by Joe Thomas
“Yes. That will be fine.” We walked over the threshold and out of the cold. The heat was welcoming. “You will be in this apartment.”
My future part time home was on a single floor and completely renovated inside. We were the first tenants. While Kader led us through the sparsely furnished living room he added, “I will be purchasing a flat screen television and new chairs for the living room next week.”
“Cool.” I was glad he acknowledged that because even though the new flooring and crown molding were impressive none of that mattered if there was no television to watch.
We passed the stainless steel refrigerator at the end of the open kitchen, went down a small hallway, and passed the bathroom. My eyes scanned the entire floorplan and besides a missing television I could not find one single thing wrong with the apartment. It was beautiful and made my own house look like an abandoned shack.
At the end of the hallway there were two doors side by side. Kader opened the door to the left and he walked in stepping to the side to allow me to enter, “You’ll be in this room.”
There were two sets of wooden bunk beds in the small room. I did not expect bunk beds, “I’d like to be on the bottom because I don’t think I can sleep on the top bunk.”
“That’s fine, that shouldn’t be a problem. There’s only one other person moving in this week.”
I wrote out the check and had a place to live in Queens for only $250 a month. It was that easy. Why are there homeless people in New York City? Everyone should live in crash pads where 16 people cohabitate in a four bedroom apartment.
After our meeting with Kader, Matt and I went into Manhattan to explore the city for a few hours. We bought rain gear and I contacted Paul begging him to pick us up and drop us off at JFK. He did, which was wonderful because we were waterlogged. The entire flight home I sat with my eyes closed trying to absorb everything that was about to happen. It was almost too much.
The next day I packed my essentials and felt like I was moving out. I had to fight back the tears. Even though I was excited about this new adventure, I feared not coming back. Our brains are very powerful and sometimes, no matter how much we grow, learn, and spend time on a therapist’s couch, our old brains kick in and erase everything new we have learned.
When Matt dropped me off at Orlando International Airport the next afternoon I was a mess. I had more suitcases than I would eventually allow other passengers to carry on and I had a box stuffed with a comforter, pillows, and random bathroom supplies. I knew I wasn’t being kicked out, but it felt like it.
Sitting outside the departure terminal I could barely hide my fear, “I don’t want to do this.”
“This is your job now. This is what you wanted, right?”
“I guess.”
He was confused. So was I. “Do you still want to be a flight attendant? You’ve gone through so much to get to this point.”
“Yeah. I want to be a flight attendant. I’m just scared.” I raised my voice, “Can you cut me some slack?”
“I’m not yelling at you, babe. I just want to understand. What are you scared of?’
“I don’t know.”
I was lying to Matt. I knew exactly why I was afraid. I do that all the time to him, to everyone actually. If I am upset or bothered by something I immediately shut down. Close the door, shut off the lights, put up the closed sign. Done. That was the simplest way to deal with the crazy stories swimming around in my head. Stories I created because I was afraid that my life as a flight attendant might force me away from home so much that Matt would forgot about me. Worse than that, I feared being replaced by someone new. These thoughts never crossed my mind during training. Probably because I was too engrossed in learning airport codes and how to manually inflate a 36-man raft, but the moment I was back home and had time to clear my head these concerns invaded me like parasites. My irrational brain didn’t consider the fact that we had been together for four years and already had a strong history together. We weren’t trying to build a new relationship, just create new boundaries for our current one.
Try telling that to an unreasonable guy like me.
I cried the entire way to JFK from my window seat. The passenger sitting next to me was concerned, “Are you alright?”
I was in my flight attendant uniform crying like the airplane was going down off the coast of North Carolina. Pulling myself together was the only option, “Yes. I’m alright. Thank you.” I put my head against the fuselage and zoned out for the rest of the flight. This was going to be harder than attending catechism classes at Our Lady of Sorrows.
I paid $40 for a cab ride from the airport to the crash pad because I didn’t feel safe taking the train alone at night. Stupid move on my part. I’d realize soon enough how much I needed that $40 for food. Within my first month of living in New York City I became an expert at riding the train at night. When the cab pulled up in front of the apartment building I stumbled out of the taxi and dragged my belongings to the front door. Thank the universe I was on the first floor.
