Tag: Fiction

The Previous Tenants (Feb 25 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero interacts with one separate yet equally important group…  Dun dun…

At 8:32am, my doorbell rings three times in quick succession. I groggily roll over and tell Partner I got it. I walk to the door and flick the peephole to open. “POLICE!” says the voice on the other side. The peephole is dark as though covered by something. The something moves. I now see 3 bodies.
“One sec.” I reply. The voice on the other side grunts something noncommittal.
Naked, I go to the bathroom and pee for what feels like a very long time.
I then toss on yesterday’s shirt and pants. I tell Partner, “What do we tell cops?”
She replies something like, “The truth?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “We tell cops nothing.”
On the way to the door, I grab my hat. Just before opening the door, I turn on voice memo mode on my phone. 

I open the door. It’s a man in front, two women standing one on either side behind him. The following is a direct transcript. 

Me: Hey, good morning. 

Cop: Good morning, how are you doing? My name is Austin, from the New York City Police Department. Sorry to bother you.

Me: No worries. 

Cop: What’s your name? 

Me: Julian. 

Cop: Julian, are you the only one that lives here?

Me: Yeah.

Cop: You just moved in here? 

Me: Yeah. 

Cop: How long ago? 

Me: End of January. 

Cop: End of January. Do you know who used to live here before you? 

Me: No. 

Cop: Oh, okay. Do you get any, is it just you that lives here? 

Me: My partner is here at the moment, but I’m the only one who lives here.

Cop: Who’s your partner then? 

Me: Nikki. 

Cop: Nikki. Do you get any mail, or used to, for this name?

[He holds out a piece of paper. It’s a mug shot with statistics.] 

Me: [Mispronunciation of the mug shot person’s name]? 

Cop: Yes. 

Me: I’m not familiar with that person. 

Cop: No mail? 

Me: No.

Cop: She look familiar to you? 

Me: No. 

Cop: No. 

Me: I received, maybe like two weeks ago, a letter or two in the mailbox that was not addressed to me, and clearly wasn’t for me, and so what people usually do is they put it on the thing next to it, and then when the guy comes by to deliver the mail, he’ll take it back.
[I promise English is my first language.] 

Cop: Do you know if it was for her? 

Me: I don’t remember.

Cop: Don’t remember, yeah. Okay. All right. I’m sorry about everything. 

Me: No worries.

Cop: All right. 

Me: Cheers.

I close the door and return to Partner. She says in a deep voice, “NYPD, open up!”. We laugh about how cops are only mildly inconvenient in their normal duties (ringing aggressively at 8:30am, the way a child would ding-dong three times), but when they really want to get you, they’re incredibly inconvenient (like busting down your door at 5am). 

Here’s what I’ve heard about the previous owner: 

  • A mother lived here with her son. The mother owned the apartment. She died. The son didn’t make the maintenance fee payments. He kept sneaking into the apartment: breaking through the front door or climbing up the fire escape to break in. This explains the one-inch diameter deadbolt on the fire escape. 
  • Last time the management company stopped by, the previous tenants had a big pool table in the middle of the living room. Compared to that previous state, our current state of disheveled (Amazon boxes strewn about) is what the management company describes as “very clean”. 
  • The previous owner was foreclosed on. The court case took ~3 years. 

Since this morning, here’s what I’ve since learned about [correct pronunciation of the mug shot person’s name]: 

  • She was born in the Bronx, had a hard childhood, suffered from medical and mental health issues, was arrested multiple times for misdemeanors, and then was charged with felony robbery.
  • She participated in “Alternative to Incarceration” court with the Fortune Society, which provided her with therapy and an arts program. She had an art exhibition in 2022 and graduated from the program in fall of 2023.
  • In February 2024, she shared her success story at the State of the Judiciary program in Albany and has been featured in multiple materials since. She was proud to hold a job, have her own apartment, and was expecting her first child that spring.
  • She had an eviction filed against her in March of 2025 for not-my-address and is due in court next week.
  • It’s not clear to me why NYPD was looking for her.

I stopped by the bank earlier today. The banker talked for twenty minutes about the cruise she wants to go on. I told her the story of my morning, being awaken by NYPD. She began singing the Taylor Swift Song: 

“Welcome to New York.” 

Haggling in la Niebla de Guerra (Feb 24 2026)

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In which our hero brings a negotiation to a key fight. 

After trying and failing to close my bank account at Wells Fargo, I strutted into the hardware store ready for a fight. 

