Thread by @GrantGinder, OK fine last night I had some wine & stayed up late [...]

OK fine last night I had some wine & stayed up late to write my favorite story/(long) thread re the weird, incomparable nature of New York that I so miss right now aka my story about the time I sublet my apartment in a tiny coop and the renter moved in with a bag of sex toys.

To set the scene: I moved in with my (now) husband and decided to rent my small apartment out. The subletter, who was also gay (keep it in the family) was / is nice and had no red flags. He interviewed with the coop board, because that’s what we do in New York, and was approved.

He moved in without issue, and then—a twist—a week later he called to tell me that my shower was leaking into the downstairs neighbor’s apartment. It was a Saturday, and I wanted to be a good landlord(ish), and also I had nightmares of mold & lawsuits, so I went over right away.

He was right—there was a leak. And thankfully, A LOT of people were there to inspect it. In fact, the ENTIRE COOP BOARD had gathered for a meeting inside the leaky shower, which was roughly the size of a wine barrel.

Conversations were had, faucets were turned on and off, and after about an hour it was decided that I needed to replace my shower pan. One by one the board members exited the shower and my apartment, and I began googling contractors and plumbers to get the job started.

Once everyone had left, I turned to my subletter, [name redacted], and took in a breath, preparing to apologize profusely. Suddenly, though, he stopped me.

He said, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

“What?” I asked. “What was embarrassing?”

Reader, at that point he took me into the shower—the same shower where 5 of my neighbors had just been standing—and pointed to a...sex toy (we’ll keep this PG13), roughly the size and shape of a traffic cone (but I’ll be descriptive) suction-cupped to the shower’s wall.

I panicked. I didn’t know where to look. I wanted to be sex positive (again—family!). But also—WHAT?

I tried my best to make conversation. I told him where to get a good everything bagel, and then he plucked it off the wall, and threw it in a bag with 30ish other toys.

(An aside: it was obvious he had THOUGHT about removing it before five people came into the shower because he had draped a washcloth over...part of it. But, like, not the obvious part. You could still very much tell what it was.)

Fast forward a months later: the shower is fixed, and I’m teaching an 8am class at NYU. One morning while my students are reading an essay, I get an urgent call from my next door neighbor, who is also (of course) the coop board President. I step out quietly to pick it up.

“Grant?” she says. “Is everything okay with [redacted]?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Well, he’s been...moaning since about 5am. It’s loud. People have knocked on his door but no one’s answering. We’re worried about him and we might call the police.”

I thought about what I’d seen in the shower.

I said, “DON’T CALL THE POLICE.”

I hung up and called [redacted] and asked him what was up. He told me had been sleeping and everyone was lying. I reminded him—WINK WINK—that apartments in New York are old and have thin walls and to—WINK WINK—be considerate.

I thought that was the end of it.

Surprise! It wasn’t. Every few weeks I’d get a call from a neighbor who would ask if [redacted] had “taken up dance lessons” or “was playing the drums.”

Everyone was very polite and used euphemism, which, as a WASP, I really appreciated.

Anyway. Fast forward ANOTHER few months to summer. I’m in Rome, where I’m visiting a friend of mine who had at that point been living in Italy illegally for about 7 years, but that’s another story.

It’s dusk and I’m in the Sistine Chapel, staring up at the moment where God creates Adam, marveling at the sheer enormity of it, and...

My phone rings.

I look down, and see it’s my coop board President.

I step outside, and answer.

“Grant,” she says. “It’s [redacted]. For the past three hours he’s been screaming DADDY WANTS SOME at the top of his lungs and no one has entered or left the apartment.”

I called him immediately. Reader, leaning on the walls of the VATICAN, a VERY HOLY PLACE, I called and asked another gay man what, exactly, daddy wanted more of.

The answer, more or less, was SPACE, which is basically the answer to everything in New York. 500 sq ft wasn’t big enough to do what he wanted to do, and it turns out everyone realized that! He moved out happily—he nearly suggested it—and a quiet Swiss couple moved in.

(Literally, the only thing you could hear then was the sound of ticking clocks.)

But New York! You give us these experiences, & I love you for it. You put us in situations where we have to talk about everything bagels while we stare at traffic-cone-shaped [redacted] draped with a tiny washcloth.

I miss you, I love you, and I can’t wait to see you again.

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