A right, a left, and a right brought me from the steps of the L train to the hulking metal door of a four-story brick warehouse situated in the middle of an industrial wasteland. The notable neighbors consisted of a wonton manufacturer, a tire warehouse and the Boar�s Head distribution plant. What the walk lacked in grass and foliage was made up for in broken glass and trash. An active community group had taken on a beautification project that entailed the spray-painting of nearly every reachable surface.

In a word, it was quaint.

Sure, it lacked a certain bed-and-breakfast appeal, but the area was largely unpopulated, convenient and surprisingly quiet.

I pressed the number six when I arrived, as per my instructions, and I was soon met by a tiny speaker�s approximation of a chipper voice informing me that my potential housemate would be down in moments to greet me.

In the intervening moments, I investigated the large garage door open on the first floor. I noticed huge complicated machines spinning thread around, leading me to the conclusion that there was a textile business on the first floor.

You call it a sweatshop, they call it a textile business, it�s all dependant on what your attitude is. My friends would say I was staying at their house, I would say I was homeless. The apartments I�d been seeing were shitholes, but were often described as cool and artsy.

My point being that it�s all about attitude.

I�d been spinning my wheels for nearly three months, and I was eager to spin them in a new place. Finding an apartment had become less about discovering a place that was right then it was about discovering a place that was different.

The huge steel door swung open and a competing house seeker walked out after exchanging parting pleasantries. She checked me out before she left, obviously trying to size up the competition, but I trust she was left with a sinking defeated feeling upon seeing me.

I have no competition.

My new potential housemate welcomed me into the building. We exchanged names, shook hands and hustled up the many flights of stairs towards the apartment.

She had a plump face with lots of oddly placed scars and nostrils that tended to vacillate between flair and sneer. She wore glasses that only seemed to accentuate the aquatic orientation of her puffy eyes, thus leading me to secretly assign her the nickname of fish-face.

I was actually quite pleased that I didn�t find her attractive in any way. The last thing I needed was any potential for complication in my living situation. I wasn�t looking for a new friend or a partner in crime, I just needed a place to put my bed.

Now, I wouldn�t want to give the impression that her appearance was unattractive to the general male population, she just happened to embody most of the things I find unattractive.

We reached the top floor and stepped into the hallway. The floors were dirty and raw, the kind where splinters were a guarantee rather then a risk. The walls of the hallway were painted an eerie pale green color that seemed to interact violently with the overhead fluorescent lights, creating a light nauseous tint.

The apartment was situated at the end of the hall behind a sturdy red metal door proudly adorned with one of those cheerful �Mean People Suck� stickers. Fish-face claimed that the sticker was from a previous tenant, but that didn�t explain why she had not yet taken it upon herself to initiate its removal.

The apartment was relatively large and relatively dirty, in both clutter and grime. Something between the huge industrial windows and the old tin ceiling was coating the apartment with a thin film of black dust. Complicating matters, fish-face didn�t seem prone to cleaning.

The space was open, airy, and ready for conversion. Fish-face had been living here for nearly a year already and had done little beyond the shoddy construction of a small privacy wall. The kitchen consisted of a sink, a small fridge and a hotplate. Not exactly a boon for a guy who likes to cook, but she expressed interest in getting a stove, thus inspiring hope of good meals.

The bathroom was spartan, with a coffin-sized shower and no closet, but it was perfectly functional for my needs.

The space was rough, but had some limited potential. The floors were dangerously unfinished, the kitchen was nearly unusable, and the windows seemed to offer more mosquitoes then breeze, but I could envision the place being adequate, so we sat down to chat and give the vital details.

In our discussions, I was actually quite shocked to discover that we were nearly the same age. Judging from her face and gravity�s effect on her body, I would have guessed her to be anywhere from five to ten years older then me. Perhaps someone had secretly rolled her odometer back, because there certainly seemed to be a lot of miles on that yugo.

Pinto, golf, whatever.

She seemed generally pleasant, thankfully subdued and easy going. In the most brief of evaluations, I determined that she was a person I could tolerate for short periods, at least for as long as I needed the apartment.

She explained the deal as this: She was currently working two jobs while attending night classes. Because of her time commitments, she expected to be out of the city for the majority of the week. She was looking for someone who could help convert the apartment into two lofts and take care of her cats while she was away.

I have a background in carpentry and I�ve lived with cats for most of my life, so I thought I must be the ideal candidate.

I would pay half the rent and utilities, including DirecTV and electricity. I told her that I didn�t need her phone because I was intending to keep my cellular as my primary number. The rent was stated as $650 a month, plus utilities and one and a half month�s security deposit.

Doing the math in my head, I determined that I could afford the bills even on my meager salary. Factoring in the cost of materials would raise the monthly cost, but if I kept things simple I could expect to receive a sufficient return on my investment.

We discussed a few more minor details before I excused myself and allowed her to return to fielding calls from more prospective roomies.

On the walk back to the subway, I was creating a list of lumber and estimating costs.

The apartment wasn�t what I wanted, but it certainly seemed to be something I could live with.

If only I could have seen how far downhill that road was leading.