In my previous Time Travel post, I detailed how the dastardly Rob had stolen the apartment of my dreams right out from under me. About that fateful day, I wrote:

One afternoon, after I had brought out the cheese/cracker tray, Rob and I talked a bit. He asked: “Are you OK? You seem really upset.”

I blinked. And blinked again. Then I poured out my overwhelming lust for the Snell Penthouse, and the deal that I had made. “Sue called an hour ago. She broke her lease today! She then called and told me to rush to the landlord and sign a lease!”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“My boss wouldn’t let me leave. So, I’m counting the minutes till four, when my shift ends. Then I’ll rush to the landlord. I feel so distracted. I can’t think of anything else.”

Rob asked: “Who is the landlord?”

Still distracted, I replied with the well-known name of a local banker.

“Well, I’m sure it will all work out. Most people don’t want to live downtown.”

This was not our full conversation though.

After Rob stated that most people didn’t want to live downtown, he had added: “I know of a fabulous apartment on the NE corner of 1st Avenue North and Second Street, and it’s been empty for ages.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “It’s in mint condition, built in the 1940s, and has never been touched. The couple who developed the building lived in the apartment. And it has its own parking space!”

“It sounds fabulous. Is the rent really high or something?”

“No. The new owners, lawyers who have their office on the first floor, are asking $150 a month. It’s two bedrooms, two full baths, a dining room, and with a huge roof deck.”

“All that, AND parking, for only $150?”

Rob nodded again.

Then, about an hour later, he murdered my dreams.

 

Stunned by what had happened, I was in a daze for several weeks. Yet, I still wanted to live downtown. The possibility of being surrounded by my passion—Architecture!—was just too intoxicating. While there were plenty of places to live downtown, almost all were restricted to senior citizens. Apartment managers would look askance at my 19-year-old self and shake their head no.

Also, by living downtown, I would reduce my commute to work by exactly half, no small consideration. I had though finally acquired a car. Did I buy something sensible and with good gas mileage?

 

 

 

I did not have the money for the car though ($1,200, I think), and my parent’s did not have an extra dime. So, I boldly walked into the First National Bank, across from the Snell Arcade, and spoke with an officer, Mrs. LaDuke. She was easily twice my age and seemed amused by my age, nerve to ask for a loan on such an old car, and with my paltry income.

She then asked: “Is it really in mint condition?”

I nodded.

“Well…will the owner let you bring it by so I can look at it?”

“I will ask.”

The next day I proudly parked in front of the bank, and took Mrs. LaDuke for a spin. She said: “I’ve always loved Thunderbirds!” Then she laughed. “I feel like a young thing again!”

I got the loan. Decades would elapse before I recognized how extraordinary that was.

 

In the back of my mind something Rob said about the “other” apartment tugged at me. “It has its own parking space.”

The Snell Arcade apartment did not offer such a feature but, as I had not yet owned a car, I paid no attention to this. Suddenly though, the issue loomed large.

Soon after buying the Thunderbird, I drove downtown and parked in front of the 1940s building at the NE corner of 1st Avenue North and Second Street. Stepping out, I scanned the structure. It occupied the corner lot, and about a quarter of the 1st Avenue frontage. It was one-story, save what I supposed was the apartment on the second floor corner. There were six storefronts, and one was occupied by a legal firm, just as Rob had mentioned. I stepped inside the cool interior and asked about the apartment.

It was available.

A secretary took me back outside, around the corner to Second Street, though a kind of portal to the rear of the building, and towards a nondescript door. She unlocked it, handed me the keys, and said: “Just bring the keys back when you’re finished.” Then she left.

 

 

 

Opening the door, I stopped into a tiny entry hall, with a stair leading up. There was a landing, and the stair made a U. I stepped up, and there was a window on the upper landing. Nice. Turning left, I opened a door and into a very long hall which was surprisingly wide, 5-feet rather than the standard 3-feet. There was a window on the north end, and daylight way down at the south end. Nice.

There was a door opposite the stair door. Opening it, I stepped into a very large room which proved to be the living room, and with large windows facing north, and overlooking the rear of Mass Brothers department store to the west.

 

 

On the floor was a large rolled-up rug. I did not register it. The windows were bare save Venetian blinds.