I opened the front door and Carlos Serrano greeted me while he put away groceries in the refrigerator. Remember Carlos? The friend of Pedro Malo? The—DO THEY EVEN MAKE JACKETS THAT BIG—asshole. He was the other tenant? Fuuuuck! I still hadn’t forgiven him for joining in on the laughter during my fitting.
“Hola, Joe. How are ya buddy?”
“I’m great, Carlos.” I fibbed while pulling my belongings into the apartment. He walked over to help but I waved him off. The last thing I needed was help from someone I considered a bully. “Is there anybody else here?
“Nope. Just us. Two other people moved in today but they aren’t here.”
That was curious; Kader told me there were only two people moving in this week, not four. Leaving my stuff at the front door, I walked passed Carlos and made my way to the back part of the apartment. I walked into the bedroom and noticed the two bottom beds were already made up with other people’s effects strewn across them. This was not starting out well. “Carlos, can you come here?”
He was there quick, “Yeah. What’s up?”
Leaning with my hand against the bunk bed frame, “Did you take a bottom bunk?”
“No,” he walked across the small room to his bunk and slapped his hand down on his mattress, “I took this top bunk.”
“Who’s down in these two?”
He started back out of the room, “I guess the guys that moved in today. I wasn’t here. I think they’re with another airline.”
Panic set in, “Fuck! I can’t sleep on the top bunk.”
“Why not?” He asked stopping at the door and looking back.
He was fucking with me. It was obvious. These bunk beds were completely wooden and not made to support the weight of a full grown husky man like myself. Shit, they would probably buckle under the weight of a Mississippi toddler.
“That’s the only bed available. Just take it.”
“No. I can't sleep on the top bunk." I refused to confirm my fatness; Carlos was well aware. “I need to call Kader.”
It was late but I knew Kader would answer. He was probably on his iPhone spending my $500 as I dialed in his cell phone number. After our quick conversation he suggested I move into the upstairs apartment where there was one bottom bunk left. It was on the third floor. Kader's concern was not where I slept but that my check cleared.
As long as it was a bottom bunk, I did not care. It was already 9:30 p.m. and I had to be up at 4 a.m. to work my first flight, a transcon turn to San Diego and back, which I quickly learned I did not like.
After collecting all my shit and leaving the downstairs apartment, I went back outside and climbed up the set of concrete stairs. When I entered the other apartment I was greeted by another set of stairs. This was going to be a bitch to climb with all my luggage. I walked up another level and was in the main landing of the apartment which was the same layout as the one downstairs.
Sheila from my initial class was laying on the sofa, "Hey Joe
," she got up and walked towards me, "I didn't know you were moving up here."
I put my box down and wrapped my arms around her, "I didn't either until about five minutes ago."
"You must be upstairs with Evan," she went to the kitchen to grab a glass, "the door left of the bathroom. Oh…" she continued, "there's like six of us taking the Q10 bus at four-forty tomorrow morning so be ready."
“Oh cool. Thanks." I shuffled up another flight of stairs and finally made it to the third floor. I would be skinny in no time. Maybe this move was for the best.
I entered the bedroom and found my three new crashmates lounging in their bunk beds. Evan, Sean, and Mark had arrived earlier that day and staked claim on their bunks. Their stuff crowded every corner of the room. It was like being an adult foster kid in a group home. This did not make the experience any better. I smiled at them dragging my suitcases behind me with the box under my arm.
Evan jumped off the top bunk bed to help me out. “Hey queen. Oh my god! I'm super excited you’re gonna be in here with us.” Evan was the only face that I was excited to see. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as I thought. My mind was consumed with being at home with Matt and the cats. Sean camped out in the bunk underneath Evan and Mark was in the bed above mine. Sean nodded up at me from inside his bunk cave while Mark sipped red wine from a bottle nestled between his legs.
I placed my stuff against the wall, "How many people live in this apartment?" and immediately opened my box.
