Chapter 1: The Eleventh Apartment
The eleventh apartment had only one closet, but it boasted a sliding glass door leading to a small balcony. From there, Willem could see a man sitting across the street, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, despite the chill of October. The man was smoking, and Willem raised his hand in greeting, though the man did not wave back. Inside the bedroom, Jude was fiddling with the closet door, opening and closing it, when Willem walked in.
“There’s only one closet,” Jude remarked.
“That’s fine,” Willem responded. “I don’t have anything to put in it anyway.”
“Neither do I,” Jude smiled.
Their conversation was interrupted when the building agent entered. “We’ll take it,” Jude told her. But back at the agent’s office, they were informed that they couldn’t rent the apartment after all.
“Why not?” Jude asked.
“You don’t make enough to cover six months’ rent, and you have no savings,” the agent replied curtly. She had checked their credit and bank accounts and realized that two men in their twenties, who weren’t a couple, couldn’t possibly afford the one-bedroom apartment in an expensive part of Twenty-Fifth Street. “Do you have anyone who can co-sign? A boss? Parents?”
“Our parents are dead,” Willem said, quickly.
The agent sighed, “Then I suggest you lower your expectations. No reputable landlord will rent to someone with your financial situation.”
With that, she stood with finality and gestured toward the door.
Later, when they shared the news with JB and Malcolm at Pho Viet Huong, their usual spot in Chinatown, they turned it into a joke. The apartment floor had a few mouse droppings, the man across the street had almost exposed himself, and the agent had seemed upset when Willem didn’t return her flirtations.
“Who wants to live on Twenty-fifth and Second anyway?” JB quipped.
Pho Viet Huong wasn’t exactly known for great food. The pho was oddly sweet, the lime juice tasted soapy, and at least one of them would get sick after each visit. But the affordability and the fact that they were all in need made it a regular spot. A bowl of soup or a sandwich was five dollars, while an entrée was eight to ten dollars, offering enough leftovers for the next day or a late-night snack.
Only Malcolm never ate all of his entrée and rarely saved any for later. When he finished, he would place his plate in the center of the table so that Willem and JB, who were always hungry, could finish it.
“Of course we don’t want to live on Twenty-fifth and Second, JB,” Willem said patiently, “but we don’t have much of a choice. We don’t have any money, remember?”
Malcolm pushed his dish of oyster mushrooms and tofu around the plate as Willem and JB eyed it. “I don’t understand why you don’t just stay where you are,” he said, repeating a question he had asked numerous times over the past few months.
“Well, I can’t,” Willem replied, frustrated. “Merritt’s boyfriend is moving in, so I have to move out.”
“Why do you have to move out?” Malcolm asked, confused.
“Because Merritt’s name is on the lease, Malcolm!” JB explained.
“Oh,” Malcolm said, going quiet. He often forgot seemingly unimportant details, though it never seemed to bother him when others grew frustrated.
“Right,” he mumbled, and pushed the mushrooms toward the center of the table.
“But Jude—” Malcolm started again.
“I can’t stay at your place forever, Malcolm. Your parents are going to kill me eventually.”
“My parents love you,” Malcolm said, though he didn’t seem to understand the concern.
“That’s nice of you to say. But they won’t if I don’t move out soon.”
Malcolm, the only one of their group still living at home, had a large Upper East Side townhouse. It wasn’t particularly grand—Willem had once gotten a splinter just by running his hand along the banister—but it was spacious. His sister, Flora, had recently moved out, leaving Jude to take her place in the basement apartment. Eventually, however, Malcolm’s parents wanted to reclaim the space to convert it into offices for his mother’s literary agency. This meant Jude, who was finding the stairs to the basement difficult to navigate, would have to find his own place.
It made sense for Jude to move in with Willem, as they had been college roommates. Their first year, the four of them shared a small space with cinder-blocked walls, a couple of bunk beds, and a shared common room. The cramped living conditions often led to humorous interactions, as JB would joke about race and Willem and Malcolm would tease him back.
JB, who lived in a massive, filthy loft in Little Italy, offered to let them stay with him, though he didn’t think they would like it. His loft, filled with unfinished rooms and strange hallways, belonged to Ezra, a wealthy but untalented artist who would never have to work because of his family’s money. Ezra was generous with his space, hosting excessive parties with free food, alcohol, and drugs, but the conditions weren’t ideal for anyone looking for a stable living situation.
