New York City

January 31, 2021 By Phillip Retuta

Done With This Apartment.

Day 323 of self-isolation and day 184 without gas/heat.

I loved my apartment — at least, until 6 months ago.

The past few days have been the coldest New York has experienced this season, and even with 4 space heaters constantly running, my apartment has dipped to a low of 52 degrees. It’s been very uncomfortable, and I dread leaving the covers of my bed to put on a coat and gloves and do my design job at my work computer. I’m joining Zoom meetings in a trapper hat, and I’m designing email headers with fingerless gloves. My toes are cold even with thermal socks and slippers, so I’m usually standing in front of my computer to keep my blood flowing.

One day, I thought, we’ll have gas again and all will be well and warm and I can use a proper stove.

On Friday, I get a call from my landlord and texts from my remaining neighbors saying that the pipes froze. Luckily, because I’m by the source and near the electric water heater, I still had running water.

Well…

This morning, at 3:30 AM, I was finishing up Spider-Man: Far From Home, when I thought I heard rain outside of my window. I knew NYC was going to be hit with a snowstorm in the next few days, but there was no precipitation on my weather app.

Then, the doorway to my bedroom started dripping a lot of water — it looked like it was raining inside. I quickly entered my room, and all the walls were leaking. Every single fucking corner. The sound of water rushing could be heard above me: a pipe had clearly burst.

It’s early in the morning, so I couldn’t reach my landlord. The superintendent picked up eventually, and I called 911 to shut off the water. My super was on his way, but he instructed me to check the two vacant apartments above me for any leakage; there was none, so the water was probably coming from inside the walls (side note: those other two apartment were very small, so I definitely lucked out with this building).

The FDNY quickly came and turned everything off. As the fireman was leaving, he said “You’re not gonna have gas either,” to which I explained we haven’t had gas or heat since August. He shrugged, and left without saying anything else. No advice, no empathy.

The super eventually came and inspected everything, and I apologized for waking him up. He made sure the water was off, and as he looked inside my bedroom, he looked at the wall of all my dog photographs and asked which one passed away. I pointed to the middle one, and my super of four years said “That was a good dog.”

Fortunately for me, I found a new place nearby. Before the pipes froze, I already put in a deposit and am just waiting for the proper documents to break my current two-year lease and a time to sign the new one. Truly, I had so much hope that I could stay. I thought I could wait things out, and the city would turn on our gas and that my landlord would get everything fixed. It was a tough choice to leave, but for my health and sanity, it’s time to close this chapter in my life.

I was sentimental at first, nostalgic over the happy memories I had in my current apartment; it was my home for the past 4 years: I built an amazing home with an amazing backyard. I had amazing rosemary and mint and lavender plants in a garden I tended for years. My climbing rose vines were coming up nicely. I hosted parties where friends would grill, let their dogs run around, and sit beside a firepit.

Then I realized, no — the past two years had horrible memories: my dog died in my arms here. I got furloughed. I got kicked out for 1 month for that facade falling. I’ve cooked on a hot plate since September. I’m freezing in January. And now I can’t even keep warm and sleep in my sopping-wet, water-logged bedroom. I can’t even drink a glass of goddamn water. No, I’m leaving this apartment with bad memories.

Walked Dusty, came back and shelves fell from the walls being soft.

My plan was to completely move out by February 28th and try to appease my current and future landlords by paying rent at both places. After this morning, with everything wet and no water, I’m feeling less than diplomatic.

December 23, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

New York Is Dead (Or Why I’m Toughing It Out).

Day 283 of self-isolation. Day 144 without gas/heat.

Alright, I kid; New York is not dead, but it’s in trouble.

A lot of my co-workers (past and present) have decided to move from Queens and Brooklyn and into the suburbs, especially since they can just work remotely. Classmates I went to Parsons with have recently escaped to California or Upstate New York, and some even talked about moving to Georgia. Though “the incident” played a huge part, my building currently has only 3 out of 8 units occupied — many of my neighbors moving back home to their parents (you think NYC officials are slow to fix things? Try them in a pandemic). My favorite bars, restaurants, and coffee shops are struggling and many of them are going out of business (my coincidentally-named everyday coffee shop, Daily Press, has shuttered).

