I moved into my new home. It was a drizzly, wet night, much like the very first day I moved to Brooklyn. Isaac, my Hasidic landlord, was a little late on getting the apartment cleaned and ready, but I will forgive him. He is trustworthy, and I look forward to his proration for three days rent.
I biked in the rain to Walgreens to get a shower curtain liner, which was discounted 15% by the manager since he didn’t have any actual shower curtains.
My new neighbors are fun. They invited me over and we watched the insect episode of “Life,” a new version of “Planet Earth.” One of the girls had cookies shipped fresh from her grandmother. They were delicious.
Julie and I made some Progresso Chicken Noodle Soup and I surveyed the thorough cleaning job Yulia was doing. Yulia is a thickset Polish woman with big arms, saggy breasts, and honest blue eyes. I liked her, and when I spoke to her, thanking her for what she had done, she looked at the ground, bowing her head. She is finishing the cleaning of the apartment today.
We don’t have any furniture yet. Matthew picked up the mattresses and moved them from Greenpoint to our home in a cab, I don’t know how. He is my minion. Today went food shopping, and I told him that if he feels ambitious, he can search for some kitchen counter furniture with drawers, since the ones under the sink don’t open.
After Chris and I drank some Irish champagne for a nightcap at Kings County, he said something very poignant: Matthew needs to be dunked in New York. He needs that sense of cockiness and entitlement to be washed off in the responsibility and individualism of the city. “How right you are, old boy!” I said. “And I’m the one holding his heel, suspending him over the dunk tank.”