The young couple who sublet me the tiny, dark apartment cautioned me, “Don’t draw attention to yourself. The landlord can’t know that we left!” The wife even left her furniture in the place, and so I discreetly moved in my own stuff in small bags and suitcases, making many trips. And then…
We went away one weekend. I don’t remember where we went but I do remember we left the windows open so our apartment wouldn’t be too stifling when we got back. And I’ll never forget the sight we saw when we returned…
The mice, oh, those mice. They were true New Yorkers with a dry sense of humor, showing up at the most inopportune times. I lost more girlfriends that way.
Madonna’s story: “The tall buildings and the massive scale of New York took my breath away. I felt alive. But I was also freaked out by the smell of piss and vomit everywhere, especially in the entryway of my third-floor walk-up.”
My first apartment was so small I had to step outside to change my mind. The year was 1968. The apartment was on Sullivan Street, just above Little Italy, with a live poultry market around the corner.
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