“Welcome
to South Brooklyn”
by
Katie L. Valentine
On March 11, 2014, I woke up in my apartment
in Buffalo and started getting ready for work. As I went about my morning
routine, it seemed like any other day. I threw my sandals on to avoid dirtying
my feet in the mildew-covered shower that I’d tried cleaning multiple times and
to no avail. Then, I fussed with the water until it reached its maximum
temperature of lukewarm. Knowing the water would turn ice cold within minutes,
I washed quickly.
I kissed and said goodbye
to my boyfriend, Cole, who was still in bed. Our relationship had been rocky
for several weeks, but he seemed to be in a good mood that day. I took it as a
sign that things between us were improving. As I descended the stairs, exited
our shithole apartment building, and tiptoed around piles of dog crap to reach
my car, I reminded myself that our stay there was temporary, and that it would
soon be over.
I
worked at a warehouse and was embroiled in a long-standing dispute with a
colleague. I hated my job because of it. As I entered the building, I reminded
myself that my job was temporary, and that it would soon be over.
Everything
was temporary because Cole and I were saving our money to move to Brooklyn, and
in a few months, we would have enough. I’d spent a semester living in Brooklyn
while attending NYU the previous year and was eager to return. In fact, I
considered leaving Brooklyn to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
Cole, on the other hand, was
hesitant to leave Buffalo – actually, it was the reason our relationship had
become strained. But I’d finally convinced him that we should move to Brooklyn,
and although he remained noticeably apprehensive about it, he promised he was
on board.
During the second half of
my shift, I received a text from Cole, requesting breaded pork chops for
dinner. I picked up the ingredients on my drive home from work.
Nothing seemed out of the
ordinary when I entered the apartment. I threw the chops into the fridge and
headed upstairs. When I reached the top of the stairs, I immediately noticed
that Cole’s television was missing. My heart sank into my stomach so hard and
so fast, I nearly lost my balance and fell backwards. My weakened body began to
shake, out of a fear that the obvious had happened. I knew what was going on.
Cole had left me because he didn’t want to move to Brooklyn and didn’t have the
balls to tell me to my face.
My mind went into
autopilot and made a split-second decision that would forever change my life: I
was moving to Brooklyn. That night. There was nothing left to stick around for.
I was estranged from my family, hated my job, hated living in Buffalo, and my
boyfriend had abandoned me. With less than $2,000 to my name, I would somehow
afford to get there and pay down on a room.
Most of the rooms on
Craigslist weren’t conducive to my budget, and the ones that were, were either
obvious scams or had been rented out. One ad that caught my eye seemed too good
to be true – the main guideline for avoiding Craigslist scams. The room was in
Bath Beach – a neighborhood described as safe in the ad – and the other tenants
were supposedly “young professionals.” But the rent was only $575 per month, and
the ad contained no photos.
Against my better
judgment and at a lack for other options, I dialed the ominous (917) 666- number
listed in the ad. I was met by a deep, intimidating male voice on the other
end. Just by the way he answered the phone, he seemed annoyed. Still, I
proceeded with my list of questions about the place – if it was near a subway,
if I could see photos, and if it was available that night.
The man was curt with his
responses: “D train,” “I’ll show it to you when you get here,” and “what time
do you plan on arriving?”
I saw the glaringly
obvious red flags – everything about the alleged room for rent had “shady”
written all over it. But I was committed to my plan. It was seven o’clock PM,
and the drive was eight hours long. Figuring I could hit the road by eight, I gave
the man an estimated arrival time of four in the morning.
He was strangely okay
with my bizarre ETA, which furthered my suspicion that the ad wasn’t legit.
Nevertheless, I hung up the phone and got to packing, throwing armfuls of
belongings into my little Dodge Avenger. When I left the apartment, I threw my
key in the mailbox. My mind was made up: returning and backing out weren’t
options.
For the next eight hours,
I had tunnel vision. Whenever my emotions started creeping into my mind – my
heartbreak over Cole, my fear of the now-very-uncertain future, the loneliness
of my solitary journey – they were quelled by overwhelming surges of
adrenaline.