All of this — from the fear of riding the subway or even going out, to the economy, to government resources being bogged down — is because of COVID-19, this catastrophic virus. It’s impact has biblical-in-size ramifications and, without hyperbole, feels fucking near-apocalyptic. Too many deaths, too much chaos, too much struggling. There’s a huge exodus of people leaving the city: if you can’t do anything and you don’t feel safe, why pay so much rent and so much money to stay and live here? The reason a lot of people moved to New York was for the experience, and with the virus out of control because of a lack of common sense in all of America, that said experience becomes inadequate, becomes impotent. I don’t know how it is in LA, Paris, or London, but New York feels like a former shell of what it once was in 2009, much less a year ago. Then again, with the rates of infection and the death tolls rising, I can’t imagine any city being as vibrant as they should be — but are their residents noticeably leaving en-masse?

From the viewpoint of a now 11-year resident, the city isn’t the same; it’s weird and depressing, and the sight of pedestrian-less blocks or empty subway cars makes me feel numb. Still, I’m clinging onto hope. I also have some perspective: my friends Brett and Gino — a Philly native and a Montreal transplant, respectively — have lived in New York longer than me. They went through the darkest time of 9/11 (and the literal dark time of the NYC blackout a few months afterwards), but they remained in the city and watched it transform back to greatness. After 9/11, New York became a tech magnet: venture capitalists funded startups like Vimeo, Tumblr, and Foursquare; a Google HQ was even built. After 9/11, New York became this past few decades’ arts/culture capital of the world: The Strokes and YYY’s and the burgeoning music scene, Parsons and Project Runway, Williamsburg and Soho and the Lower East Side became synonymous with creativity and style. All of those were the very reasons I dreamt of moving to New York — to be successful in tech, to immerse myself in culture. Brett and Gino have seen it all, and they’ve established themselves in their job fields and social niches, and I see them as examples of the young, ambitious, and talented quintessential New Yorker (if either of you are reading this, don’t let it get to your head). As inexperienced as I was, they were great guides at how to navigate this city, and better examples of New Yorkers who can overcome.

Despite the empty Manhattan streets, the closed storefronts, and the constant wailing of ambulance sirens, I have hope that something new and wonderful will come out of this current crisis. New York City will once again rise from this mess, and like Gino and Brett beforehand, I’d like to be present when that happens. I think I can be that grizzled-but-experienced guide for the next person, be it a recently hired co-worker or new neighbor or a student if I ever decide to teach. It’s in my capacity to pass wisdom to others, to the fresh-faced and uninformed (and, I begrudgingly admit, the less jaded). Knowing how things can change and evolve, I have such hope for everything to get better than it was before, especially in this stupid yet wonderful city. Yeah, I’m going to try to stick it out. Let’s go with a dumb sailing metaphor: I want to see this storm through and witness what beautiful vastness awaits this battered ship.

December 18, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Let It Snow.

Dusty is so curious and so excited by snow.

Day 277 of self-isolation and Day 138 without gas.

It’s currently snowing hard outside with temperatures finally dropping below 30 degrees. I guess New York has officially entered the winter months.

About two days ago, my landlord called me and asked whether or not I’d be home the following day. This pandemic has bound me to my apartment (as well as everyone else to their respective homes), like a white-collar prisoner or one of those pre-Hollow Jibakurei’s in Bleach. Keeping silent at how ridiculous his question was, I politely said to my landlord that I was indeed going to be present. He wanted to know if I can let the city inspector come into the building to check the new gas lines. Excited, I expected the arrival of an inspector would mean my building would finally have gas again — however, knowing how everything is fucked and everyone in this city likes to fuck you over, I bluntly asked my landlord when will we have heat and cooking gas. He said that the inspector may come three more times and hopefully we’ll have gas by the end of the month.

Imagine that: late December, we might be able to have heat and cook again (I hope you read that sarcastically).

The next day rolls around, and I let the inspector inside the building. I ask him when we’ll have gas and tell him how us remaining tenants don’t have heat and how miserable and dire the situation has been. Somewhat concerned, he replies, “I’m waiting for the plumber or contractor to meet me now.” Since this was during the middle of a work meeting, I returned to my apartment and never found out if that second person came. Seriously, you need two parties to be present… to come to a decision… to call the gas company… to turn on the gas? More red tape and forms and procedures? Even though we live in a progressive city, the politics and bureaucracy of everything is pathetic: we haven’t had gas for months, and now we’re going headfirst into a blizzard.

Today, as we’re getting about a foot of snow, I’m grateful for a few things:

I own several pairs of long underwear, thanks to my trip to Iceland.
The weather-proofing I installed onto my windows last week has helped immensely.
I own many, many blankets — most of which were in storage and most of which are covered in either Nico or Dusty dog hair.
I do have an entire bottle of Creme de Menthe — remnants from a pie recipe — which I can add to some hot cocoa and enjoy during my 2.5 week vacation while watching The Mandalorian or Fleabag.