“I just realized,” JB said, putting his chopsticks down, “there’s someone at the magazine renting a place for her aunt, just on the verge of Chinatown.”
“How much is it?” Willem asked.
“Probably nothing,” JB replied. “She didn’t even know what to charge. And she wants someone she knows in there.”
“Can you put in a good word?” Willem asked.
“I’ll introduce you,” JB said. “Can you come by the office tomorrow?”
Jude sighed. “I won’t be able to get away.”
“Don’t worry,” Willem said. “I can go. What time?”
This moment highlighted their continued struggle to find stability, as they navigated financial challenges and life’s inevitable transitions.
Chapter 2: Reflections from the Subway to the Studio
Every weekday at 5 p.m. and at 11 a.m. on weekends, JB rode the subway toward his studio in Long Island City. His weekday journey was his favorite. Boarding at Canal Street, he observed the diverse faces around him: Poles, Chinese, Koreans, Senegalese, Dominicans, Indians, Pakistanis, Mexicans, Sri Lankans, Nigerians, and Tibetans—each new arrival contributing to an ever-changing mix of ethnicities. What united them all was the common experience of being immigrants, their faces marked by the unique blend of determination and resignation that only newcomers to America can possess.
In these moments, JB felt a deep gratitude for his own luck and a rare sense of sentimentality for his city. Though he didn’t often celebrate his hometown’s diversity, he admired the collective labor embodied in his fellow commuters, their hard work evident in every weary step. Unlike his own relatively comfortable life, their lives seemed to be driven by an unspoken necessity. The only person JB had ever shared this feeling with was his friend, Henry Young, a fellow artist. Once, on their way to the studio, Henry had quietly mouthed, “There but for the grace of God,” as they observed a Chinese man collapse into a seat, his body drained of energy, his persimmon-red plastic bag hanging limply in his hand.
Another part of JB’s daily commute he cherished was the quality of light during his evening rides. As the train crossed the bridge, the golden light would spill into the car, briefly washing away the exhaustion from his fellow passengers’ faces and revealing them as they were when they first arrived in America—bright-eyed and full of hope. For a moment, the city and its people felt expansive and full of possibilities, only to be replaced by the familiar grayness as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Occasionally, JB would spot Haitians on the train and feel a distant connection to them. He could hear the distinctive slurping, sing-song rhythm of their Creole and longed for an organic reason to approach them. Yet, despite his desire, he never found an opening. And although his features—round face, soft nose—resembled those of the Haitians, he knew he didn’t truly belong.
At Court Square, JB would disembark and walk the short distance to the studio he shared with three other artists. The loft, on the third floor of an old bottle factory, was raw and industrial, with splintered floors and large casement windows that let in the coveted natural light. Each artist had their own designated space within the open-plan studio, demarcated by blue electrical tape. Respect for one another's territory was paramount, and conversations were kept to a minimum unless necessary, a delicate balance of creative camaraderie.
By 5:30 p.m., the light in the studio was perfect. The buttery glow would flood the room, creating an atmosphere of optimism and inspiration. Despite sharing the space with other artists, JB relished his solitude. Richard, a sculptor who worked with ephemeral materials, Ali, a photographer, and Henry, who created deconstructed silk sculptures, were all serious artists with their own unique approaches. JB respected their work, but it was Richard’s sculptures—particularly his work with moths—that most inspired him.
JB himself was a figurative painter, a choice he had come to accept despite its lack of popularity in the art world. He was determined to find his own voice, even though he had experimented with other mediums. While he admired the technical skill of other artists, he recognized that an artist’s true value lay in their ability to convey ideas. For JB, it was portraiture that spoke to him most, and he was committed to honing his craft.
The studio was a place of quiet companionship. On weekends, when all the artists were present, JB could feel the collective energy in the air, a shared rhythm of concentration that fueled his own creativity. He relished the moments when he could engage with his fellow artists in a way that was direct and non-verbal, simply looking at each other’s work and understanding the unspoken meaning behind it.
As he settled into his studio routine, JB grew more appreciative of the space and the work that flowed from it. He found himself immersed in his paintings, capturing scenes from his daily life—the people on the subway, the moments of connection with those around him, and the personal reflections that emerged from his art. Though the journey to the studio was long, it was always worth it.
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