From the North of England to Midtown Manhattan

One of the fringe benefits of my friendship with Robert was that I could stay at his father's house when visiting upstate. I transitioned to staying there after the fallout with my mom and Pam began in October of 2003.

Flash forward to May, 2005: Robert and I got into a big fight. Friends since high school, we'd had our share of spats, but this was the be-all-end-all of arguments: when the dust settled our friendship was no more. It was a long time coming, actually. Over the years we had been drifting apart, and the time finally came to part ways once and for all. Also when the dust settled, there was no more being able to stay at Robert's father's house. For the first time in my life I was officially homeless in my hometown.

Sure, I could have rented a place somewhere for my weekend visits, but I didn't consider that a viable option. After being out upwards of $30,000 (including lawyer's fees), my goal since the apartment fiasco was to try to save as much money as possible, so I could buy a house of my own, a place where I wouldn't be at anyone else's mercy.

The weekend following my breakup with Robert, our mutual friend Carol was throwing a party at her house in Woodstock on Saturday night. It wasn't a good weekend to ask if I could stay with her, so I brainstormed other possibilities. I had recently met this nice couple at a party that lived in Woodstock. I called and asked if I could pitch a tent in their backyard and stay there on Saturday night? An unusual request, but they said sure.

I arrived on Saturday afternoon, pitched my tent, and hung out with them for a while. In the evening I was all set to go to Carol's party, but at the last minute I decided I didn't want to go. Robert was going to be there, and the thought of seeing him was too distressing. When he visited upstate he had comfortable home to stay in with loving family, and what did I have? No relationship with my mom anymore, and nowhere to go except a tent set up in the backyard of a couple I barely even knew.

Camping out by myself wasn't any fun -- at all. It made me feel so very lonely. But the weather was warm, May's exquisite flowering trees were in bloom, and I wanted to be out of the City and in the beautiful country. I wasn't going to let what happened with my mom and Pam -- and now Robert -- keep me away from my hometown that I loved.

Alone that evening in the nice couple's backyard (they had previous plans other than hanging out with pitiful me), I sat there with a drink in hand, wishing upon the many stars high in the sky that things in my life were different.

I wish I hadn't handed over so much of my money to Pam. Why didn't I get something in writing? Such a blind fool I was. I wish my mom were still in my life. I miss her so much. I wish I had more friends in Woodstock to hang out with. I wish I didn't feel so alone....

This is not a good way to start the summer. Please, something's got to give.

A couple of weeks later, I was waiting in line to attend a literary event at the New York Public Library, when I struck up conversation with this handsome, nicely-dressed man standing in front of me. His name was Kieran and he was from England. The north of England, to be precise. We chatted with each other until the line started moving and broke into two. Kieran had already purchased his ticket and was ushered in ahead of me. When I entered the grand room where the event was being held, I looked around and spotted him sitting by himself. I asked if I could join him? He welcomed it. Waiting for the show to begin, we talked some more while sipping our fittingly British gin & tonics.

It was a long show and towards the end I whispered to Kieran, "I'm going to cut out early."

He left as well. As we were exiting the building he asked, "Do you want to get a bite to eat somewhere?" Why certainly. I'm all for a spur-of-the-moment get-together with dashing Brit when unattached and out alone.

Over dinner I got the scoop: Kieran had come to NYC two months ago, in search of a job after having been let go from a good one he'd had in D.C. No luck as of yet.

After dinner we walked to nearby Tudor City Park. Then Kieran walked with me to my bus stop and waited until a bus arrived, at which time we said our good-byes.

The next morning I received an e-mail from him: "I enjoyed meeting you and would very much like to see you again, but I have to tell you that my life at the moment is an unmitigated disaster."

I can't say that I wasn't warned.

I visited Woodstock the following weekend, with plans to stay with Carol on Saturday night. On Saturday afternoon I stopped by Robert's father's house to remove belongings from his attic that I had been storing there. Sitting on the front porch, taking a break from my toiling, all of a sudden I saw Robert's car pull into a spot across the street. Not wanting even the slightest interaction with him, I quickly got up and ran out the back before our paths had a chance to cross. I was left feeling that Woodstock wasn't so appealing anymore.