As predicted, I arrived
in Brooklyn at four in the morning. I parked, grabbed what I could carry, and
walked to the building, which was located on Bath Avenue and Bay 29th
Street. So far, nothing about Bath Beach seemed unsafe – in fact, it was rather
quaint, with suburban overtones. There were tiny yards, manicured hedges, and
even some small flower gardens. The streets were lined with nice cars –
Mercedes-Benzes, BMW’s, and the like.
My newfound comfort was
shattered when the man I’d spoken with over the phone answered the door. His
appearance was far more intimidating than his unwelcoming, harsh tone of voice.
He was a big, built, broad-shouldered man – probably around six-and-a-half-feet
tall – but that wasn’t the first thing I noticed about him. His bodily
proportions came secondary to his face full of tattoos.
To be clear, I don’t
scare easily. But these weren’t just any tattoos,
and he didn’t have just a few of
them. Most of the man’s face and shaved head were covered in intricate designs;
inked in black, with intermittent splashes of color. Teardrops streamed from
the corners of both eyes. His cheeks, chin, and forehead were the only empty
spaces on his face. I was afraid to make eye contact with him.
He greeted me in the same
gruff voice I’d encountered over the phone. “Welcome to south Brooklyn.”
Without waiting for a
response, he held the door open and ushered me in. Then, he led me upstairs.
Not knowing exactly what I was about to walk in on, but also not knowing what
else to do, I followed him up to the third floor.
I was given a tour of the
place, which turned out to be a “railroad” apartment, requiring tenants to pass
through one another’s bedrooms when coming or going. Three of the four bedrooms
were occupied by men. The one for rent contained a mattress on the floor, a
small dresser, and a clothing rack. Until then, I’d been halfway convinced that
I was the victim of a housing scam – or worse. Feeling satisfied enough that
the place existed and seemed relatively safe, I decided to take the room.
The tattooed man led me
back into the hallway, sat down in a plastic lawn chair, and lit a cigarette,
causing me to look at his hands. There was a portrait of Charles Manson
tattooed on one hand. Across the other hand, in thick, huge letters, was the
word “HATE.” He acted cordial, but his appearance – his artwork, more
specifically – gave me chills.
He motioned for me to sit
in the plastic lawn chair across from him, held his hand out, and introduced
himself as Paul. It wasn’t until then, after I’d taken note of his imposing
stature and unique body art, that I locked gazes with a pair of piercing blue
eyes – the kind that seem to look right through you. His eyes were
paradoxically beautiful and terrifying.
Paul briefly explained
the rules of the apartment, adamantly stressing his alcohol-free policy. I
counted the necessary bills from my dwindling wad of cash and received two keys
in exchange – one for the building, and one for the apartment.
The apartment was practically
the same temperature as it was outside. Leaving my jacket and shoes on, I laid
down. I slept surprisingly well – probably because I was exhausted.
I woke up bright and
early, intent on finding a job right away. After paying for gas, tolls, and the
room, I had just enough money left over to keep myself fed for a week or two.
Wanting to make a good impression on recruiters and managers, I wore the most
professional outfit I owned and took extra time to perfect my hair and makeup. Paul,
whom I later learned occupied the living room and was therefore male roommate
number four, was lounging on the sofa when I left.
“Wow, you look like a
model!” It was the first thing he said to me.
I was admittedly
flattered by the unexpected compliment and thanked him.
“You’ve just made my day
with how pretty you look!” He had a big, bright smile on his face.
After that, nothing about
Paul or his appearance ever scared me again. There was an unexplainable
authenticity in his smile, in that brief exchange of words. An interaction that
typically would have put me on guard when it came to most men had somehow
reassured me that he was an alright guy.
By the end of that day,
I’d learned that most of the jobs I qualified to do would not pay the amount of
money I needed to survive. My rent wasn’t high, especially for Brooklyn, but it
was more than double my portion of rent at the apartment I’d shared with Cole,
and I had a lot of bills. At the very least, I had to devise a way to rake in
some supplementary income.
