Grand Central Apartment
IN New York, anything is possible.
On a good day, you can meet the woman of your dreams in a crowded elevator, or reclaim your long-lost dignity by telling off that bully in the packed subway car during rush hour. You can eat a hot dog every five blocks, or catch a midnight showing of “The Manchurian Candidate.” You can be a college dropout and make millions on Wall Street.
Something else is possible in New York: You can freeze your life at a specific point in time. You can do it without cryogenics, and all while living on the beautiful Upper West Side. I know, because I did it. I froze my life at age 27.
I came to New York from Boston in 1998, with no discernible plan or job, just a friend’s couch to sleep on. I thought I’d figure out a way to earn a paycheck, get an apartment, become a big-time actor or writer, sow my oats a bit and ultimately meet the woman of my dreams, with whom I’d settle down and live happily ever after on the Upper West Side or, if necessary, Brooklyn.
Only one of those plans took hold — the apartment. One night that summer, along with Ted, the aforementioned couch-lending friend, I bumped into Beth, a long-lost childhood crush of ours. She was living near Ted’s place, in a three-bedroom apartment on West 71st Street. As luck would have it, Beth and one of her cute female roommates were moving out of town.
With the promise of a slight but permanent connection to Beth, I persuaded Ted to move in with me. Together we joined Megan, who happily ushered us into life in Apartment No. 4 at 222 West 71st Street, quickly pointing out that yes, there was in fact a brothel on the first floor of the building, featuring nubile and friendly young women.
Life during the next decade in Apartment No. 4 is a blur, but the following things happened:
¶The brothel shut down, courtesy of the city’s vice squad, but not before Ted pounded on its door late one night, demanding and perhaps receiving a “neighbor’s special.”
¶Megan moved to a studio on the Upper East Side. Later, we bumped into her and found out she had gotten engaged.
¶A Bush backer named Jay moved in, along with a portrait of Ronald Reagan. Jill followed Jay and replaced Reagan’s image with Al Gore’s, though that wasn’t enough to help Gore win the election.
¶Ted, who had been working as a high school English teacher, quit his job, citing irreconcilable differences with teenagers, and met a woman who lived two blocks east of us. He moved out and married her, and today they live with their two sons in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn.
¶A beer-swilling P.R. guy found refuge in the apartment after escaping what turned out to be an ill-fated engagement. Baseball coursed through his veins, and unable to resist the call of Red Sox Nation, he moved to Boston.
¶David, one of my best friends, did two stints at West 71st. During the first stint, he met a woman and fell in love. The second occurred several years later, and it marked his last days in New York, before shipping off to Atlanta to a life of matrimonial bliss with that very same woman.
¶An Australian lawyer paid his New York dues in the apartment. Shortly after moving in, he met his wife while in-line skating in Central Park.
¶Kyle the bookmaker stayed for six months before taking a nearby studio apartment with his girlfriend.
¶Jon the graphic designer set up shop for a year before fleeing to Texas in pursuit of a woman who had broken up with him just days after his arrival.
OTHER things happened. An actor who fancied himself Jude Law stayed for a few months. Betsy, an actress from Minnesota, spent entire shade-drawn days getting into character. Temporary residents included an Irish bartender, a summer intern from Hawaii and a compulsive runner who could walk to the Brooklyn Bridge and back and then run 12 miles in Riverside Park.
The city’s power failed one hot summer night, and all we had to eat was a corned beef sandwich from Fine & Shapiro, served in the dark. Issues of Penthouse suddenly appeared in a living room closet. Some funny cigarettes were smoked. Much Hunan Park Chinese food was eaten. A dog named Bodhi became the apartment’s de facto mascot.
Through it all — the happy unions and failed relationships, the tragedies and brothel closings, the New York arrivals and departures — I remained unscathed, accumulating no significant emotional baggage, major material possessions or children. Sure, I lost a job, two potential long-term girlfriends, my grandmother, some money and from time to time my sense of humor. And yes, I found something like a “career” in public relations.
But nothing happened that altered my life permanently. I still look and feel the way I did on the day I began to call 222 West 71st Street my home. I’m still 27 and carefree, the Yankees are still better than the Red Sox, and I could still meet the woman of my dreams on a subway platform, in Central Park or in Malachy’s on West 72nd Street.
There’s only one problem. A few weeks ago, I was ordered to leave 222 West 71st Street. My lease was up, and the owner wanted to renovate the building and raise the rent. When I learned my fate, via a letter from the owner, I felt like Doc Brown applying the final touches to his time-traveling DeLorean, only to be discovered at the last minute by the dreaded Libyans. Like Doc, I thought: “My God, they found me!”
Who knows what will happen to me when I walk out of this place? Maybe my life will suddenly defrost, and the aging process will accelerate, making me look like the wrinkly-faced baby in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” a forthcoming Brad Pitt movie about a man who ages backward. In fact, it’s entirely possible that a year from now I will be married, with a successful writing career and a beautiful wife named Beth.
If you’re reading this, Beth, maybe it’s time you moved back to New York. The Upper West Side needs us.
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