in your room it had better involve you. God that was a long year.
Ahhh college and its myriad amusing anecdotes… In my first apartment, I lived with a friend who turned out to have an exhibitionist streak. I came home many times to brazen sex scenes in the living room. They never even stopped to acknowledge me as I walked quickly to my room and slammed my door, which didn’t really help drown out the noise….. We don’t talk anymore..
I am totally starting a post about my random residential history! This is great fun!
Have you considered the West Side of St. Paul, on the other side of the high bridge? Some lovely pockets and sort of within walking of things. Also, some cute pockets of Mendota Heights up there too with older homes and tree lined streets. Definite quiet suburbia feel, but 5 minutes from Grand and downtown.
We love it here.
So I’m a lurker – but these posts are pulling comments out of me. I ADORE hearing where people lived and the histories and memories behind it. Probably because I’ve moved a lot in my past and (hopefully) intend to move a lot more in the future.
Thank you for sharing these – and don’t mind me when I steal this idea (but of course properly link).
I grew up in New York, just north of Westchester County, and it has always felt a little less suburb, a little more country to me. Nonetheless, it was home.
I had a brief 2-year stint living in dorms when I went to Delaware for school, followed by a decision to transfer closer to home and eventually move out. My first official apartment had a Bronxville zipcode, but was precariously balanced on the edge of Fleetwood and Yonkers. It was a quiet little studio with a twisted hallway and plenty of — your mother’s version — character. I took the train into the city for school and spent weekends walking around Bronxville. I imagined that one day I might actually reside in one of those charming brownstones.
It’s possibly that any nostalgic charm that remains in my memory could have derived from the simple fact that it was my first apartment, but every so often I miss those days.
Sarah Lawrence dorms. I know them well. Really well. ;)
Alexa – I love your posts! I think you should come to where I live, in a beautiful little town 15 minutes North of Pittsburgh, PA – very close to all kinds of city cultural attractions, yet you can still go home and live near trees and grassy fields where Simone could run and run! Our little walking town boasts cool shops and eateries and they close the center of town for fun holiday festivals so all the townsfolk can come and mingle, hopefully with a hot toddy in their thermos! To make it even a more attractive offer – we have a daughter, Violet, who is 19 months (15 months adjusted, she’s a 24-weeker) who loves to play and I would babysit them both sometimes so you and hubby could go out on the town, interested? :) :) :) Your writing is great, and your sense of humor speaks to me – can’t wait to read your book! :) Your soon to be neighbor, ha ha ha, Cindy
I, for one, am immensely enjoying these posts. Great thread, and great way to get lots of fodder for several posts. I can to steal the idea? Not that anyone looks at my blog (heh, even *I* hardly ever do) so you know, the 4 or 5 friends who read it *probably* don’t pose a threat.
Love reading a little about your college experience. . .my four years at Brigham Young University were just a leeetle bit different. :) Entertaining and colorful in their own way, but no acrobatic sex or coming home stoned involved.
As far as I know, students at British and Irish universities always get single rooms in university accommodation (though they may end up sharing when renting privately if they live somewhere really expensive, such as London or Dublin. But I was at Oxford and York and never shared a room). I wonder how much fun we miss this way? :-)
By the time I was 20 I think I had lived in just as many different apartments/houses/basements, etc. One of my favorites was a little duplex in Forest Lake when I was six. My bedroom had a standard closet which, like the one in your story, had a small cubby on one side. My mother put my play kitchen and a small bookshelf in there, and it was my heaven.
I’m certain if I saw it now I would wonder how on earth I ever fit inside it so comfortably.
(Oh wait, probably not. I’m still less-than-average height.)
I guess what I’m trying to say, Alexa, is that I hear ya purrin’ kitten.
Oh, and the best part?!?! My mom took up a roommate at one point during our stay there and she had two EVIL Siamese cats (yes, just like the ones in Lady and the Tramp!) and due to their volatility they were confined to (gasp!) my closet.
I hated life for most of that summer. Luckily the woman and my mother had a falling out and she moved out. She took her awful white sofas with teal and pink confetti dots and her rotten cats with her.
And my world was whole once more.
I love reading all of these comments! I think maybe everyone has college roommate/fornicator/group living stories.
Although no one but me ever had sex in my room, I once knocked on the door of a friend’s room and was told to “come in!” despite the fact that she was locked in coitus with the hairiest man on campus. It took me a while to get that image out of my head, let me tell you.
I also shared living space with a man who really REALLY loved knives, a roommate who always answered the phone, “WHO DIS?” and another housemate who thought it would be funny to give us as references to the FBI when she applied for a Senate page job and NOT TELL US. (We were all contacted in various ways that freaked us all the hell out.)
I’m sorry, but the chattery about the fornicators followed by reference to a man in a hole … well. Maybe we should leave it a that ….
I recently recounted for my son (age twenty) the tale of our many moves/homes: 23 by the time he was 13.
In college, because I was too cool for school, I rented a really crummy apartment in one of the worst parts of town. It was in a duplex. My wall-sharing neighbor was a guy who never left the house. But people came all day long to visit him. These “visits” never lasted more than a few minutes though, and even though I was a naive 17 I figured out pretty quickly what kind of business he was in.
He used to do lines of coke and lift weights without a spotter, weights so heavy he would just drop them to the ground after one rep. That clanging sound became comforting–I, too, am deathly afraid of intruders (I sleep with my phone–sometimes even dialing 9 and just one 1, just in case I need to act quickly)–and knowing he was close by, however coked up, however drugdealery, helped me sleep at night. I nicknamed him Lou Ferrigno.
A few days after September 11, 2001 I walked by the entrance to his half of the duplex on the way to my own, and through the mesh of the heavy security door saw him standing, fists clenched, in front of his television, watching the footage.
He raised his arms to the ceiling and said, chantingly, with confidence: “I am the one. I am the one with the power to save the world.”
Oh, Lou. Why didn’t you?
For the record,”North Face” is now a licensed EMT. Shudder. Also by the by, I moved to Boston over the summer. Its an amazing respite after 10 years of NYC and i think you would absolutely love it here.
Longtime fan and professional grammar nazi/a-hole de-lurking to say that I’m pretty sure you meant stationEry store. Unless you didn’t; I mean, odds are it WAS also stationary.
Late to the party, but…
I live in a tiny city in the middle of Buffalo & Rochester, NY. It’s a city-sorta-suburb; surrounded by farm country, we’re the only city in the whole county. Lots and lots of green, and 3 feet of snow at a time in the winter.
I do like it here. I like that it’s not too city, but I can get a healthy dose of city any time I want, living between two metropolii, and that there are so many colleges here. I was born here, and I’ve never know anywhere different. I do live in a house with my mother and my boyfriend, three cats and a puppy. Living here is relatively cheap, and coming home is always a good thing; it is, definitely, home.
No murderers in my basement, but I did find a dead mouse in the dishwasher.
I love this series! Looking forward to the next installment.
You’ve inspired me, but I’m almost afraid to start my own. I had 19 mailing addresses in 12 years.
Remember that time you told me about the pasta and then said that we could go there if you’re ever in NY. We should do that. Because I’m salivating and the only thing I have to look forward to for today are peas. PEAS. I want some past dammit!