I called Kieran. "Hi, it's Laura. I was wondering if you're free tomorrow to get together?"

"Didn't you go to Woodstock this weekend?"

"Yeah, I came up this morning, but I'm thinking of heading back to the City tonight."

"I would love to meet up with you tomorrow."

The weather on Sunday was perfect: not too hot, with a clear, blue sky and sun shining bright. We met in quaint Tudor City Park, a little-known gem rising above First Avenue at 41st and 43rd streets. After chatting for while, we hopped on a train downtown to Battery Park, where we took a leisurely stroll along the promenade overlooking the Hudson River. Good thing I was wearing comfortable shoes, because next we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and onward to Brooklyn Heights. As a native New Yorker, I felt it my obligation to show my English visitor something special -- the Brooklyn Heights promenade fit the bill. From the promenade in Brooklyn Height the views of lower Manhattan are spectacular, and you also can see Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

After a spot of tea (cappuccino for me) at a sidewalk café, Kieran asked, "If you don't have plans this evening, would you like to get a bottle of wine and sit on the rooftop deck of my apartment building?" I told him I didn't have plans and that sounded great.

Access to a rooftop deck was an added plus to Kieran's amazing apartment. You've heard of "corner offices"? Well, this was a "corner apartment" with floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the bedroom, kitchen and entire living room. Overlooking Second Avenue from his 24th floor apartment, the views of Manhattan, with its many glittering lights after the sun slipped past the horizon, were truly the stuff that dreams are made of. With the Empire State and Chrysler buildings standing proud outside your living room window, there was no mistaking this was New York City: the greatest city in the world.

But the apartment's views and posh surroundings came at a price: $3,350 a month. That's a lot of greenbacks, even for the best of us. It's also a mighty steep rent for someone who is currently without a job and not independently wealthy.

Kieran had always wanted to live in New York. He explained how his choice of apartment was limited to this very pricey one: the management company he had rented from in D.C. also managed this building, and this apartment was the only one available at the time. So as far as management knew, Kieran's employer had simply transferred him to New York, and thus no employment or credit checks were necessary to take over occupancy of 24C.

He had sold most of his furniture to raise money for his move to New York, hence the furnishings in his luxury digs were makeshift and sparse. His "computer desk" was his laptop placed on a standing ironing board. He only had one chair -- a beach chair. In lieu of a mattress, he slept on a featherbed and some blankets spread out over the (carpeted) bedroom floor. There was no entertainment center, but he did have a small TV placed on an upside-down cardboard box. At mealtime we sat on the low, polished granite ledge in the living room, with our plates resting in our laps. I liked to sit on the ledge, back propped up against the wall, and gaze out at the expanse of Manhattan from high above. Being there was a luxury I knew was only temporary.

Kieran and I met in mid-June. Two weeks later, after scraping together a late June rent, he was fresh out of funds. We had already gotten involved by then. Yes, a relationship with him was highly impractical, but that didn't stop me. He was attractive, artistic, well read, intelligent and 100% available. After having been ousted from two homes and left feeling hurt and alone, it was a time when my need for companionship surpassed all else. But if Kieran could just find a job then his situation -- our situation -- wouldn't be so tenuous.

We quickly fell into a routine of seeing each other practically every night. It was extremely convenient -- his apartment was only four blocks from where I worked. A couple times a week I would run home during my lunch hour to grab clothes and other items needed for what became a near-permanent sleepover. Even without furniture, his luxury digs with those fantastic views beat out my tiny studio apartment any day.

The next logical (ha, if anything was "logical") progression in our warp speed-ahead relationship was bringing Kieran to Woodstock. I had to pay for his bus tickets, food, and other expenses incurred, but I brushed that nuisance aside, focusing instead on the pleasure of his company. And having company -- camping out with Kieran was infinitely more fun than camping alone. With good pillows, thick mats, and a fluffy down quilt for chilly summer nights, it was rather cozy in the tent with him.

I brought Kieran to all of my favorite Woodstock destinations, including streamside at the Esopus creek. Before his first dip in the water I said, "It's really cold. I'm warning you...."

