Photo by Kat Carney
I hand the green lunch ticket to the woman behind the counter and pick up a white paper bag labeled “Room 326” in bright, red marker. Inside are two plastic containers: one contains peanut butter, the other jelly. I find two slices of bread, an apple and a pack of Oreos. I haven’t eaten like this since I was 12 when my mom packed my lunchbox, always making sure there was a folded napkin placed underneath the sandwich. But it’s food, and it’s already paid for, so I snatch it up, happy to accept what I’ve been given.
When I arrive at my Midtown office, I rip off the label before stashing the lumpy sack in the back of the refrigerator. I don’t want my co-workers to see I have a numbered sack lunch. It would only lead to questions about my situation. My boss has a swanky pad in Park Slope, and the No. 2 guy has no problem spending $30 on a salad at lunch. I fear my meager vittles will only make me look hopeless. I’m not ready for these people to know I’m living in a women’s dorm.
Let me explain: I moved back to New York in early December at the age of 26 after snagging a temporary position at a big magazine. I had just finished my degree in journalism at Columbia and, although the industry is in shambles, I found myself scanning my security badge, walking through the turnstiles and getting off on a floor filled with smart, professional people dedicated to the written word.
Growing up in Nashville, Tenn., I always imagined the people who worked and lived in New York had made it, so I was excited to return to the glamour of the city, to work near Rockefeller Center, to chat with sleekly dressed magazine editors, to act nonchalant when Tom Cruise brushed by me in the lobby.
It didn’t matter to me if someone was a struggling actor or a lowly gofer for a business exec: We all gave up something—comfort, a large home, being close to family—to try and make our careers work.
I would now officially be one of them. Without the insulation of grad school and student loans, I endured the subway car crush during rush hour and pushed past the annoying tourists constantly ogling the Times Square neon.
I couldn’t sign a lease, however, since my job is temporary, and I didn’t have time before moving back to find a sublet. So when one of my mother’s friends told me about the Webster Apartments, a women’s residence on West 34th Street, I decided to check it out. For $1,000 a month I’d get two meals a day and daily maid service. My room would be outfitted with a single bed, dresser, small closet, desk and sink. And I’d be surrounded with women of all ages and backgrounds. While most people my age were extending their adolescent years with a micro-college climate in Brooklyn, I’d be trapped in perpetual dorm life, complete with communal showers with the luxury of thin walls instead of a mere curtain separating the stalls.
I learned the minimum stay is only a month, and I figured no one would have to know about my digs. Once I had more secure footing, I could find a place of my own. Unless you have a large apartment, most socializing happens in bars and restaurants in the city, so I told myself it would be an adventure, something I’d look back on and laugh about someday. After all, plenty of women—and men—have gotten by with a lot less to achieve their New York dreams.
But I soon realized it was also utterly dispiriting. I’m a gregarious woman. I have an active social life. I can be loud. I love to have a good time. And a lot about living in a women’s residence just didn’t seem to mesh with my personality.
Only a couple years ago I lived in a 1,300 square-foot condo with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and a lovely deck. Granted, it was in Atlanta, but it was mine, and it served as a constant reminder of my full-time job, my entry into adulthood, my ability to provide a home for myself. I felt successful. I hosted parties on weekends and soaked in lavender-scented bubble baths after long days at work.
I have none of that now. No private home, no full-time job. And the Webster is a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. I am 27 now and stuck in young-adult limbo. We all make sacrifices, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep up my spirits long enough to survive this feeling of defeat.
I lived in Webster less than a week when I broke my first rule.
To live in west Midtown for $1,000 a month, you have to forfeit something: an elevator, a laundry room, a bathtub or privacy. I knew I was lucky to have a window with a view. For that, I had to give up some of my freedom.
When I checked into the 13-story Webster, I was given a packet of welcome information that included a list of dos and don’ts. No men allowed above the first floor. No overnight guests. Quiet hours from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Dinner is served only between 5 and 7:45 p.m. All visitors must sign in and be gone by midnight. Oops. That’s where I messed up.
A few nights into my Webster experience, my good friend Kim came over for dinner to check out the place I’d described. She signed the guest book, as per the rules. We ate macaroni and cheese and salad and sipped red wine in the cafeteria along with dozens of the other women.
“This isn’t that bad,” Kim said as she took a bite of her mac-and-cheese. “I mean, you have free dinner every night.”
“Yeah, but it’s a Friday and we’re here,” I said as I gestured to an old lady at a table across the room, sitting by herself and reading a book.
“Maybe it’s not that sad,” Kim said. “Everyone needs their alone time.”
Slightly buzzed from the wine, we went to relax in my room—which meant drinking another bottle of wine. She was supposed to leave by midnight, but we were tipsy.
“Why don’t you just stay; it’s late,” I offered.
Kim didn’t feel like leaving either, so I give her a pair of flannel pajamas and we snuggle up to try and share the twin-size bed. “I haven’t slept in a bed this small with someone since I was a freshman in college,” I say, as we giggle. “And that was with a boyfriend.”
