A loud knock at the door made me jump. I set my things down on my minuscule kitchen counter, crossing the few steps it took to get from one side of the apartment to the other as another knock echoed through the small space.
“I’m coming!” I yelled. Not that there was any need to raise my voice; you could clearly hear someone having a conversation in the apartment next door, even with the TV or radio on. It certainly made it awkward to bring guys home, not that that had been an issue in quite some time.
I opened the door to an unfamiliar older bald man with permanent wrinkle lines running from his scalp down to his forehead. It was as if he had spent his entire life mad.
“Bernadette Hamilton?” he gruffed out.
“That’s me.”
“You’re being evicted. Have a nice day.” He handed me a white envelope, turned his back, and made his way to Mrs. Slater’s apartment next door.
“I’m sorry, what?” The room spun as I tried to wrap mymind around his words. I had lived in my East Village apartment since moving to New York six years ago and was, by my estimation, a model resident. I had never thrown a party, certainly wasn’t loud, and had actually fixed up the small studio, repairing the plumbing, fixtures, and cabinets when the super refused to stop by. The rent check was always on time, never a day late. And now I was being evicted?
“Reason’s in the letter. If you have comments or questions, take it up with my lawyer.”
I slammed the door shut, ripped open the envelope, and read aloud from the first page:
Dear Resident,
Your rental agreement is hereby terminated. This building has been purchased by Burlington Corporation. You have two weeks to evacuate. Should you choose to stay, you will be under prosecution from the law offices of Kline, Burke, and Bridges.
Best of luck in your future home endeavors.
I dropped the paper with its five short sentences on the counter. “What the fuck?!” A whirlwind of thoughts flooded my mind.
They can’t do this. This can’t be legal.
Where the hell am I going to live?
What am I going to do?
This is bullshit.
I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from bursting into tears. I headed to the bathroom, hoping a shower would help clear my head and ebb my emotions.
It didn’t work. In an angry rush, I grabbed my coat, shoes,and work bag and decided to head to the bar early in hopes that I could pick up a couple of extra hours. We always needed extra hands on Fridays, and apparently I would need the money if I was going to be moving in two weeks.
But first, a latte was in order if I had any hope of avoiding a complete mental breakdown.
I opened the door to the Greenwich Village coffee shop, letting the smell of ground coffee beans and fresh bagels wash over me. This was one of my favorite spots in the city: It was long and narrow and gave the feel of a renovated warehouse, with exposed pipes and HVAC in the ceiling and spots of bare brick along the walls. The areas where the brick was plastered over were painted in an array of colors ranging from neon green to deep purple, with local artists’ works displayed for sale. As a bonus, it was conveniently located on my way to work.
You could find people from every walk of life here. On the weekends the shop hosted live music, spoken poetry, and even a drag brunch on the first Sunday of every month. But that afternoon, Tucker’s was unusually busy as I met a line that stretched to the door. What else could I expect though? A bullshit eviction letter and now a line that felt half like a block long? Yeah, that seemed about right.
As I waited in line, I scrolled through my social media feeds. I double-tapped photos of kids in their Halloween costumes and scrolled past a few gossip site posts about what celebrities were doing and with whom. I had no idea who most of them were, to be honest. I liked a post about a college acquaintance’s new job and hearted a video of a friend’s baby taking his first steps. Everyone else’s life seemed to be moving on to better and greater things.
Feelings of envy rose in my throat, but I tamped them down and kept scrolling. I refused to think about my own dead-end job or the announcement of baby number two that was sure to be coming soon from my brother and his wife. And you could forget about pondering the upcoming holidays. I had more pressing problems if I was going to be apartment hunting.
“Hey, Birdie!” The cashier greeted me with a cheerful smile. I looked forward to seeing Chuck on Fridays. They were always adorned in an eclectic assortment of jewelry from their ears, across their face, and down to a ring on nearly every finger. This week their hair was neon pink, and they sported a tiny rainbow jewel in their nose and a matching pin on their apron that read, “My pronouns are they/them.”
“Hey, Chuck. I love that hair color on you.”
“Thank you! I just did it last night,” they said, running a hand over their hair. “Your usual? Vanilla latte with oat milk?”
“Please. I desperately need it today. And you know what, let’s do a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel while we’re at it.” I knew I’d regret my choices midway through my shift later if I didn’t get some protein in my body now, and I didn’t need to be in an even fouler mood.
“Rough day, huh?”
“The worst.”