"Nah, I can handle it," he boasted, "I'm from the north of England!" After a quick half-dip under, with a grimace and tightly clenched teeth, he blurted out, "Bloody hell! It's freezing!" as he darted to the safety of the shore.

I also brought Kieran to Robert's father's house, to help me remove a few large items from the attic I couldn't get out by myself, and onward to my newly acquired storage space. Wouldn't you know it, Robert happened to stop by while we were there. This time I didn't go running. To the contrary, I was glad when Robert ran into us. As Kieran was introducing himself, I thought, Tee, hee, hee. Meet my new squeeze. Pretty cute, huh? See what happens when I stop hanging out with you?

Dating someone with no money -- and when I say "no money" I mean no money -- definitely posed its challenges. But I rose to the occasion. Thanks to my love of bargains and innate skill at sniffing them out, we ate and drank quite well on a shoestring. (I had an excuse for being cheap: I was saving for a house.)

I discovered a sweet deal at Cipriani, a specialty food store on the same block as my office. All of their prepared food was half price after 5:00 p.m., exactly the time I got out of work. Often I would swing by on my way to Kieran's and pick up a gourmet dinner for two for under $10. And being that we weren't wine snobs, we were fine drinking "Lost Vineyards" wine purchased at Astor Wines in the East Village for an astounding $2 a bottle. That's practically the price of a Snapple!

So that was dinner. But one still has to eat breakfast and lunch.

Walking back to Kieran's one evening, we passed an Au Bon Pain bakery a few blocks from his apartment. Sitting on top of their dumpster was a large, clear plastic garbage bag completely filled with baked goods. I stopped, intrigued. "Wow, look at that... I guess they throw out all of their baked goods after they close each day?" Eyeing the bag intently, Laura's mental wheels started spinning.

"That bag looks like it's been rummaged through," Kieran stated. "We're not taking anything out of it."

"I know. I know. But what if on another night we got to the bag before anyone else?"

It took a bit of coaxing to get Kieran (proper Brit that he was) to accompany me on an Au Bon Pain Heist. But sure enough, he succumbed. Excerpted from the blog he kept at the time, following is Kieran's account of one of our Au Bon Pain heists:

"For some reason the store closed later than usual and we were forced to loiter on the pavement waiting for the customary sacks to be thrown into the trash outside the shop. The drop normally happened around 8.40 pm -- we were lurking in the shadows around 8.35 pm ready for the scoop. We discussed our strategy and planned the heist in careful detail. It was 9.10 pm and still the garbage hadn't been tossed on the sidewalk. I got greedy and announced I was taking the whole bag. My experienced accomplice told me to calm down in hushed tones. We might need to share it with others -- she was right. Being generous with other people's trash, humm! But it seemed right, this was law of the streets, I guessed. As other people starting appearing on nearby street corners and in doorways we knew we had competition. This was obviously a daily event that had caught the attention and imagination of more than just the homeless and destitute. A well-dressed man stopped in a doorway a little further up 41st Street. He was given away by the red tip of his cigarette which appeared in the dark betraying his interest in my heist. A Rastafarian loitering across the street from us was also in no hurry to get home. I could see two New York cops standing on Lexington -- they might be useful if we're attacked for encroaching on someone's territory. The wait was making us nervous -- everyone that passed us in the street didn't escape suspicion. They might snatch our booty and run. Then, the bags appeared like a long-awaited bus -- we dived, we scooped, we conquered! That night two bags were dumped; we took one and made a run for home before we were surrounded by a pack of hungry vagrants. As we sped I turned to see the bag we left behind being ransacked by the well-dressed gentleman spied earlier. So, no homeless people -- just ordinary people like you and me. We got home and inspected our swag. I have never seen so much food spread out on my kitchen surface; a plethora of scones, muffins, doughnuts, croissants and bagels. I felt a strange mix of emotions; dirty, desperate and mildly guilty. I took pictures of the gear to emphasize, perhaps, this was a just a game. I know it makes no sense. I have a need right now that far outweighs any soft expressions of hygiene or dignity or desperation. When I had money one of the trappings of success was I could waste whatever I liked without giving it a second thought.