“Three of the big keys; four of the small. How much?”
The older of the two cashiers replies, “Thees wun ees twenny. Thees wun ees fore.”
$20 is standard, but I know I can get the small for $3.50.
“I’ll give you $70 for all of them.”
“Huh?” The older man asks his younger compatriot.
The younger one says to me, “Set prices, no negotiating”.
“Ok, then just three big ones.”
They discuss my request in Spanish. They assume I don’t speak Spanish. They’re correct. But I do know my numbers. 

The younger fellow cuts the three big keys. When he’s done, the older fellow says, “Udder wun?”
I show him the small key. (I have 8 keys currently on my ring.) He takes it. I say, “I don’t know the price.” He ignores me. I think to myself: “After they’re cut, I have the leverage anyway” and look around the cash register ot see if there’s a fee for credit card. 

The older fellow finishes the small keys and rings it up: $68.99 for the seven keys.
I pull out my phone to pay with tap.
“Ahhh, card?” The older man says.
I suspected he would respond this way. But there’s no sign up-charging me for card usage. 

I pay and he gives me the receipt. I feel like a winner.
Then I look.
$15 each for the big ones.
$4 each for the small. 

Did I school him, saving $7.01 over retail price?
Or did he hoodwink me into thinking the $15 keys are $20 each? 

At home, I tried all three of the big keys. Success.
And then all five of the small keys. Also success.
Wait.
Five?
Did they copy me five keys instead of three?
Ha.

[Note: Last time Partner visited this store, they charged her $30 for a copy of the big key. 

New York City: where everything is made up… but the points definitely matter.] 

In the Spirit (Feb 23 2026)

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In which? IN THE SPIRIT! 

In the spirit of my yesterday writing, here are relatively trivial items I’m happy with: 

  1. Frolicking in the snow with Partner at 10pm yesterday in Central Park.
    1. I acquired a stick. A great stick. A passerby said, “That’s a great stick, man.” Some sticks are great. 
    2. Partner and I scaled the steps atop the ice rink. We passed two late-20s men who smelled like weed and soap. “Stay safe,” one of them told us. “Make sure you get out.”
      1. Partner & I both remarked how similar New York City is to Burning Man. 
    3. At the ice rink, a worker used a snowblower to shift snow from atop the ice to another place atop the ice. Then he used the snowblower to shift the snow back to its original location. I’m still not sure what he’s trying to accomplish. I suspect he either is failing or paid hourly. 
  2. I awoke at 6:30am thinking about all the quotidian aspects I’ve been enjoying.
    1. The review of 8 contracts for home renovators. 
    2. The simple pleasure of being able to host. 
    3. The comedy of being awoken by a THUNK-THUNK-THUNK at 6:30am and immediately fearing it’s someone banging on the door of your van, then recalling you haven’t lived in a van for almost a year.
      1. It’s still not clear what caused the THUNK-THUNK-THUNK. Snow falling? Radiators clanging? Someone actually knocking on our door? My hypothesis: GREMLINS!
    4. The sadness + regret for leaving your bedding with the man who bought your van, him promising to deliver it to you in New York when you closed on the house. He delivered it well enough. But he also washed one of the blankets, a dry-clean-only item that had been a gift from dear friends in Texas, and which will now never be as soft as it once was.
      1. The memory of accidentally doing a similar thing to another friend’s blanket. I borrowed it for a picnic; it acquired burrs, and I began picking them out by hand. Wanting to avoid me the trouble of picking them all out, he washed it and it developed piles. I don’t really blame yourself for the actual ruining of it: I would have picked it back to pristine. But the spirit is similar. 😔
  3. Partner: “Can you squish…” and points downward. I start squeezing her right foot. She laughs. “Can you squish the ottoman toward me? I like the default to the footrub, though. I do usually request that as, ‘Could you squish my feet?’” 
  4. In Central Park, Partner said, “What’s that?” And pointed at the ground. I inspected. She clarified: “No, that!”. I looked closer. She grabbed a hunk of snow with her arms and shoveled it in my face. 
  5. On 105th street, between Columbus and Amsterdam, Partner & I walked by some strangers. They had been throwing snowballs at each other. One of them asked, “Snowball fight?” as he walked past. Partner & I kept walking. Then three steps later, I wheeled around and whipped a snowball at him. We attacked back and forth for a while, until a man approached our makeshift war and said, “please don’t hit me with one of those.” We paused the thirty seconds for him to pass, then threw more snowballs at each other.
    1. An hour later, Partner happened upon these same strangers while walking down the street. One of them yelled “That’s our enemy!” and the fight reprised. 

