“Oh, and I forgot to mention. A new guy just moved in, and since I haven’t another room, you’ll have to share. But, lucky for you, he’s out. Work, I s’pose, but he’ll be back,” he explains.
“Oh, okay,” I say, a bit tired and dazed, I don't feel like I could care so much. At least I’ve got somewhere to go and somewhere to sleep.
The rent of this apartment is about $2,500 per month, which is, indeed, a lot to pay. But, this is New York city. My parents and grandmother were more wealthy than average, so I have everything, and it is plenty more than enough to pay for the apartment, which is a fantastic start to a new life.
I hesitantly walk up the stairs; the owner pointed out where my room is (“Up the stairs, to the right,” he grumbled). I wonder if I did anything wrong to bother him, sounding completely irritated and all. Though, how could I give such a bad impression at a start like this? Maybe it's just the New York tradition of greeting newcomers. I take one step into the room and almost throw up at the sight (and smell) of it. The room, or the dumpster perhaps, has unpalatable and sickening clothes scattered around the room. It seemed as if some evil monster had torn up the room and breathed its disgusting breath into it. I wouldn't be surprised to find the monster hiding under the bed.
There is another room with a bed in it, the door halfway open, and this room, fortunately is clean, though dusty. I enter the room and close the door, sit on the bed and drop off my backpack on the wooden floorboards. The walls are blank despite some small holes and scratches, the floorboards creaky and close to rotting away. I don’t have any posters to fill the blank spaces on the walls, although I do have a calendar. I suppose I can simply go out and buy a few posters if I have any spare money. The ceiling fan wears a thick jacket of dust, just waiting to move. I don't believe anyone would use a fan in the winter. I really need to do some cleaning up here…