The lesson for me is when I next see some bloke rummaging in a bin I won't think ughh, disgusting. I'll think yes mate, I've been there too and rather than look away I might say hi or least treat him with respect and even ask if he's found anything interesting today?"

But man cannot live on Au Bon Pain and Cipriani dinners alone, and thus we also had [cue drum roll, please]: scavenged food from workplace meetings.

I was constantly on the prowl for leftover food at work. When I passed the kitchen or an empty, post-meeting conference room and spotted some, I would immediately return to my desk, grab a few containers kept on hand, and then head back and pack up as much food as possible without seeming piggish (if anyone happened to see how much I was taking). Depending upon who saw me -- or who didn't -- often I would go back for a second or even third "helping." When packing up the food, sometimes I would joke to my co-workers, "I'm feeding a penniless boyfriend." Laughs all around. Little did they know I wasn't joking.

Even more food came from the complimentary breakfast our company served every Friday morning. I would prepare a hefty plate of fruit, cheese, and egg salad, and then stick it in the fridge to give to Kieran on a lunchtime rendezvous in Tudor City Park.

Later that morning, at the strategic time of 10:30 a.m. (when breakfast was over but not yet cleared away), I would return to forage remains from the breakfast spread. As I filled up paper coffee cups with leftover cream cheese and butter, I hoped people I knew wouldn't pass by and see me. In the earlier days of my breakfast scavenging I ignored the leftover grape jelly, instead buying Kieran jars of nice strawberry jam to have with his Au Bon Pain bagels and the cream cheese. But after he plowed through several jars of the strawberry jam in no time, my sentiments toward the grape jelly changed. I thought, The strawberry jam gravy train is hereby discontinued. From now on he's gettin' the cheap grape jelly I can get for free from work.

I supplied Kieran with food, toiletries, and other essentials. That was my "job" in the relationship. His job was to find a job. Our future together hinged upon it.

But the more time I spent with him, the more I began to feel that he wasn't trying hard enough to find a job, and that he wasn't taking the severity of his situation as seriously as he ought to. July's rent went unpaid, and so did his cable, electric and phone/Internet bills.

Instead of pounding the pavement, exhausting every possible avenue that might lead to a job, getting out and networking, or even reading a book or two in Barnes & Noble about job searching strategies, Kieran's search was comprised of spending 20 minutes a day checking a few bookmarked job sites.

It boggled my mind how he could be so direly in need of a job yet so lackadaisical in his approach to finding one. Granted, the job he sought, managing a team of on-air graphic designers at a TV channel, was highly specific and it was the rare occasion one became available, that didn't negate my feeling there was more he could be doing. He seemed remarkably content to accept his jobless fate, to watch the walls around him close in as he sat in his apartment all day, spending 20 minutes on his job search, and then spending the rest of the day drinking tea, reading The New York Times (delivered to his doorstep every morning from a complimentary trial subscription), ironing his button-down dress shirts to perfection, puttering about, and blogging about his "adventures."

That damned blog. He was consumed by it. In addition to his sprawling literary entries, he spent hours every day retouching the many photos he took of NYC before posting them in his blog. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for creative expression. But not when it impedes other, more pressing things, like finding a job so you can pay your bills and not be thrown out on the street! His job search situation/blogging was the cause of many arguments between us.

"Why aren't you trying harder to find a job? Don't you realize how desperate things have become? How can you just sit back and blog all day? No one cares about your stupid blog!"

"People care about my blog."

"Yeah, about five."

He had a whopping five or so people who commented on his blog on any given day. That's not a heck of a lot considering the inordinate amount of time he put into it on a daily basis.

After an especially heated argument one Friday night, I ended up storming out at 2:30 in the morning. We had plans to visit Woodstock on Saturday, but I would have to go by myself. I'd really had it with him. So what if all he had to eat now was Au Bon Pain.

Back in my apartment, I hardly slept. When I woke up, early, the first thought that came into my mind was, I don't want to visit Woodstock alone. I'm going to have a miserable rest of the summer if I don't have Kieran to visit with me anymore.

