Five hundred square feet, if that. You can’t be picky about arm space living in Greenwich Village. Toward the left of the studio apartment is a shining stovetop. Next to it a bottle of cleaner and a spotless, crumpled-but-not-thrown-away paper towel, like the stove didn’t need cleaning to begin with. Two eggplant purple plates, two pigeon grey cups (coffee cups, not glasses), one pan, one pot, and an ancient meat cleaver, all hoisted by hooks that would give the Lost Boys night terrors and maybe even unnerve Peter Pan himself. No cabinets. Instead, the naked hinges lie fixed and useless on the cave-colored wood. The storage space has been transformed into a personal library, hand-crafted like an artist molds a piece of clay. Textbooks and novels. Though, just like the tenant, the fiction (science-fiction, specifically…other dimensions with eight-eyed aliens and world peace) is losing the war on room to breathe. The books are all bound and in alphabetical order. Looking closely, the textbooks are worn and tattered, beaten by piercing eyes and violent memorization. They are separate from the novels, who occupy exactly ten and a half inches of one of the four shelves. The rest are some books on business basics but mostly books on stocks, economics, and also a documentary on the New York Stock Exchange, which isn’t too far of a walk from here.
The calendar on the chest-high refrigerator tells an evolving biography of a person who must work at “The Club” from eleven p.m. to five a.m. every night but Sunday. Yes, “The Club” is a place of work because it ‘s written in black and there’s a color-coordination chart to the right. Every box is decorated with at least three colors, except for Sundays because they’re blank (invisible ink?). At the center of the room lies the body-molded bed just big enough for one, ironed and tucked to perfection. No throw pillows or fuss. Blue sheet, blue comforter, folded down at the top to look like a hotel room bed, just cleaner. On the bed lies what appears to be a costume only it’s nowhere near Halloween. Sequined, jet black thong. Next to it, a black, full-length cape, facedown, closely resembles the cape that Batman wears except across the back it reads “Lapman.” Ha. Leather boots breathe on the unpolished wood floor.
Further to the right stands the doorless bathroom. Not a splash of color but the stained-yellow glass covering the light bulb, and nothing on the sink but a toothbrush and a razor. A yellow Post-It sticks to the mirror, displaying an upright equal sign and a “C” that’s been knocked over: a smiley face.
As I begin to move to the also doorless closet (where I expect to find hidden treasure), I start to wonder if this man is as put out with his front door as he is the rest of them. Just as I reach for the doorknob, I’m haunted by footsteps and nowhere to run.
“You lost?” he asks. He has an NYU I.D. card around his neck, and another stack of textbooks in his arms.
Still enthralled by my thorough yet unfinished analysis of the studio, and taking note of my most recent observations, I reply, “You’re the ‘Lapman?’”
“From eleven to five, Monday through Saturday,” he says without hesitation.
I know.
“School isn’t cheap. Neither is rent, even when you don’t have arm space. You probably noticed the bathroom and the closet.”
“And the cabinets,” I add.
“They came like that, actually.”
“You could wait tables or something,” I suggest.
“I could, but I’ve always wanted to live downtown…”
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