I’d heard of sugar daddy
dating but had never seriously considered it – until then. The next morning, I
made an account on a sugar daddy dating website and began searching. That
evening, I traveled to Manhattan for my first date with a potential sugar
daddy. I was nervous, but I was focused on doing what was necessary to gain
some semblance of financial stability.
I immediately became
addicted to the sugaring lifestyle. After all, why would I work 40 hours each
week for what I could come up with after a few hours of being wined, dined, and
otherwise spoiled? Yeah, it was superficial, and no, I wasn’t particularly
attracted to any of the men I saw. But I was fucking surviving, and that’s all
I cared about during those first days living in Brooklyn.
Meanwhile, my friendship
with Paul blossomed. A week after I moved in, I began teaching him how to
drive. I’d return to the neighborhood after an evening spent expanding my
repertoire of sugar daddies, which typically consisted of getting drunk at some
swanky joint in some upscale neighborhood – on someone else’s tab, of course –
and, hopefully, returning to Bath Beach with at least a few hundred bucks.
We spent hours driving
around the neighborhood, snacking on nachos and cheese, listening to music, and
talking about life. Our nightly drives distracted me from reflecting on the
night’s previous activities, which I actively avoided doing, and Bath Beach
became my refuge, my safe little world from the rest of the city.
Paul could tell I wasn’t
working a conventional job. While I sat in the passenger seat of my car,
coaching him on parallel parking and three-point turns in the middle of the
night, he occasionally stopped in the middle of what he was doing and looked me
in the eyes, offering a gentle but stern caution.
“Look, whatever you’re
doing, just be careful, alright? I’m serious.”
Each time, I reassured
him that I had the situation under control, and we’d resume his driving
practice.
Regardless of what Paul
meant, his advice was to be heeded. Adjusting to my new lifestyle seemed
effortless at first, but I was already becoming burned out by it. Now that I was
more relaxed and less worried about my basic needs, my heartbreak over Cole
worked its way back into my head. When it came to controlling these reemerging
emotions, my drinking didn’t help.
And, to my surprise,
sugaring took an unforeseen toll on my self-esteem. I began to feel like I was
good for nothing but superficial enjoyment, and being compensated for it only
mitigated this feeling at best. I became so jaded, and so fast. To deal with
it, I drank even more. Because Paul didn’t allow drinking at the apartment, I
stayed out later and later as my habit grew, and we spent less time driving
around.
While out at a bar in
downtown Brooklyn one night, I was in particularly rough shape. No matter how
much I drank, I couldn’t suppress Cole from the forefront of my mind. Moreover,
my dependency on sugar daddies had become suffocating. There were so many men
who had no qualms with using their money to pressure and control a young woman
that they knew desperately needed it. I was bitter and felt more alone than
ever.
I wasn’t going to stop
drinking until I stopped thinking, and it seemed like that would never happen. As
I sat at the bar, god-knows-how-many drinks in and eager to get more sloshed, Paul
text messaged me, asking if I would come home so he could practice his driving.
I wanted to keep
drinking, so I told him that he didn’t need more practice. His driving was good
enough. In hindsight, I think he knew this.
“Just come home. We never
hang out anymore. Please?”
I left the bar and got on
the train. It’s a wonder I made it back – I was obliviated. Paul was waiting
for me outside. I was a crying, stumbling, slurring, confused mess. Without
saying anything, he wrapped my arm around his shoulder and wrapped his arm
around my waist. Ever-so-patiently, he guided me up the two staircases, into
the apartment, and to my unheated room. He gently eased me onto the mattress,
leaving my coat and shoes on, and covered me with the blanket.
As Paul turned to exit
the room, I blurted out, “Wait! Can you just stay in here until I fall asleep,
please?”
“Okay,” he replied,
leaving the room and returning moments later with one of the plastic lawn
chairs from the hallway.
Before taking a seat, he
knelt on the floor next to my mattress and tucked my hair behind my ear. He gently
stroked my face with his giant, warm hand, before leaning forward and kissing
my forehead.
Then, he sat in the lawn
chair until I fell asleep.
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