Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (17 page)

ANOTHER LOUSY NIGHT’S
sleep. Most of it was spent perusing the entire inventory of vintage fabrics on Etsy while entertaining an absurdly impractical idea of buying up yardage and starting a sideline business, sewing and selling my own line of clothes. Maybe in my next lifetime.

At around seven in the morning, I got up for some breakfast and read more of Olive’s journal. It seemed like her life was falling apart in sync with mine. Then I went back to bed. I slept for a couple more hours and then woke up for a second breakfast. I still had a few hours before opening the store at one o’clock. Pretty much all the East Village slept until noon, so there was no point in opening any earlier, which was a good thing. Having my mornings free went a long way toward maintaining my sanity.

I needed to call Chuck to straighten out the lease, but I wouldn’t be able to sound professional in my pajamas, so I tried to decide on what to wear. Either I’d gained some weight, or absolutely every piece of clothing I owned had shrunk. I voted for the latter.
Nevertheless, I resorted to my fat jeans. Searching for a cute top, I came across a Mexican peasant blouse with colorful birds embroidered down the front. It had come in a batch of ethnic tops from a wholesaler, and I’d been meaning to deal with a small cigarette burn near the hem before adding it to inventory. One advantage to the used clothing business: You could wear your stock without compromising the condition. After slipping on a white tank top, I dabbed at the cigarette burn with a bleach pen and then blotted it with a wet towel before laying it out to dry. If the stain still showed after the bleach dried, I’d camouflage it by turning the hem up a notch.

With that done, I was ready to call Chuck and find out my fate. I took a deep breath and dialed the number. As it rang, I geared up to be aggressive but not alienating. As it continued to ring, I tried to decide how detailed my voice mail should be. Then he picked up.

“Yeah, this is Chuck.”

In a clear and calm voice, I explained my confusion over the letter. “I assume it’s a mistake, since that’s not what we last discussed.”

“Right, uh, yeah,” he said. “That was my understanding at the time. However, I’m sure you know nothing is official until it’s in writing.”

I did know. “So what are you saying?”

“It’s not a mistake.”

“I don’t understand. I’ve been a good tenant. I’ve built up my business. I pay my rent on time.”

“Rents have gone way up since you signed your lease. That’s a destination neighborhood for restaurants and bars these days, and I’ve got clients willing to pay top dollar.”

“Then I’d like to speak with the landlord.” On my lease, the landlord was identified as Stella Realty Corporation, with no address or phone.

“That won’t be possible.”

“Considering I both live and work in the building, I think I
deserve some consideration. What if I’m able to match what the others are willing to pay?”

“I doubt that.”

So did I, but I continued, “Would you please give me the landlord’s contact information?”

“No disrespect, but the landlord hires me so he doesn’t have to deal with these problems. Look, you’ve been getting a good deal for that location, be thankful for that. Now it’s over, and you have to be flexible. Reasonably priced rentals can be had if you’re willing to move farther east.”

“How far, Williamsburg?”

“You don’t have to cross the river,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. “Prices are still reasonable on the other side of Avenue B.”

“Moving is expensive and time-consuming, and I’m bound to lose customers. The disruption could easily destroy my business.”

“It’s hard to keep a small business going, even in good times. Let me know if you want to look at some properties. I might be able to help you out.”

I refrained from thanking him for nothing and hung up.

My current retail space—five hundred square feet for eighteen hundred a month—had pretty much fallen into my lap. This time I’d have to start my search on good old Craigslist. Skimming down the listings, I saw that most places had square footage way too large for my needs. Hardly anything was under a thousand square feet. One place on First Avenue asked seven thousand for five hundred square feet. Another broker asked twenty-five hundred for six hundred square feet plus a basement, but that was way over on Avenue C. As feared, I’d have to pay more for less.

A new space would need renovations. That would cost. Movers would cost. I’d have to come up with a deposit on top of the rent. Start all over grooming customers.

I went through my alternatives. Give up the business; start a recycled-T-shirt shop in my father’s ecovillage; go back to
managing someone else’s store; become a shopgirl at Macy’s; crawl back to Jeff and beg for more help.

No. I shouldn’t even think that thought.

Back to the listings. One got me all excited—a jewelry maker looking to share six hundred square feet for a thousand a month in an ideal location on Ninth Street and Second Avenue. That could be a solution—presuming she wasn’t insane—and sharing could bring in more foot traffic. I clicked on the link and saw the ad was for a space on the third floor. Darn.

But that gave me an idea. Molly didn’t open her button shop until one o’clock, so there was a chance I could get her to meet for coffee. I called her cell.

“Hey,” she said. “Happy day after your birthday.”

“Thanks! And thanks again for my session with Dr. Markoff. Do you have time to get together this morning? We need to catch up. Also, I’m having a little crisis I need to discuss.”

“I gather your birthday dinner didn’t go well?”

“It didn’t even happen, but don’t worry, this crisis has nothing to do with Jeff. I’d really like to run something by you.”

“Okay. Where should we meet?”

“Remember De Robertis?” We used to go to that café all the time, back in our FIT days.

“Of course! I haven’t been there in years.”

“Me, neither. I always forget it’s there.”

“Me, too. Let’s do it. See you there in half an hour?”

“Perfect.”

We hung up, and I took a look at the peasant blouse. Victory. The bleach had dried, pretty much, and the cigarette burn was history.

On my way out, I grabbed the journal and stuffed it in my hobo bag. After seeing Molly, I’d probably go straight to the store. Maybe I’d want to read between customers. Or maybe not. I really couldn’t take much more bad news.

DURING BREAKFAST, I
studied the listings for rooms advertised in the paper. Some specified gentlemen or couples only. It didn’t appear to be the custom to announce the rent. I hoped to stay in familiar territory but had no idea if that would be possible. The Martha Washington Hotel allowed women only, but they undoubtedly charged more than I ought to spend. The Seville, an elegant beaux arts hotel that stood kitty-corner to the Mansfield, would also be too expensive. I had no choice but to walk around to the addresses in the paper. After finishing breakfast I opened the Siegel-Cooper box. At least I could look smart in my new suit.

I soon discovered that the Mansfield’s stance on renting to women was the norm. Smart-looking or not, I couldn’t get anyone to consider me without a personal reference; anyone who would, offered a room too squalid to bear.

It occurred to me that I ought to ask for a reference from someone at Woolworth’s—perhaps the executive who appeared at my father’s funeral. Returning to the Mansfield, I telephoned
the business office and asked to speak with him. Before long, I was pleading my case and trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

The man told me he couldn’t write a letter of reference for anyone who hadn’t been an employee. “And,” he added, “though we’ve met briefly, I can’t squarely say I know you personally. Not that I doubt your character.”

“But my father gave so many years of service to Mr. Woolworth. And your help would make all the difference.”

“It’s nothing against you. Just Mr. Woolworth’s policy, that’s all.”

I thanked him and rang off. Damn Woolworth and his policies.