3b

Loft 3b

‘3b’ sits squarely facing an opposing sister warehouse. Four stories tall in total, the warehouses had been transformed into rent able lofts and Buschwick became the outskirts of Williamsburg. I don't suppose anyone sets out with their destination to be Buschwick. They may arrive to New York City and Buschwick sort of chooses them. That may be the best part.

 “Is that snow flakes…are they coming in to our studio?” typical. We have one legitimate door, the rest make-shift and painted with the colors that were on sale; a bright business suit blue and a gnarly maroon-red. The fact that I am a ‘we’ in this is just a little startling. And you know a magical warehouse opened up just before the corner bodega for only the winter that December selling gently used cowboy boots, long red leather coats and vintage tee shirts that could keep you in bed until the spring. At first thaw, the opening to the once saving grace to a mild winter street side thrift shop just vanished like Cinderella when the lights came on. Never a trace, like someone decided to open up their closet into an abandoned entrance way, hack off the lock and merchandise. It was a pop-up Michael Jackson thriller dressing set and I was a fat kid in a Brooklyn bakery.

There was one major drawback that I would need to deal with immediately. Let’s call him Rich. Eyeliner rimmed the tiny art dorm sink. Skinny, ripped, frayed, jeans, fragmented tee shirts and a woman’s leather jacket that did not leave his skin since 3,000 miles ago and the one door in the loft remained shut for days once a deep crate of comic books were found at the end of a gray scaled Brooklyn rainbow outside on the curb.

I lived in the loft closest to the window, the best seat in the house, he the loft closest to the entrance and hallway. Megan lived beneath my loft in the storage area that was a little less than 4 feet tall. At one point it was pretty cozy under there with a low sitting beach chair, a mattress and a lamp. The storage area rented out for $400 a month.

I now had a need for a room mate to rent out the other room space in the loft, once I successfully kicked out the loser hipster who wasn't on the lease and would skip town when rent was due, I found a friend of a friend looking for a place. Let's just say that perfectly parted blonde hair, Kate Spade bag and subsidized rent allowance took one look at 3b and she not walked, but ran to Greenwich Village faster than you can clear a room with a one eyed frisky kitten already on his ninth life. Looking back, at the time, it was sticky hot September still, furniture was everywhere, and it looked more like the aftermath of an intense hot lava game than its usual makeshift street prized charm.

Was it the yellow plastic slide nestled in between the two loft bedrooms, providing an option for a morning ride down to the kitchen cheerios? Or was it the storage space roommate? The neighbors next door who built a half-pipe in their loft space and drank PBRs daily while their friends who would travel in to play loud screaming music and skate? The feeling was mutual my perfectly blonde, straight haired, Kate Spade bag wearing friend, I would love to have been able to run to a subsidized apartment in Greenwich Village. Then again miss out on all this charm?

Nestled on the ground floor a coffee shop popped up the size of your office cubicle, where sometimes live music was playing, couches were always full and at one point they acquired their alcohol license. No longer did we have to go deeper into the warehouse maze of Buschwick for Life Cafe for company and culture. You know you’re doing well when you have your own coffee shop. A large black rubber tire provided the seating on the street and the pumpkin cinnamon bagels were unmatched. I once broke up with a guy because he ordered the same exact thing as me from the little coffee shop’s menu. An offense I determined, punishable by deleting all your numbers, never talking to you again and questioning all my life choices up until that point. Each and every morning provides a new opportunity to define by the Columbian coffee choice and bagel selection and you want to just have what the person standing next to you is having?

There were cliques and groups between the two warehouses. A boy band moved in across the street at one point. Their set-up was legit spanning 3 loft spaces. That was when Rachel, a find on craigstlist, had already moved into Rich’s old room space. My first friends were the neighbors down the hall on our floor, housing a math professor, a rather tall professional magician and the magician’s sister.

Waking up one winter Saturday morning to a fresh snow fall led to tiny buschwick ninjas dressed in wet-suits and throwing snowballs from one roof top to the other. Prefer to cozy up inside on one of these days and you could have your pick of videos to play on the old VHS tape player that is my one regret leaving behind. The machine in its entirety stood about 18 inches tall and 12 inches wide provided only one functional option. So naturally we played the goldfish fish tank video on repeat 24 hours a day. They swam really fast backwards every thirty minutes.

I closed the door to 3b after writing about world-wide events for a GLBT publication, taking a Gotham Writer’s Memoir Workshop and so many odd jobs that the temp agencies would send me on. Once when working as the coffee runner for a television executives office, we had an afternoon break with the physic to the stars. Naturally.

I have been to New York a baker’s half dozen times since living in McKibben Street loft dorms and have yet to drive down the same street that I trekked for those 10 months in the early 2000s. No longer a card carrying New Yorker, the ecosystem that once opened up before with magical sights and sounds, then vanishes behind cold grey street crusted sliding garage doors and latched metal door frames. Wafts of French roast and street bagels somehow only rise to the nostrils of Brooklyn transplants, leaving only the remnants of generic stuffy air left in the car doors from the Jersey turnpike truck stop. As if knowing I was only a visitor here now, New York saves the best for its locals.