Evan swiped his finger through the air counting, "It's a five bedroom,” he thought silently for a moment, “And I think there are a total of 16 beds. Is that right?”
Mark answered while flipping through his flight attendant manual, "Sounds about right. I thought you were moving in downstairs?
My mind tried processing that 16 people lived in one apartment. Was that legal? Sounded overcrowded even for a five bedroom apartment. Made me realize Anne Frank didn't have it as bad as she portrayed in her book.
Pulling the twin sheets out of the box to make my bed I answered, “I was gonna but they only have a top bunk and I’m too fat for the top bunk.”
Evan chimed in while moving the ironing board out of the way, “You aren’t fat. Don’t be silly.”
“Thanks. But I’m not sleeping on no top bunk and killing someone.”
The room erupted into laughter. That made me feel better. Evan slammed the door behind me and became giddy with excitement, “This is going to be so much fun. I can feel it.”
I smiled but did not feel his excitement. With four full grown adult men, four bunk beds, all our luggage, and a full size dresser this was the smallest room I had ever attempted to live in.
I innocently asked, “Are you guys going home after our trip tomorrow?”
The three of them stared at me. Did I say something wrong? I had barely finished making my bed and already pissed off my new foster brothers. I could kiss getting adopted out goodbye with this kind of attitude. Evan jumped up onto his top bunk with one swooping motion which verified my claims that I would ultimately kill someone if I was on the top bunk. He weighed no more than 170 pounds and the way that bunk bed swayed to and fro when he jumped up there, I knew my 260 pound ass would collapse it like a handful of pick up sticks.
“No. We live here.” Sean said from his cave. I noticed that while I made my bed and unpacked a few items he spent the entire time making homemade cigarettes like my relatives from Canada. This was going to be a seriously poor group of people if Sean was already rolling his own cigarettes. If things were this grim, I soon expected to be standing in line at the Kew Garden’s CTown cashing in my food stamps and WIC checks.
Then I felt guilty for being careless with my words. Here I was feeling sorry for myself because I’d have to spend a few nights a week here and they moved in. This was their new home. A cramped bedroom with three other adults in a crash pad with 13 other full grown adults. I knew it was cheap but goddamn, even child laborers in China have better living conditions. “Oh. I was just wondering.” I placed my clothes on the bed and took my pajamas into the bathroom to change. The bathroom that the eight people living on the third floor shared. It reminded me of a sorority powder room with countless bottles of gels, creams, and cans of hairspray lining the windowsill. The amount of masturbating to occur in this crash pad bathroom would put an Equinox gym locker room to shame.
In a situation like this you might think the four of us instantly bonded, but that was not the case. I barely knew these three guys. The person I connected with the most was Evan and our friendship had only blossomed the last week of training. I couldn’t care less about the other residents in our overstuffed townhouse. It was nothing personal; I just wanted to be home. All I focused on was going home.
I spent countless hours on my laptop hibernating in the bunk bed waiting to be assigned a trip. Whenever Crew Scheduling called I crossed my fingers, toes, and balls in hopes to be assigned an Orlando layover. It was usually Pittsburgh.
Evan was the polar opposite. He loved hanging out in the crash pad and interacting with the other crashmates. It was a constant party for him, a party that I refused to attend. He’d text me from the sofa while I hid in my bunk bed: "Queen! Come down and hang out."
My response was always the same: "I'm good. I’m on my laptop."
He never gave up: "You’re always on your laptop, Helloooooooo! Get down here." When I stopped responding he would add: "We are going to the Kew Club for some drinks. You wanna go?"
That was the one thing that motivated me to socialize. I had no problems going out and getting wasted. It dulled the pain of being away from home; to sit in the living room and interact with my crashmates, that was rare.