Ahh. Are these not the joys of life? 

(I also completed 4 financial administrative tasks of necessity: opening a credit card; moving a bank account; creating an LLC; closing an LLC. But those, dear reader, are the mere mechanics that allow life’s joys to whir.) 

Elbows and Existence (Feb 20 2026)

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An infinite array of options; I’ll be aye. 

My elbow tenses.

At 32 years old, my first repetitive stress injury. 

Second, after a pickleball shoulder. 

But this elbow is also a pickleball injury. 

Squeezing paddle, sure. 

But also the orientation of my elbow as I laid on my back, my computer on my chest for too many hours: the hunched-over curl of a crone despite my then-13 years old. 

I hunched today as I did then. 

Now I pay. 

It’s odd to grow old. To scrape off one’s vigor and exchange passion for comfort. To realize my mind may be and continue to be heading farther away from me, not nearer. 

To replace exuberance with action. 

Having finished most of the big explore, to replace it with exploit. 

Enjoying everyday enough to select it among the infinite. 

To have experienced enough to know. 

How many have made pilgrimage to Seoul for the finals of your favorite childhood sport? 

Ran shirtless in Indonesia? 

Meditated in Thailand? 

How many have eaten pasta two blocks from the Vatican? 

Kayaked the arctic ocean? 

Swam the Great Barrier Reef?

Negotiated for tee shirts in Mumbai? 

I don’t feel like a life unlived. 

I feel like the foundation; the fundamentals of everyday existence: 

That those thusfar empties are slowly seeping solid. 

I don’t need to see the thousand buddhas again. 

I’ve seen them, snapped selfies with silly smirks, stumbled upon the graveyard, and biked home. 

Share these with a future wife and children, sure. 

Invite my extended family to duck and cheese at my Paris pied-à-terre. 

Learn what makes my new brothers laugh. 

When the door has opened, why keep knocking? 

On Printing & Permissioning (Feb 9 2026)

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I have always depended on the kindness of loopholes.  

I applied for my NYC ID today. 

I brought my passport for proof of identity and utility bill for proof of address. 

The receptionist rejected my utility bill since it was digital. 

I don’t have a printer. The receptionist said I could go to UPS across the street to use their printer. But it costs $5. 

I asked, “Could I use your printer?”

“We can’t print applicant materials,” she replied. “It’s against policy.” 

“What do you do when a homeless person comes in?” 

“They have a letter from the shelter.” 

“What about someone who’s too poor to print?” 

“They have a letter.” 

“Is there any way I could use your printer.” 

“No.” 

Walking out, I saw a cop in the lobby. I approached his desk. Unprompted, he said, “Bathroom?” 

I said, “I got a quick question for you. I need to print something for my appointment. But I just moved here: I don’t have a printer. Could you help me out?” 

He said, “Yes, but you’ll need to email it to me”, then gave me a wet and bent business card. I emailed him the PDF. 

Then, the best part: he used the printer in the IDNYC office! He walked in past the receptionist, retrieved the document from her printer, walked back out with the printed copy, handed it to me, at which point I walked it back in. 

The receptionist said, “Thanks for coming back. Did they charge you $5?” 

I said, “I printed somewhere else”. 

When leaving, I told her, “By the way, the cop out front can print. So you can send people to him instead.” 

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” 

I wonder if she’ll ever find out it’s her printer. 

“Everything is hard in New York City” (Feb 5 2026)

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In which Our Hero prompts anger and ridicule. 

I’ve heard this said many times. Probably 3 times in the last 2 weeks, and many times before. And I… like… don’t believe it? 

Two days ago, my partner wanted to schedule a doctor’s appointment. She called the specific practice she desired, best in the country for the thing she cares about. They booked her for Thursday (9 days out). Then, she asked if they had a cancellation list she could be on to get anything sooner. The scheduler offered her the following day (yesterday) at 10am. She attended the appointment with great success. That doesn’t sound hard to me. AND, this is a medical function that NYC residents most say can be hard to get into. 

