The H Line

Apparently, there have been more than a few incidents of unfair, if not unlawful, evictions seemingly aimed at loft-dwelling hipsters as real estate on the periphery of posh is coveted more and more by developers. The most recent happened just a few blocks away from my place in Bushwick, Brooklyn.

And I have to say, it’s making me a little nervous.

While my roommates and I are responsible and relatively quiet, there’s still a chance for trouble because, technically, our building is zoned for commercial occupancy only — just like the home of the kids at 17-17 Troutman. This paranoia is made worse by the fact that certain friends of mine still consider me to be a hipster, misguided as that assumption/accusation may be.

We aren’t the only ones living there full-time, and that practice is by no means a secret to our landlord. There are also far too many units in our building with too many truly commercial occupants to fear a building-wide eviction. But there is always the possibility that our landlord will decide that she isn’t so blind, after all. So she sends out some notes and ten hours later there we are, living on couches but somehow finding the time to paint a mural about our plight.

Guess the best I can do is continue to be a good tenant and hope that people like the insane couple across the hall don’t ruin it for all of us. For all the shit I might talk about my place and the surrounding area, it has plenty of amenities that I will be increasingly thankful for as the temperature drops.

And now our protaganist finds herself crossing her fingers that she lands either the room for $680 on the block with the Picnic Table Killer or a “room” in a loft space shared with two other people. The boundaries that make up this “room” are: one wall, one plywood divider that separates the space from the kitchen, one bookshelf, and one curtain. For $730 a month.

Also, my laptop and my camera are broken.

And it’s 50-something degrees in August.