Going back to the hall, I opened a door to my left. It was a huge walk-in closet. There were numerous plastic-covered things hanging. I did not register these. Continuing down the hall, I opened another door. Another huge walk-in closet with more plastic-shrouded things hanging. What were these, I wondered? I noticed that each was tagged, neatly. Like: Middle bedroom. Or: Dining room. I took off the plastic to one and discovered stunningly beautiful 1940s drapes like…

 

 

My heart speeded up upon the realization that, in these two closets, were all the original draperies for the apartment, in mint condition, and recently dry-cleaned, relined, tagged, and stored. It proved that each room had draperies in a different color and pattern but all were deliciously colorful and in floral patterns which screamed: 1940s!

I stood in the closet and felt my heart race. This was…incredible. I ached to run around the apartment rehanging all the draperies!

Stepping back into the spacious hall, another door to my left revealed a small room with a window facing east. An office?

Next, was a short hall with a glass door at the end. Opening the door, I stepped onto a huge deck, the roof of the adjacent stores. All this went with the apartment.

At the end of the hall was a huge kitchen outfitted with metal cabinets in perfect, brand-new condition. Looking back, they may have been by St. Charles. The kitchen had windows facing south and east.

The appliances were original and also in brand-new condition. Indeed, the range did not look like it and ever been used. I opened the oven door. The inside gleamed back at me.

Then I discovered something…utterly astounding and incredible.

Opening a drawer, there were two spoons inside, two forks, two knifes, etc. Opening another drawer was a bottle opener and a can opener. Opening an upper cabinet I discovered two plates, two bowls, two coffee cups, and two water glasses. In a lower cabinet were several cooking pots.

Another upper cabinet revealed cans of soup, vegetables, fruits, etc.

On the counter was a toaster and coffee maker. One drawer held a small stack of paper hand towels.

Then I found a note: “We know how hard it is when moving to a new place. Everything is packed away! So, we hope that your first day in this wonderful apartment can be made a little easier by these utensils and cans of food! Enjoy!”

The note, I assumed, was from the people who built the building and lived in it for three decades.

My eyes teared up. This was so generous, so thoughtful, and so unprecedented, that I felt an enormous outpouring of love and affection for two people I had never met.

Wiping my eyes, I stepped into the dining room, with a wide window facing south, and was struck with the idea: How cool would it be to have sit-down dinners here? A rolled-up rug was alongside one wall.

Back in the hall, I opened a door into a short hall. To my right was a full bath, spacious and utterly gleaming. Again, it did not look like it have ever been used. Hanging on rods were two bath towels and two hand towels. Sitting atop the toilet was an unopened roll of TP. A wrapped bar of soap sat on the vanity. A floor towel was draped over the tub edge. I shook my head in wonder.

The short hall opened into a corner room with windows facing south and Mass Brothers to the west. One corner was angled. Oh, I thought, the master bedroom! There was yet another rolled-up rug to one side. I kicked it half-way open. My eyes bugged out.

The rug featured an over-scale leaf pattern (screaming 1940s) and, while more subdued than the colorful drapery, it was still visually arresting. I bent down to a tag: 100% wool. It, like all the rugs, had been cleaned and placed back into the apartment.

I fully unrolled the rug. It came to about 18-inches from the perimeter walls, allowing the gorgeous oak floors (obviously revarnish recently) to still show.

OMG, I thought, does every room have a rug like this?

A door on the north wall revealed the middle bedroom, also spacious and also with a mint condition full bath with a tiled shower, all in just-installed condition, and outfitted, too, with the vitals.

Another rug was rolled up and I fully opened it. Yes, another 100% wool stunner, custom-sized to the room dimensions. Then I saw something hanging from the Venetian blinds. Walking over, it was a receipt for the blinds, revealing that all had been taken down, cleaned, and restrung with new cords.

The apartment was spacious. It had been repainted. The windows sparkled. The walls were obviously plaster, and with nary a crack or blemish. Original light fixtures sparkled. Each room was spacious, even the hallways. Everything was of high quality and had been expertly maintained for three decades.

The apartment was, in every way, the diametric opposite of the slum-like apartment I was living in with my sister. And for only $40 a month more.

Then something truly unexpected happened. Indeed, it felt like a miracle.

After walking reverently though the apartment a second time, most of the pain regarding the Snell Arcade apartment somehow…somehow…trickled away. This new apartment enveloped me in love. Its owners had gone to so much trouble to assure its next occupant a graceful entry and this pushed out much of the pain in my heart. In short, anger was largely replaced with delight, happiness, awe, and appreciation. The transformation was instant and comprehensive.

I floated out of the apartment, returned to the lawyer’s office, and signed a lease. This was early 1976. I was nineteen.

And quite besotted.

 

Writing these words in 2020, forty-four years later, I am still gobsmacked by how extraordinary the apartment was.