Overall, I’ve survived the last few months without cooking gas, and also the last few weeks without adequate heat. I’m resourceful and adaptable, despite the fact I never joined the Boy Scouts.

With the first real snow that I’ve seen in years (Nico loved to play in the snow, and I can’t remember when she was able to do that before her passing), it’s a little disheartening that I’ve wrapped myself in blankets and long-johns in the midst of winter. I usually like the cold and strut around my apartment with just a t-shirt and basketball shorts, but it sucks to try to keep comfortably warm these days. Still, with Dusty around and experiencing her first snowfall, it makes me happy to see her frolic into piles of snow — like those videos of foxes gleefully jumping into pristine patches of whiteness. I might not be warm, but watching her enjoy this weather warms my heart. Despite the shittiness of 2020 and all the misfortune that befell me, it’s not so bad with her. Plus, she’s learned to sleep on my bed, and her snoozing puppy body makes a great foot warmer.

The snow definitely sets the mood for Christmas, and even though I’m unable to see my family this year, I’m glad to have a home with Dusty.

December 4, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

A citation from the NYC Department of Housing Preservation and Development because the NYC Department of Buildings hasn’t turned on our gas.

Day 264 of self-isolation and Day 125 without gas.

December is here, and despite global warming giving us above average temperatures, it’s freezing in my apartment — it’s about 35 to 40 degrees outside. We still don’t have gas for heating or cooking, and our landlord provided us with a bunch of ceramic space heaters. Currently, I’m running 4 of them to keep Dusty and myself warm, as well as wearing a coat inside (Dusty is even wearing a jacket, and she loves to nestle in front of the heaters). Sure, I could find a new place and easily break my 2-year lease renewal that I signed a month before we were kicked out, but I love my apartment: it’s quiet, it has a perfect backyard, and most importantly, it’s rent-stabilized. This apartment is a rarity in NYC.

The landlord finished installing new gas lines about two weeks ago, and we’re all waiting for someone to inspect the building one last time and turn on the gas. Half of the building is vacant, and I’m fairly certain it’s in my landlord’s best interest to get these units reoccupied — and no new tenant wants to move into an apartment with no heat or working stove.

Funny thing, one of my neighbors complained to the NYC Department of Housing Preservation and Development about the lack of heat in our building. The building was cited and subject to fines for each day we don’t have heat. Of course, we’re waiting on the NYC Department of Buildings to send a Master Plumber to turn our gas, and subsequently, our heat. One department versus another department. We’re in bureaucratic hell, and it’s cold.

Oh, and my council member has yet to respond.

October 22, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Fort Greene Park’s 22nd Annual Great PUPkin.

The last time I entered the Great PUPkin, a dog costume contest in Fort Greene Park, was when Nico was alive. It was her last year with me (2018), and I dressed her up as that iconic NYC photo of workers eating on a girder during the construction of 30 Rock. She and I managed to be a top ten finalist, and we received a ribbon.

2019 was the year I grieved Nico’s passing, so naturally I did not participate. However, since I adopted Dusty, I figured I might as well enter again.

This year, with all it’s trials and tribulations, I wanted to make a costume that was fun, wearable, and definitely in the zeitgeist of pop culture. I knew RBG or Trump or the elections or COVID-19 were going to be played out, and for my own amusement I chose a topic that I was sure was going to be popular: Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich.

I remember, before the pandemic, I’d step out of my subway station next to the Popeyes. There’d be a long-ass line just to get one, and the restaurant would sell out of the sandwiches fairly quickly. When I eventually ate one myself, I knew the hype surrounding it was real: it’s delicious.

So, lo and behold, Dusty as a Pupeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich:

Of course, I had to buy and wear a chicken costume.

Dusty was a good sport and didn’t give a fuck. It felt like a sweater to her.

Believe it or not, but she could move freely in this.

I spent maybe a week constructing the costume: measuring her body, hand-sewing felt pickles, going on Etsy to get fabric that matched the sheen of the buttered buns and spicy mayo, walking to Michael’s to get supplies, hand-painting the wrapper. I even dyed a mustard yellow sherpa blanket to a golden brown (remember, I still don’t have gas, the heating of the dye was mainly done on my grill). A lot of work and thought was put into her costume, and I’m glad it paid off.

Just like her predecessor/older sister Nico, Dusty also became a top ten finalist. I’m so happy that I can proudly display Nico’s 2018 ribbon next to Dusty’s 2020 ribbon; my beloved dog’s last Halloween next my new puppy’s first Halloween.