What do I think is actually happening? Options: 

  1. There is so much to do. The City is an endless treasure trove of possibilities. In a normal city, you might want to do 3 things aside from work on a given day. In New York, you might want to do 8. 
  2. Some things *do* take much longer. Yesterday, I moved a couch from a third-floor walkup. A third-floor walkup is not something that even exists in many parts of the country! Transporting the couch to my truck took ~50 minutes. Compare that to the ~15 minutes it took me to transport a much-heavier bedframe to that same truck. But the bedframe was in an elevator building. (Driving, too, can take forever. But most of the time, you won’t drive. And the subway is very speedy. (And most Americans are used to driving forever anyway.))
    1. Waiting in line can take forever. If you want to attend a specific show, you might have to get in line for tickets 3+ hours before the ticket purchase opens. 
  3. The people feel squeezed and stressed, so the difficulty of doing things becomes much more. When you work an intense 9-5 that really works you from 8-6:30 (or in some cases 7am – 8pm), you have brief evenings and weekends for both errands and all the life you want to squeeze out of New York. 
  4. Rent *is* really fucking expensive. Therefore, you are much more likely to feel squeezed. But that doesn’t make things themselves harder. It just makes you uniquely susceptible to 1) feeling like you can’t give up that 7am-8pm job, and 2) feeling like everything in your life is intense. 

Over the last week, these are things my partner or I have done with less than 12 hours from conception to completion: 

  1. Bought 4 slices of 4.5-star New York pizza for $5.99
  2. Scheduled and picked up for ~1/3rd of retail cost:
    1. A like-new minifridge 
    2. A robot vacuum & mop
  3. Scheduled and picked up for free:
    1. Bedframe with sidetable and drawers 
    2. Coffee table
    3. Desk
    4. Peloton shoes of exactly my partner’s size 
    5. Wheeled dolly 
    6. Vacuum
    7. Plates/cups/mugs/silverware
    8. Blender
    9. Microwave
    10. 2 large-size instantpots
    11. 3 plush chairs
    12. 1 plush comfy chair 
    13. 1 large L-shaped couch
    14. 1 desk chair
    15. 1 gaming chair

That doesn’t sound like it’s difficult to do things. That sounds like some things are difficult to do. (Getting into one of the elite public schools? Fuggaddabouttit!) And when the line at grocery checkout is 50 people long (as it sometimes is), you might think it’s hard to go grocery shopping. But there are 25 open checkout stations, so that line is really equivalent to only 2 people in front of you. 

So far, New York has been kind and hospitable. Yes, there was a threatening person in front of my building who followed me inside 2 days ago. But hey, isn’t that culture? 

Jennifer and the Fridge (Feb 2 2026)

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In which community helps carry the weight. 

The last time Nikki rode in the trunk of a car, we were hitchhiking through central Germany. This time, it’s to keep the fridge upright. 

We found Jennifer through facebook marketplace. She posted a mini fridge for $55. When we arrive, she explains: “I originally posted it for $90,” she says, “and there was a bidding war.” 

She says this as though it clarifies how we got here when in reality it only muddles my understanding. 

Jennifer asks for help carrying her trunk downstairs. Nikki obliges; I carry the fridge. When we get to the bottom, Jennifer offers to drive us to the subway instead. We heartily agree. 

Forty-five minutes later we’re stuck in traffic behind school buses with Hebrew letters on the side, all doing their daily rounds despite it being Sunday. Jennifer tells us about her life and dreams: 

  • She always wanted to live in a loft apartment that doubles as an arts space. Today she moves her stuff out of someone else’s arts loft. She’s not making much art these days. 
  • She lived for a while in rural northern California, managing a “farm” and “driving hash around”. 
  • She raised her son by herself. He’s sixteen now and “I homeschooled him myself” for five years. When I ask for details, she says “More like unschooled. But hanging around me is a whole lot of learning”. 

As Jennifer drives us down [name] street in Bushwick, she points out all the Hassidic jews nearby. “That hat probably costs $3000,” she says, and “Don’t do business with people who say ‘more or less…’” 

“Good for you,” Jennifer says upon learning I’ve bought my own apartment. “Do ya mind if I ask what you do for work?” 

I pass this question to Nikki. 

“He’s a clown school dropout,” Nikki says. “And I am a bioweapons expert.” 

“Modern day hippies.” 

— 

We only end up carrying the fridge down two flights of stairs, up two flights of stairs, and down one avenue block (those are the long ones). We stop five times. Had Jennifer not driven us, the carrying itself would have taken us an hour. Instead, we received a tour of Bushwick. 