I lived for being home and not in Queens. All my excitement of living in the Big Apple faded when it became clear I’d rarely make it into Manhattan. I was destined to spend my days slumming it along Jamaica Avenue waiting to take the shitty Q10 bus to JFK and spend the night somewhere glamorous—like Grand Rapids or Omaha. Most of my crash pad crashmates adjusted well to living in Queens. Evan made friends with other airline employees and some non-airline people. Mike found himself a boyfriend who happened to have an addiction to masturbating. An addiction so out of control he actually rubbed the skin off his dick. Why Mike shared this with me, I will never know. It could have been the fact that I spent the most time in the crash pad rubbing one out in the shower. Thankfully, not enough to watch my skin go down the drain. That was just disgusting. Sean moved into a smaller room on the main floor of the apartment. The room was an add-on with no windows and reminded me of a cell. He spent all his spare time in that room with the door opened, rolling those fucking cigarettes. With the number of cigarettes he produced he could have opened a bodega on the front porch. That might have helped him with his financial problems.
After a few months of this bullshit, Matt was itching to come to New York. He sold it to me like I knew nothing about mileage and distance, “It’s easier for me to fly to New York to see you then for you to fly to home.”
“Really? I thought it was the same distance because—it’s the same distance.”
No arguing with that man. I had a few days off between reserve days and discussed with my crashmates the idea of Matt spending the night at the crash pad. A delicate subject when living with so many people. It was frowned upon to have guests in the crash pad over night. Especially when it was a co-ed apartment and most female crashmates were uncomfortable seeing strangers in the apartment. Evan was on a trip so he didn’t care; he wouldn’t have cared anyway. I asked Mike even though he’d most likely be masturbating with his boyfriend or in a wine-induced coma by 6 p.m. I checked with Sean and the female crashmates downstairs and they each gave me the thumbs up that Matt could spend the night. The last thing I wanted was someone calling the police if they saw a 6-foot 5-inch 280 pound white guy walking around in the middle of the night. Confident that everyone was comfortable with Matt spending the night, I called him and told him to book his flig
ht for the next day.
He took the first flight out the next morning and I met him at JFK. We immediately went into Manhattan to run around Central Park and enjoy the day. When Matt was with me I actually liked New York. It felt like home. This was his first visit to New York City since getting settled in the crash pad so I was unsure of exactly where to put him. At first I told my crashmates he’d sleep on the sofa but by the end of the day I started worrying that Kader might make an unscheduled visit and get upset because there was a stranger in the house. I didn’t want any trouble with Kader. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me. Probably because I never kissed his ass like the other crashmates did. He also reminded me of the Taliban.
By the time we walked up the first set of stairs leading to the apartment I made the decision to let Matt sleep in the bunk bed with me. It would be horribly uncomfortable but I’d rather that than Kader finding him in his underwear on the sofa at 6 a.m. The less interaction I had with Kader the better. We walked into the apartment and it was dead quiet. Not a soul was home. That’s hard to find when 16 people live under the same roof. I directed him upstairs and into my bedroom as quickly as possible. All my crashmates agreed to let him stay but I still felt the need to hide him. Have you ever tried hiding someone who has the nickname giraffe? It’s nearly impossible.
"Schmoopie, hurry up and take your shower before anyone comes home."
He looked up from his overnight bag, “Why do I have to take a shower right away? I want to relax for a moment,” he asked standing in the small bedroom. When he stood in the room it looked more like a walk-in closet than a bedroom.
Handing him a towel, “I don’t want anyone to come home while you’re showering and I need to take a shower, too. Can you please just take your shower now?”
“Can’t they wait until I’m done?”
“No. Please just take your shower.” He left the bedroom and closed the bathroom door with a huff. Would this be his last visit to the crash pad? If he continued with that attitude I guaranteed it. In all reality it was hard for him to understand, which I understood. A crash pad is a shared environment where strangers are forced to live together. He had no idea of what that was like. It’s The Real World without cameras and a lot less fighting. The only fighting I ever witnessed was over dirty dishes and Obama being elected President. That was enough. If you are a thoughtful and caring crashmate you make every attempt to think about the other people sleeping around you. It was no secret that I hated being there; I hated it more than an empty bottle of lube before I was down for anal, but I still did my best to be polite. Was everyone like that in the apartment? No, they weren’t. There was nothing worse than coming off a multi-day trip—wanting to wash away the airplane smell and jerk off for 10 minutes—and getting stuck behind a line of slow ass crashmates waiting for one of the two bathrooms to become available.