“I know, this is ridiculous,” she says. “How old are we?”
But before we pass out, the phone rings. It’s 12:30 and the front desk wants to know if my guest is still visiting because SHE MUST LEAVE.
“I don’t think she’s still here,” I murmur. But then I get a slight pang of guilt and go down to the lobby. “She totally forgot to sign out,” I tell the male security guard as I scribble Kim’s signature in the visitors’ log. He gives me a look, but accepts my explanation, so I go back upstairs.
“What did he say?” Kim asks.
“Nothing really,” I say and laugh with Kim as we wiggle around, trying to pretend that we’re having fun at a slumber party. Drunk, we soon drift to sleep.
I guess I have trouble following rules, but there are plenty of women who do follow them for decent rent. There’s the Jeanne D’Arc home in Chelsea that’s run by Catholic nuns, Centro Maria that imposes curfews and the Markle Residence that’s run by Salvation Army. Most of these women’s dorms, like the Webster, require their residents to be employed, interning or in school. Some allow residents to stay for an indefinite period while others place time limits—such as the Webster’s five-year cap—on women’s stays.
The Webster Apartments opened to guests
on November 15, 1923. Its first benefactor was Charles Webster, a first
cousin of Rowland H. Macy of the famous R.H. Macy & Co. Webster
died in 1916, and in his will he mandated that a majority of his wealth
be used to purchase land near the venerable clothing store to erect a
building that would be a home for women. So Webster’s brother, Josiah
Webster, carried out his wishes and construction was complete by 1922.
Two months prior to its opening, the New York Times characterized
the Webster as a “working girls’ hotel” that would give “both the
comforts of a well-managed home and the special features of a
well-managed club.” Rent started at a weekly rate of $8.50 for bedrooms
on the lower floors and $12 a week for bedrooms on the top floors.
Three
months after it opened, the Webster was full. Josiah Webster managed
the apartments until he died in 1942. Afterward, he left a large part
of his own fortune to keep his brother’s vision of providing “an
opportunity to live in clean, well-ventilated, comfortable and
attractive apartments with good moral surroundings.”
I don’t think Mr. Webster would’ve approved of my sleepover with Kim, but decades of feminism and other movements have allowed for a new independent sort of woman. The idea that we can’t entertain men in our rooms seems archaic and repressive. My generation grew up with an excess of autonomy. A lot of my friends didn’t have curfews in high school and some parents had no problem letting us drink at their homes, even while “underage,” as long as we didn’t drive afterward. The fact that I must curb my desires and live by someone else’s rules started out as a silly game. Now I wonder how long I can sustain it. Many of my fellow residents, however, don’t seem too interested in escaping the confines of their solitary cell.
This sort of communal living attracts
an interesting assortment of gals. Two kinds of groups exist at the
Webster: the young, sleek, wide-eyed-with-opportunity type and the old,
grizzled, “I-have-a-mustache” bunch. I notice the odd combination and
feel like I must play my part. The fresh-faced women keep the place
active, while the latter group weighs it down. It’s a convenient
reminder of what we might become if we don’t make it. When I ask Anne,
a nice twenty-something I meet in the laundry room why she decided to
move in, she explains something similar to my own thoughts.
“I’m
only here for a semester,” she explaining, letting me know she has an
internship at a bank. “Then I go back to school. There’s no reason to
stay anywhere else.”
Two weeks after moving into the Webster things begin to improve. My work commute is a breeze (a mere 20 minutes door-to-door), and I even have time to shop at the nearby H&M and Old Navy in the area. And I admit, I love having someone clean up after me.
Despite decades of women’s lib,Webster residents still call the ladies who work here maids. I’ve begun to bond with the woman assigned to me: Daniela, a petite Latina with pixy bangs and perky, brown eyes.
I didn’t bring much with me, primarily work clothes and books, so when other women move out, Daniela brings leftover accessories to my room: a lime-green basket for my hair products, extra hangers, a shower caddy and, the latest gift, a full-length mirror. I take pleasure in arriving home to a crisply made bed. Any clothes that I left around the room while I tried to find a decent outfit for work are neatly folded on the chair next to my desk.
At first, I feel bad when she asks me if I need fresh towels or would like service. Now, I realize she’s doing a job, just trying to get by, the way I am. So I briefly chat with her each morning when she comes to empty my trash, when I’m usually putting on makeup before work.
“It’s very cold out today,” she’ll say some
days, reminding me to bundle up. “Don’t forget your hat!” I laugh to
myself, thinking that the people my age living in Brooklyn—crammed with
roommates and collecting dirty dishes and dust—are the real suckers. I
have it made: I pay less than them, and I don’t have to worry about
cleaning or taking out the trash.
That’s when I don’t think
about the rules. I can’t have candles (fire hazard), but I’m allowed to
smoke in my room if I want (I don’t). Old-fashioned steamers are
located in the laundry rooms, so I can hang my clothes to dry. Every
hall contains a trunk room to store luggage. A plaque on the wooden
table near the cutlery in the dining hall instructs us to eat our
entrée and then come back for a salad. Gentlemen callers can come view
my room—with a staff member present.