On the final stretch, Nikki pauses a few times for grip strength issues. Her strength itself is just fine: it’s a problem of her finger strength giving out. (Fun fact: grip strength is the most sexually dimorphic trait.) Two high school boys walk past us. They look for a bit too long, clearly demonstrating curiosity. After they pass, Nikki says “I’m thinking about asking someone for help carrying this to the light.” 

Six months ago, Nikki was lifting weights at a gym in Reno when she realized she couldn’t re-rack her weights (due not to a strength issue but their height). She flagged down some men in the gym, only realizing after asking that they were standing around chatting because they were firemen called in for something job-related. They ribbed each other about who was going to help her, then clearly enjoyed being useful. 

So far, we’ve lived in New York for 4 days. I look forward to the day when Nikki asks the passing teens immediately. I look forward to the day when I do too. Because we helped carry Jennifer’s trunk downstairs. That’s what New Yorkers do. 

Jennifer has always wanted to live in a loft apartment. And today she is moving out of her arts space. 

We found her through facebook marketplace. She posted a mini fridge for $55. When I messaged her, she said “First person to confirm they can pick it up at 3:30pm gets it!” I immediately texted back “Confirmed: I can do 3:30. Where is it?” 

En route, I tell her we’d love for the fridge to be at the ground floor. “You mentioned you could bring it down the stairs. I’d appreciate that.” She replied: “No. I mentioned i am strong enough to.  You will need to carry it down.” 

When we arrive, feelings are slightly tense, presumably because of the recent request-rejection. 

My partner wonders aloud whether people who feel compelled ot make art do so because they have something they need to communicate that can’t be easily communicated with language. 

I do think many of them feel unheard. 

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

Mellow and Dramatic (Jan 26 2026)

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In which Our Hero mellows in the drama 

Today was the first day of the second term. I’m not there. I’m in Etampes, four minutes walk from the school. I walked earlier today by the train station cafe that doubles as the student haunt. Yet I’m not there. Do I miss it? 

Today my mother and I dawdled down a classic Parisian street. Over lunch we swapped plates four times so we could experience what the other was eating. An Eastern European tourist offered us alcohol at Jim Morrison‘s tombstone. A California native gushed his worries about American politics 10 feet away from Molière corpse. 

This evening, my housing purchase was confirmed. After 8 years nomadic (homeless?), it’s time to put down roots. My partner ordered a bed for the empty apartment. I ordered locks for the doors. We’re buying one way flights like we always do, only this time they’re to home. 

The clown course I’m missing is melodrama. A fellow student once told me that melodrama is about stretching moments. What should be a five second stroll becomes ten minutes of dramatic, hyper-experienced anguish. 

Today stretched. From sprinting for the train to dashing through loan documentation, I was hyper present. Focused. Immersed. 

That’s one of the goals (or is it *the main goal* of clown school). Presence. Giving. Moving forward. 

I don’t miss melodrama. 

I’m excited for my life. 

Clown School Break Day 51: Dumb, Dumb, Duh-dumb Dumb Dumb…  

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In which Our Hero, um, … um … um … 

I’ve been feeling dumber lately. Having trouble finding the right word. Finding myself thinking slower. What’s up with this?

Hypotheses: 

  1. Clowning makes one less intellectual
  2. The work that I’ve been doing has been effective, but not intellectually stimulating
  3. Something else

The first seems likely true. Does clowning make one less intellectual? Yes. Less intelligent? No. However, among the many types of intelligence, it does not contribute to improving one’s smartness. In fact, it teaches one to focus on pleasure and emotion to the detriment of smartness. Sacrifices must be made at the altar of pleasure! 

The second: also likely. I’ve recently been doing a lot of important and procedural, but not intellectual, work. (Among them: buying and renovating an apartment; writing articles that are squarely in my wheelhouse.)

The third: maybe it’s hormonal? The speed of my verbal fluency was stronger on œstrogen. ‘Twas notably stronger. And now, I have much more general go-go-go (whether that’s testosterone itself or simply my familiarity with the hormone, I’m not sure), but less verbal speed. I make fewer moves but each move is stronger.

Another option for the third: a life transition that requires adjustment. Selling my previous home. Buying a new one. Moving internationally. Building a relationship. All of these can wear you down. 

A final option for the third: lack of exercise. Since I broke my foot I have been a complete lazypants. The brain thrives on exercise. Perhaps it will return when the activity returns. This one seems very likely to be influential :!D

It’s an odd experience to feel myself being duller than I previously was. And the people around me aren’t noticing… or at least aren’t noticing enough to say anything.

Then again, would they notice? And if noticed, would they say? 👀