Apartment Envy

There is a lovely apartment across the street from me. It is on the fourth and fifth floors of a brownstone. Its windows face mine, and I can see inside of it as if it is a doll house.

The family that lives there moved in shortly after I moved into my apartment. It is difficult to look at their ample space, shiny new appliances, unpainted and varnished original woodwork and not feel jealousy.

My railroad apartment literally offers a single path of movement in any room. I feel like a rat in a maze. The tile in the bathroom is so cracked and poorly patched, it is a marvel that any piece is intact. My bed slowly slides on the sloping floors of my bedroom from one side of the room to the other. Besides, the individual pieces of wood flooring are warped and popping from the floor. When I put a nail in the wall, the plaster around it often crumbles and leaves a bigger hole.

In other words, it is a typical New York apartment.

Until August, I lived in the spacious Soho loft everyone thought they would live in before they moved to New York. I knew I was lucky to have it and I savored every moment. I also knew I was spoiled and vowed I wouldn't complain when I had to move to the next place that would inevitably be smaller and lack the simple, suburban-standard amenities to which I became accustomed. An electrical outlet in the bathroom, for example.

I have had the misfortune of moving 5 times within New York City in the past 11 years. Now I live in the smallest of all of my New York apartments and it is an adjustment I strive to make with grace.

Each evening, when I pull down the shades of my bedroom before I change into PJs, I can't help but notice the apartment showplace directly across the street from me. It is lit like a stage and about as far as mid-orchestra row K theater seats would be from a stage.

Tonight, for the first time, a new member of the enviable-apartment-family was looking back at me from one of his many southern-facing windows. It was a young Labrador retriever. His front legs were slightly raised on the window sill and he stared at me with his head cocked. Then he barked twice. It appeared that he was alone and eager to interact with me.

I stopped and watched him for a few moments. I smiled and savored the irony. The mansion dog wanted desperately to be in my tenement flat.