I returned to his apartment around 7 a.m. We made up. I didn't want to let go. And I didn't have to visit Woodstock alone.

Finding a full-time job wasn't panning out for Kieran. Nor was finding part-time work in the interim because there was a slight hindrance: he didn't have a green card. He couldn't legally work unless he found a company willing to sponsor him, and companies don't sponsor part-time workers. And being that he had such high morals (ahem), he didn't want to do any work wherein he would be paid under the table. But racking up more debt with each passing day was deemed okay?

In addition to not having a green card, there was another problem: Kieran had come to America on a working visa, which requires steadily working, yet he had been out of work for a year in D.C. before heading to New York, thereby blowing his work visa sky high. It had gotten to the point where if he were to leave the U.S. before getting his visa situation sorted out, he wouldn't be allowed back for ten years. Ten years! So, you see, things were complicated.

August's rent went unpaid. "I have a letter for 24C," the doorman said one evening as I passed the front desk. "Would you mind bringing it up?"

"Not at all," I replied agreeably. Riding in the elevator, I thought, Even if Kieran gets a job, he's still going to owe a debilitating amount of rent that he won't be able to pay anytime soon. How long can this charade go on?

"Um, you got a letter from the management office," I said as I handed him the envelope. He wasn't shy about reading its contents to me. It was a courteous reminder to please remit payment of $6,700 within a week's time. Yeah, right.

September's rent went unpaid. Additional letters from the management office arrived. The tone of each successive letter increased in its severity. If he didn't pay the $10,050 he owed within two weeks, the company would have no choice but to begin legal proceedings against him. Bills were piling up all around. Rent, phone, cable, electric. The 800-pound debt collector was knocking at the door, loudly.

October's rent went unpaid. Okay, we've definitely got a problem here. Cable service is shut off, by the end of the month the phone and Internet will be as well. The sinking ship was going down. The sand was slipping through the hourglass. A date was set for Kieran to appear in Housing Court. Eviction loomed heavy overhead.

Nonchalantly, dapper Kieran spoke of abandoning all of his belongings except his laptop, a change of clothes, a pillow and a blanket, and sleeping on a bench in Bryant Park. It was kind of amusing when he joked about being a "posh tramp" amongst other vagabond bench-dwellers, but in all seriousness, what was he going to do? Although torn because it meant I would probably never see him again, I offered to front him money for a flight back to England. It seemed the most reasonable thing to do.

"I haven't come this far to go home now," Kieran declared willfully.

November's rent went unpaid, of course. Excerpted from his blog, below is Kieran's account of his day in court in mid-November:

"It was tiring and fascinating. I'll spare you the details.

The upshot is I offered to give up the apartment at the end of November and will owe just the five months rent. My monthly rent is $3350 so you can work out the staggering total for yourself. All I can say is I'm glad this isn't the nineteenth century; I'd be breaking rocks at Cold Mountain Correction Facility till I'm old, gray and toothless.

The important thing is I can end the cycle - back and forth to Court would only be justified if my position was tenable, if I'd been affronted in some way. Some new direction will now transpire despite how limited the options appear right now. Good things can start to happen. At the same time it's challenging. In nineteen days I'll be on the sidewalk."

The remaining 19 days we had before vacating his apartment felt like remaining days of freedom before the start of a prison sentence (or at least they did to me). Together, we counted them down. Oh, no! Please don't send my sweetie off to prison!

No, he wasn't being sent away to prison just yet. He was sticking around, stubborn lug that he was. He didn't want to fly home, but on the other hand he didn't have what you would call a world of options. The possibilities included: staying at a homeless shelter, sleeping on a bench in Bryant Park, or -- moving in with me. Moving in with me? Yikes. He didn't want to do it. He was worried it might ruin our relationship. Like we would get along better if he took up residency in a homeless shelter?

My apartment is small. "Small" as in 250-square feet small. Fine for one, but two? That's pushing it in anyone's book.

He didn't want to go, and I wasn't ready to let him go. I wanted the companionship. It comforted me. The situation surrounding our romance was far from perfect, admittedly. But so help us, we were gonna go for it.

Tea for two anyone?