And then, there are the Germans.
I have nothing against Teutons—heck, my mother is German—but they’re everywhere. And they like to eat.
On a rainy Wednesday night I trudge home from work, tired and hungry. I walk into the dining hall and grab a tray, excited to see Bratwurst on the menu. I’m a big fan of the juicy sausage—recalling cookouts we had in our sprawling porch in Nashville in the summer—particularly when it’s served with spicy mustard.
But when I get to the front of the cafeteria line there are no Brats. None. Not even half a link or slices of sautéed onions. I’m wrecked. I’m hungry. I think I may cry. I won’t cry. I will shut up. I won’t complain.These German bitches won’t annoy me. I eat soup and salad. I keep my head down, wondering what my friends are doing right now. Then I hear it.
“Gute nacht,” I hear a woman say to two others. “Gute nacht,” they reply. I look over at their plates: two juicy Brats, untouched, slowly cooling and congealing on the white porcelain plates.
For a moment I think of snatching one of the sausages and chowing down. I wonder if I can do it without anyone seeing me. But then I stop myself. This isn’t a homeless shelter. I haven’t become that desperate have I? I won’t let these Germans get to me.
I've been working long hours, sometimes not leaving the office until 9 p.m., so I begin missing dinnertime in Webster’s
cafeteria. Or I want to go straight to a bar with friends to unwind
after work. The week before Christmas, I only eat one dinner at the Webster. Then I get angry with myself, feeling I’ve wasted money, since the meals are part of my room and board.
When I try to switch out one of my missed dinners during the week for a Saturday lunch, I’m told I can only substitute Saturday’s lunch for Saturday’s dinner. I can substitute dinner for a sack lunch. That works better for my schedule, but I have to sign up for that option 24 hours in advance.
I’ve started writing “sign up for lunch” in my daily planner or sticking a Post-It note on my mirror to remind me on days I know I’ll be working late.
Meanwhile, the news of me living in a women’s residence has made the rounds among my friends. I’ve explained what it’s like living at Webster, receiving quizzical stares (and sneers). Some people find it intriguing, others laugh (at me?). I avoid telling my co-workers, saying instead that I’m crashing with a friend until I find a place of my own. I don’t like lying, but going through the whole, “I live in a women’s dorm,” explanation embarrasses me. I should be self-reliant. I should have Craigslist horror stories of corrupt brokers and shady dealmakers. Instead, I think of Daniela and hope she folded my blouse so I don’t have to iron it later.
One evening, I stop by my friend Claire’s office in Midtown before we go to Jimmy’s Corner, a dive bar on West 44th Street that’s a favorite among publishing types. I start chatting with her co-workers as she packs up her bag.
“So, I hear you’re living in a convent,” a girl she works with says. “What’s that like?”
My stomach tightens. I try not to flinch.
“Yeah
it’s a hell of a deal,” I say, narrowing my eyes a bit. Remembering my
Southern manners, I manage to smile, ask her where she lives (in
Brooklyn, of course) and hold my tongue until Claire is ready to leave.
After
a relaxing week skiing in Colorado with my family, I return to the
Webster. It’s Sunday night, and my room is clean and warm. I throw my
suitcase down and sink back into the bed that I’ve now decorated with a few throw pillows and a plush, velour blanket.
My next month’s rent is due. I still haven’t found a place of my own. Honestly, I haven’t had much time to commit to checking out any of the places I found online. So, I write a check for $500 to Webster. I don’t have enough money in my account to pay for the whole month. Plus, I think, maybe it won’t last.
I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay here. I still fantasize about finding a place of my own, where I can invite a guy over to watch a movie or eat breakfast and dinner at any hour.
But I’m also getting used to Daniela’s smile every morning and the laundry room only one floor up. I don’t mind having to wear flip-flops each time I shower.
I even have a friend
here now. Just a few days ago, Lara moved into the Webster. Like me,
she’s also attempting to find a full-time job and trying to decide how
much longer she wants to try to make it in the city. I can eat dinner
with someone else, and we laugh together about the over-sauced
tortellini and the limp vegetables.
“I feel like we’re in the
military,” Lara says as we sit down to dinner. “We can only eat at
certain times.” “It’s not really that bad,” I tell her. “And Sundays are the best for
dinner. They serve meat and yummy pasta salads. And there’s even
sometimes ice cream for dessert.”
Perhaps this is what it takes to make it in New York. Like the generations of women before me—the millions who left so much behind and made their way to the city—living here, in a roundabout way, renews my optimism. I have hope. I hope that despite the recent economic meltdown and the gloom and doom forecasts for every industry—especially journalism—I can weather the storm.
Lara and I stay in the dining room a bit longer. Our uneaten veggies are cold and forgotten on our trays when a kitchen staffer flicks off the lights. It’s time to retire to our rooms. Instead of feeling dejected, however, I feel confident and relaxed. I refuse to give up—even if it means eating on a regimented schedule and limiting my visits with men. I can do this. I know I can.
Cincinnatus
