My Apartment: Starring Someone Vaguely Resembling Myself

The room is small but he can afford it. The walls are a chalky white and they need another coat of paint. The roaches are nice and he has his own bathroom. Papers litter the floor. This is how he spends his days: reading, writing, sleeping. This is how he had spent his time anyway; before school started, before he had found a job, before his real life had begun.

Upon entering 4m there is the incredibly loud screeching of the door. This used to embarrass him, but the sound his grown on him. He thinks of it now almost as an animal's gleeful bark or meow; a welcome home.

There are two closets directly across from one another, creating a sort of walkway. The closet to the right has coats, shoes, and the tool kit his father had bought him. He has never used it, and probably never will. He is not handy in that way. The closet on the left holds extra towels, a second set of sheets, his dirty laundry, and all of his cleaning supplies. The door dosent clost completely but he has come to love this flaw as well. There is a shelf next to the closet on the left. It is where he puts his change every night; one jar for quarters, one jar for all other coins. They are old salsa jars. It seemed pointless to buy jars specifically for spare change.

Past the "entry way" there is the apartment. The bathroom is on the left. There is a chair in this corner with three weeks of old Sunday Times still folded, waiting to be read with care. The bathroom is simple. There's a sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. The toilet has air fresheners and an extra roll of toilet paper on top. There is a shower. The curtain has orange fish on it. He thinks of it as a remaining part of his fading adolescence. There is a small window, with a ledge where he puts his soap and shampoo. The walla re white as well, the tub is white. The floor has ugly floral tiles that continue halfway up the walls. The tub is where he finds most of the roaches, but they are easily wahsed down the drain.

The apartment itself is small. There is a futon. Its black with a black matress. He loves it though its beginning to creek. Between the futon and the window is the nightstand. It has four shelves on it. These are fill with the books; his achievment of the summer: Forster, Thackarrey(sp?), Cunningham, Leavitt, Plath, Kerouac, so on and so forth. The top shelf has his fan, his reading light, and his small alarm clock. The windows are large and have black metal frames. His apartment is on the fire escape.

He has a T.V. but no television. He uses it strictly for listening to music(when he isnt listening to N.P.R.). The only music he really "listens" to is Miles Davis, because on a rainy day "Green in Blue" still makes him weep. Across the floor, past the scattered papers and unpaid bills, is the table. It is maple with four maple chairs. This is where he works, diligently. The table is his desk, his kitchen table, and his place for magazines. His laptop sits waiting for the typing to begin. His coffee mug sits in the same spot, on the left in the middle of a small plate. The printer is directly behind it, extra paper to the right of that. Other coffee cups have been adopted as pencil holders. The rest of if it is covered with old New Yorkers, and books he has doesnt have space to shelve.

The kitchen is only an area: A stove, covered in pots and pans; a sink, filled with dirty dishes he never gets time to clean; his coffee maker that gets him through the tedious hours. This is basically it. The cabinets have some food, mostly pop-tarts and tea. he doesnt like his kitchen. He's waiting for it to grow on him, but fears it may not. The cabinets are too highl; even on a chair he can't reach the top shelf.

The fridge he loves. It was the most significant thing to him when he moved out on his own. It was a the fridge that made him realize he was finally in charge of himself, because he realized he could decorate it however he wished. He did just that, with postcards. His favorite people and photos: Miles Davis, Billy Holiday, Che, Jack Kerouac, There a photo by Dorothy Lang, and another by Bruce Davidson. There's also a picture of his now second youngest niece holding a chicken. The magnets are more hodge-podge. But he liked them because they looked out of place.

Finally, the other closet is located next to the fridge. His clothing resides here. He has no new clothing only things he brought with him. Various shirts he realized are mostly black, brown, and blue. Shorts and pants go one the top shelves. Underwear, socks, and t-shirts go into the small drawers on the floor.

The laundry is almost always dirty. The floor is always covered in news papers. The sink is always filled with dirty dishes. He always wishes he had more time, because except for sleep he's never here. Working full-time, learning full-time, and sleeping when he can. This isnt the home expected when he dreamed of living in this city. There is now "Miracle on Ocean Avenue". But its a start. Almost all of his friends started here or worse. He's determined to make a life here, because he cant live anywhere else. This is his home, at least for now.