Ella

I stood in the doorway of the Airbnb short term rental, my suitcase and backpack in hand, and glanced around. The room had a single Murphy bed that, when opened, dominated the space.

"This is it?" I turned to Liza, the woman who managed the Airbnb apartment. "This is a one bedroom?"

Liza handed me the key with a huge grin on her face. "Welcome to Manhattan."

"But it's a closet, not an apartment!"

"It's a room with one bed. It's a one bed room." She shrugged like she was helpless. "Did you really think you could rent a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan – in Chelsea – for what you're paying?"

"It's twice what I'd pay in New Hampshire."

"This is the Big Apple, sweetheart. Get used to it."

I rolled my eyes, but at that moment, I had nowhere else to stay – and besides, I had already paid in advance. I couldn't afford the insane hotel costs, so until I picked up the key to my long-term rental in Chelsea next week, it was this room or nothing.

"There's clean linen in the cupboard and there are dishes and a hotplate. No visitors after eleven. Call me if you need anything."

"Is there even a table? I'm a writer. I need something to put my laptop on and my notes."

"You can sit on the bed and work. This is the table," she said and folded down a piece of white-painted plywood on a hinge. "You can use this for a table or desk."

She smiled brightly and I looked on the rickety tabletop. "Will it even hold my laptop?"

"It's a laptop. You could use your lap."

I exhaled and tried to let the anxiety seep out of me. I could make it work for a week. Right?

I went to the tiny window overlooking the back alley and a row of trash cans, which were currently overflowing. 

Word to the wise: Fisheye cameras distort spatial dimensions. I knew I should have paid attention in my physics class instead of ogling Paul Desmond, the cute football player with the cleft in his chin...

That being said, I was optimistic about life. The actual long-term apartment I'd rented had real exposed brick. It had its own bathroom. And even if it was a studio space, it was bigger than the room in the Airbnb. I hoped that the unpaid internship I would be starting would turn into a paid one by the end of six months. If it didn't, I had faith that I'd be able to find another job somewhere that did pay. The internship, paid or otherwise, had to count for something.

Right?

I'd just finished my BFA and was hoping to become an editor for one of the big publishers one day. But my secret desire was to write the Great American Novel at some point in my career. Or at least a romantic comedy that would rival Candace Bushnell. 

My dream was to be a successful author one day, but until then, I hoped my stint with a smaller publisher would develop my editing skills and networking in the business. At least I'd learn about the publishing industry. I might make connections that would help me later, when I was ready to try my hand at publishing.

So, I plopped my suitcase onto the floor, and went with Liza to check out the bathroom I would be sharing. The second-floor walkup space had a shower and toilet with an old sink that had seen better days. There were three other rooms on the floor and two on the third. We all shared the same bathroom, Liza informed me. She showed me the schedule on the back of the bathroom door. Room 2C, which was mine, had the bathroom from seven thirty to eight a.m. every morning for showering. The rest of the time after nine a.m. was first come first serve. If the seven-thirty time didn't work out for me, I was to request a different time and work something out with the other tenants, get up before six to shower, or shower after eight.

That was it.

My internship started at nine a.m. on Wednesday. I didn't know the transit system yet, so I hoped I had enough time to get there from my little closet in Chelsea. I figured I should be able to get ready in the morning and make it to midtown Manhattan with enough time to pick up a coffee and arrive at eight forty-five.

Before Liza left, I grabbed her arm.

"If I was to catch a train from the nearest station, how long would it take to get to Central Park West?"

"Depends. What time of day?"

"Say, at eight in the morning. I should be able to get there from here in forty-five minutes, right?"

She laughed. "You should definitely try first so you know your trains and timing. When do you start work?"

"Wednesday. Nine a.m. sharp."

She shrugged. "It's Monday mid-afternoon. You can try now, but it won't be precise. Better try tomorrow morning for a dry run. You should go a bit earlier tomorrow morning so you get a better sense of how long it takes. Good luck!"

I sighed. My real apartment was a few blocks away from the Airbnb room, so the timing wouldn't be precise, but at least I'd have an idea of how long it would take to get to work.

I thanked her and went back to my room. Or should I say, my closet.

There was a tiny shelf at the end of the room under the window. On it was a single hotplate next to a microwave and toaster. Beneath was a tiny refrigerator. 

That was the extent of my kitchen. Whatever – it would do for the rest of the week.

There was one floor-to-ceiling cabinet on the wall for everything – dishes, food, linens, and other personal effects.

I sat on the Murphy bed, glad that my real apartment was much nicer. Besides, I was in Manhattan to get experience and break into the publishing industry. I had to scrimp and suffer a bit for future glory. I needed a desk, but I could use the folding table until I got my real apartment.

The smallest of air conditioners filled the top window and a thick ugly cord trailed down the wall to one of the two electrical outlets in the entire space, but at least it was air conditioned. The summers were hot in Manhattan.

I'd have to unplug and re-plug the toaster and microwave if I wanted the tiny refrigerator to run constantly. The other plug I could use for the tiny television, such as it was, and my laptop. I'd have to alternate using the plugs for my printer, which was a necessity for a writer and budding editor.

How anyone got away with advertising this as a studio apartment was beyond me. Wasn't there some sort of law against false advertising? This was not a studio apartment. It was a bedroom. Or half a bedroom. And barely even that.

My stomach rumbled and I checked my watch. It was now two forty-five in the afternoon. I'd arrived with my luggage from Penn Station and taken a taxi to the building in Chelsea to meet Liza and get my keys to the Airbnb room. Now I decided to go out into Manhattan and find my way around the place. Tomorrow morning, I would try out the subway system and take it to the building where I would be working, just to check out the neighborhood.

There was a thrift store down the street and I intended to go there and see what they had on offer. I figured I'd have to be thrifty for the next six months if I wanted my small nest egg to stretch that far. I might end up getting a part-time job as a bartender, if I could find a bar close by that needed help. Luckily, bartenders could get jobs everywhere and I had some training, so I figured I was set.

So it was that I set off to explore Manhattan after taking possession of the Airbnb room. Outside my building the street was busy with cars, and the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. It was a lot for someone who'd lived most of her life in Manchester, New Hampshire, where the streets were wide and the traffic much less dense. Still, there was an energy in the air that infused me and made me feel optimistic, instead of depressed because of the apartment-closet situation. I took out my cell and googled grocery stores in Chelsea, and found one a few blocks away. Score!

After a trip to the grocery store, where I purchased fruit, some yogurt, and a couple of frozen dinners, I returned to my apartment and put my purchases away.

Things were definitely looking up. 

I took out one of the frozen dinners and had one for supper. The building had cable, and so I went to bed that first night in my tiny room, using every one of the four plugs: one to run the air conditioner, one to watch the television, one to power my laptop, and one to keep my food cold. 

Life was good.