When you buy five hundred bucks of wood from your local mom-and-pop lumberyard, they tend to afford you a few perks.

Pop was apparently suffering from a bad back and too much work, yet he recognized my limited means and gladly offered to deliver the stack of pine to my door. Finding that the beat-up company van lacked a passenger seat, I perched atop a milk crate and carefully secured myself with a white-knuckled grip.

"You should be careful around here. You're really close to the Projects. Gotta be careful, yes you do."

Pop elaborated on all the potential for robbery and violence available to me in my neighborhood, complete with a few third-hand crime anecdotes. Detailing a theory of geographic predisposition for thievery, he continued to compliment my choice in living situations.

"Cops never used to come around here. It's improving a lot though. Lot of artists moving in. Building these lofts. It's good for business, but I don't think most of them know what their doing. Kinda dangerous, if you ask me."

Although the lumberyard wasn't more then two miles away, I received a rather complete personal history, ranging from his childhood in Brooklyn to the current state of lumber supply. Exempting the uncomfortably precarious seating, I was wishing that my cab rides could be as entertaining as Pop was.

Quite like a Brooklyn flavored NPR, complete with a Yankees forecast.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment the Ruemate was trying to argue her way into the freight elevator. Opting for the vinegar over honey argument, she eventually caused the Manager of the textile business on the second floor to succumb out of frustration rather then agreement. Sensing the short window of compliance, I hustled all the wood into the elevator and into the apartment before inciting any further hostilities towards our apartment.

A few minutes later, I returned the lumber cart to Pops as he was casually sucking down a cancer stick. I slid it back in the van for him and offered a hearty �thanks� before sending him along his refreshingly merry way.

Over the course of the next few nights, I measured and cut the 2x6 beams in accordance to the drawing I�d completed earlier. As the cuts progressed, I laid the skeleton along the floor, checking the angles against the walls for errors. After noodling out a couple of hairy joints, I unsheathed my leather wrapped 20oz Estwing rip hammer and I pounded the joists and beams together until the bulk of the floor was assembled.

It would be a handsome structure and sturdy to the point of overkill, but after a number of figurative bouts with the concept, the last thing I needed was to have the floor really fall out from beneath me.

Now as a rule, I tend to be fiercely independent and I pride myself on being able to do things alone, yet there are some physical limits I cannot cross through perseverance alone. Eyeing this six hundred pound conglomeration of pine and steel, then taking into account my undersized arms, I was coming to the conclusion that I'd need a little assistance in getting it six feet and seven inches upwards.

With great reluctance, I put out the call and invited all my friends to come over to help raise the floor over the weekend. I promised beer-a-plenty and dinner for those interested, all in addition to my spectacular company, but when Saturday rolled around...Nick was the only person to show up.

Nick. All one-hundred and fifty pounds of him.

Between us, we had less bulk then the typical NFL lineman.

Lucky, I�d managed to move the construct a little over five feet up on blocks before he arrived. The rest of the work simply involved short periods of lifting, sawing and screwing.

Two hours later, I was elevated, secured, and ready to apply the deck.

By the next morning, I had a sturdy platform with a dildo-stained bed frame on it.

What was once raw, dirty, virgin space was now raw, dirty space with a loft in it. A home was on the way.

Now I just needed to fill it with a little furniture, and a lot of love.