40 days, 40 nights

“All the untidy activity continues, awful but cheerful”

The funniest thing about the homeless shelter is the sign above the door that says NO TRESPASSING.

If you secretly have a HOUSE, stay OUT.

The second funniest thing about the homeless shelter is Nothing. (Lol.)

Actually that’s not true. The second funniest thing about the homeless shelter is that I once Instagrammed a broken fidget spinner on the sidewalk near Atlantic Avenue. “This city will eat you up, kid.” That was my caption. I was on my way to work at a marketing agency.

~Seven years and one novel coronavirus later, in 2024, I walked down that same sidewalk, crossed Atlantic Avenue, and walked into the Armory shelter. The good news was, I wasn’t trespassing. The bad news was, I wasn’t trespassing.

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For two years I’ve tried to make a life in New York City with the money I make at a job I enjoy (bookstore). I’m paid $20 an hour. My plan was, do the job and write on the side until writing on the side started making me real money.

I could list the problems with that plan, but to save time, I’ll list the things that make sense. (There’s nothing on the list.)

The king of problems is rent. Three or four thousand dollars a month for something comfortable. But I’m a WRITER. I don’t NEED something comfortable. I have ART. I’ll get someplace AFFORDABLE.

And I did. Affordable is a hostel in Newark. (Not the good part of Newark.) The typical guest is an Uber driver from a troubled country. I am assigned the bottom bunk of a bunk bed. The top bunk contains the other typical guest: a person watching TikTok, eating snacks chosen for audibility, and not sleeping.

This costs $1,000 a month, unless you’d like to be close to the train, or in the good part of Newark. If it’s close to the train, I can’t afford it. And the good part of Newark is called Hoboken, and I definitely can’t afford it. Meanwhile, I’ve written nothing.

No more hostel, then. My friend Ben, divinely, lets me crash on his couch. We have tremendous fun, Ben and I, we really do, talking, mostly, and watching Deadwood. This works as a stopgap for several days years, on and off but mostly on, but Ben, menschiest of mensches, nonetheless has a life of his own. And, you know, a girlfriend and stuff. I’m back on the hunt for a non-apartment. Meanwhile, I’ve written nothing.

There is no tidy upshot, at least not yet. I feel better when I write, so I’m writing. Greetings from Tremont Avenue, Boogie Down Bronx: private room, shared bathroom. ($1,300.¹)

I’m allergic to numerology² but round numbers are compelling and this morning I turned forty, through no fault of my own. I have a high tolerance for discomfort but my breaking point was about a year ago so I’m going to figure out how to make more money. Adversity is not, in my case, conducive to art-making.

Augustine of Hippo reshaped the future of the world at 40. Muhammad reshaped it again at the same age. Me? I’m reasonably confident I can secure a place to live on purpose by the time I turn 41.

My life has not turned out as I expected. My life has not turned out as I expected!

Which means I’m aging. Which means I’m lucky. And I learned something about myself.

I’m impossible to discourage.

I’m tempted to call that priceless.

1. This is turning into a very bleak MasterCard commercial.

2. “You should really three someone about that.”