But so was living in this apartment that was relatively cheap for New York, but also the shittiest shithole in probably all of Brooklyn. I shared it with two other women I barely knew. And it was fine because they weren’t there most days. Which was good because it was the tiniest two bedroom apartment I’d ever seen in my life. I’d found the place online before moving here almost a month ago. I hadn’t really understood the smallness of a New York apartment before actually standing in one.
I told myself it wasn’t the worst because I at least had my own bedroom even if it was the size of a walk-in closet. One of my other roomies slept out in the living room on a futon. She had it a lot worse.
I paced around my itty-bitty bedroom trying to think of anything I could do in the city to try and make some money. My savings was dwindling fast. Rent was crazy, even for the tiny shoe box I was renting. I thought for sure I’d have something by now. At least a retail job of some kind, if not an administrative assistant position. I didn’t want to pack up my bags and hightail it home to North Carolina. My momma would be all “I told you so” and I couldn’t have that.
But I’d always dreamed of living here. It was where you came to make things happen on the east coast, and to make things even better, I had family here in case everything went wrong. Which, let’s face it, could easily happen.
I distracted myself by watering one of the eight plants I had crammed into my closet-room with me. I’d had at least thirty before I’d left home, but I’d gifted most of them to friends, only keeping my favorites for the drive up here. I’d had to do the same with my romance novels, only bringing my favorites. It had been hard but I’d known I wouldn’t have room. Between the books, the plants, and the bed, there wasn’t room for anything else. I didn’t even have room for a desk. Instead, I’d been writing on my laptop in my bed. Not that I was getting much writing done anyway. This apartment really wasn’t conducive to that either. I was, however, thankful for the very tiny closet that housed my clothes in the corner of the room.
“Here you go, Earl,” I cooed to my sweet baby succulent in his tiny three-inch pot sitting on the ledge of the only window in my room. I’d grown him myself, propagated from a leaf from one of my mother’s plants, so he was super special. My other plants were mostly crowded around the window, too, on a small shelf I’d picked up at IKEA. “I hope the cigarette smoke isn’t killing you.” Damn roommates and the constant smoking. Another reason I needed to get the hell out of here. But I couldn’t do that without more money and I didn’t have that without a damn job.
I watered the rest of my plants and grabbed a book, shoving it in my big purse that I wrapped around my body before heading out.
I took the train toward 8th Avenue to my cousin, Tig’s, tattoo shop, Tig’s Tattoo and Piercing. I read my book most of the way since I actually knew how to get there finally. It was one of the few places I could get to on the public transportation here. I was constantly
lost even after almost a month. But I was hoping one day to be a real New Yorker and not always asking everyone for directions.
When I made it to the tattoo shop, it was early afternoon and I’d accomplished exactly nothing. Except walking a lot. I’d learned that New Yorkers did a boat-ton of that and I had to admit my calves were looking pretty good lately, even if my legs were a bit sore.
It was the weekend so I hadn’t even gone to the park to eat with Clive like I did most weekdays. I’d miss those days when I finally did get a job.
A bell chimed as I opened the door and I breathed in the now familiar scent of tobacco and incense.
“What’s up, kid?” my cousin’s wife, Delia, asked from behind the front counter. She did all of the piercings at their shop and Tig did all of the tats. I had neither, though I did consider getting a nose ring sometimes. I thought that maybe my nose was cute enough to sport one.
I smiled at Delia’s use of kid. It was just what she and Tig called me and I was okay with that. At only twenty-three, I guess I was sort of a kid to them since they were a few years older than me.
“Nothing,” I groaned, plopping down onto the leather couch in the waiting area.
She poked out her bottom lip and asked, “Still no job?”
I shook my head. “And I need to get out of that apartment and try to find something better. I’m going to die of lung cancer if I stay there.”
“You could always stay with us,” she offered, pulling out a box of gloves from a nearby cabinet.
This wasn’t the first time they’d offered. No way, no how. Their place was too small to add me to the mix and I didn’t come all the way to New York to mooch off my cousin and his wife. Besides, they would probably give me lung cancer, too.
“You’re sweet, Del, but I gotta figure this out on my own.”
She gave me a small smile as the bell chimed and Tig’s lifelong best friend Soraya breezed in looking like the New Yorker that she was. She was gorgeous and confident with black hair with pink tips at the moment. Years ago, she told me her hair color changed with her mood and today she seemed pretty chipper. She had curves in all of the right places and I was immediately jealous. I wasn’t skinny by any stretch of the imagination, but my curves weren’t half as well placed as Soraya’s. She had that bombshell figure going on and I had that mom-bod figure going on, without the mom status. It was sad.
I’d met Soraya many times on my trips up here. She and Tig had been friends forever, so in turn, we knew each other well.
“Hey, guys!” Soraya called out, shooting me a smile.
“Hey, girl! What are you doing here? How’d you sneak away from Graham and the kiddos?” Delia asked.
Soraya joined me on the couch. “Well, they are having a daddy day because Mommy needed a friend day and Tig said you guys could sneak away for dinner.”
Delia looked at the schedule on the counter. “Hot damn. I think we can.”
“Sweet, I need all the drinks. It’s been a long week. And breast feeding is kicking my ass. I’m going to have to pump and dump all night, but it will be worth it.”
Soraya was an amazing mom. She was complaining right now but if you spent five seconds around her and her munchkins, you knew she was made to be a mom. Graham had a child from a previous marriage, but you wouldn’t even know that kid wasn’t Soraya’s. She was a natural. And she treated both kids like they were hers.
“Be out in a sec!” Tig called from the back.
Soraya leaned back on the couch and lay her head against the top of it, looking at the ceiling. “Fuck, I’m tired.”
“I bet,” Delia chimed in. “Having a baby and a seven-year-old is hard work, girl. But you’re doing great.”
She covered both of her breasts with her palms. “God, these things already hurt and it’s only been an hour since I’ve nursed.” She was still looking at the ceiling and I wondered if she was talking to us or God. The thought made me laugh.
I nudged her with my shoulder. “But they look great.” Soraya already had big breasts, but now they were leaning toward the huge side.
She rolled her head to the side, looked at me, and shrugged. “Graham seems to like them. But enough about me and my momma drama. How’s The Big Apple treating you, kid?”