I am also stunned by my idiocy. As I recall things, a husband/wife developed the building, lived in the apartment, and had a dress shop on the first-floor corner. Then he died, and she moved into a nursing home. She was still there when I moved in.

Yet, it never occurred to me to visit and express my profound appreciation for all that she had done to “soft land” my moving in. How stunningly gracious of her.

It never occurred to me to convey my adoration of the apartment she and her husband had obviously cherished.

It never occurred to me to interview her about the history of the building, and of the downtown she and her husband had known in the 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, and early 1970s. Today, the historian in me smacks me upside the head. You idiot!

 

Living in so elegant an apartment was wondrous, and it transformed me. I now did clean! It seemed vital to continue the OCD legacy which had been lavished on the rooms for decades and, with a vacuum purchased from a thrift store for $5, I joyfully cleaned all the luscious 1940s rugs weekly.

I used the corner master bedroom as a living room, as it was adjacent to the dining room and kitchen. The middle bedroom was mine. My best friend from high school, Tim, rented the large original living room as his bedroom.

My 1940s sofa looked perfect in my new living room, and I placed it in front of the angled corner. My grandmother’s credenza was placed on the east wall, topped with a picture of Marlene Dietrich in a mirrored Art Deco frame. Adjacent, and in front of a window, sat the two areca palms from my previous apartment. Rather than reinstall the 1940s drapes in the room, I hung the lavish Vinoy Park drapes (which starkly contrasted with the 1940s rug).

I do not remember why, but my bed was simply a mattress on the floor. I had no table for the dining room. In the small office, I placed an overstuffed 1920s chair, and installed the telephone in the room. I loved having a phone room.

Shortly after moving in, perhaps a month, I was offered an extraordinary opportunity: Did I want to help reopen a huge 1920s hotel in Daytona?

 

 

The hotel, long closed, had last been a retirement home. A local man, named Monroe, owned the biggest gay disco in the city and purchased the hotel with the idea of turning it into a gay resort. I had been invited to help make this a reality.

Well…SQUEE!!!!!!!!

After all the expense of getting the new apartment and moving in, I could not afford the insurance on my new car, so my mother insisted I park it in her garage. A friend drove me to Daytona, and for the next six weeks I lived in the hotel and worked my ass off. We opened, and guests…trickled in.

And for all my work? Monroe paid me $100. And this, only after I begged for some money.

I was lucky, as Monroe had not paid most of the young gay men working for him. This was not right, so I began to organize a strike. The next morning I was fired. My sister arrived at 3AM to fetch me.

 

When I left St. Petersburg, Tim said he would stay in the apartment, and that his sister would rent my room. Returning to the city, I walked into the apartment but it was eerily empty. Tim had clearly moved out, and my room looked untouched. His sister had obviously not moved in.

Worried, I went to the lawyer’s office and asked if the rent had been paid. Nope. It was two months late; $300 was due.

$300! Where in the world was I going to get that kind of money? I scrambled to get a new roommate but was unsuccessful.

And thus, after barely settling in, I had to abandon the apartment and move back in with…mom. I had been on my own for nine months.

On my last night in the apartment, I came home very late after dancing only to discover the deck door glass broken, and the theft of three things: My two areca palms, and the framed picture of Marlene. Obviously, it had been a gay burglar.

 

Looking back, I might have been able to work something out with the lawyers. With my departure, they would not have likely found another tenant. While downtown was filled with elderly residents, the stairs to the apartment would have proved an issue. And young people had no interest in downtown.

In addition, the lawyers did not really care about any income from the apartment, although I did not know this at the time. They had purchased the building with the plan to sell it as a development site, and today…

 

 

While my time in the apartment proved brief, it left an indelible imprint. In every subsequent place I have lived, when I left, I left the place immaculate. For example, upon my departure from New York City in 1991, I first repainted the apartment I had occupied, cleaned the windows, and in the bathroom I hung two new bath towels and two hand towels on the towel bar. A new floor towel was draped over the tub edge. A new roll of TP was on the roller, with the first tissue folded into a V. On the vanity was a wrapped bar of soap. Adjacent was a glass soda bottle containing water and a single rose.

Doing all this, I was consciously thinking of the couple I never met, people I nonetheless felt so profoundly embraced by.

A few weeks after leaving New York, my mail contained an envelope from my former landlord. Inside, was a note from the new tenant. It read:

Can you please forward this to the previous tenant? I want them to know how moved I was by all they had done to the apartment, including the amazing touch of leaving me a single rose! I am recovering from a very difficult time in my life and this unexpected generosity from a total stranger has helped to heal my damaged heart. Bless them!