It was 2019, I was on the tail end of a heavy relationship that had an even heavier ending when I saw a crazy good deal on a 1 bedroom apartment in downtown Pittsburgh. I needed a fresh start, somewhere new to clear the air and chart a new direction away from what I had just been through.
The thing though? This place was unlike anywhere I had lived before. This was a luxury high rise, with 26 stories! I’d never lived somewhere like this before! Listen, we’re talking concierge, rows of those art deco style mailboxes standing at attention and looking flawless in their brass accoutrement. (I had to put that in italics because oh you know I am enunciating every beautifully pretentious syllable of that word). Underground garage parking, and some other stuff like a pool, gym, and tennis court, but I am far too much of an introvert for that to be much of a selling point for me.
The apartment available to me? a 10th floor, 1000 sq ft 1 bed. When I walked into that space I had to pause. A small foyer, a relatively small kitchen to my left, a small hall leading to a serviceable bathroom, but in front of me was an absolutely immaculate living room, soft white carpet, freshly painted white walls, with 4 enormous floor to ceiling windows. The bedroom was even better! this one measured 13x20 with the same color scheme. Two more equally massive windows, with one of them looking at St. Benedict the Moor Catholic Church. I had to laugh because initially I thought that the statue on top of the church was a black version of Jesus, so you can appreciate my raised Pentecostal ass having some reservations about the son of God standing 24/7 rain or shine vigil over my bedroom.
But I digress.
The bedroom and living room sold me. I didn’t look any further, and in my eager haste I learned something that I somehow failed to learn in all my moves, and in my past career as a leasing agent in Boston. Something so small, yet so crucial to happiness that I had to spend some time with St. Benedict in deep reflection. Most of the time when considering a kitchen, I really am only looking at whether the stove is gas or electric, and if there’s enough storage space to accommodate my borderline doomsday prepper food stores. Now? I had to add a new box to check: outlets.
This small but functional kitchen? Only had one outlet.
One.
Sure I could get a splitter, but no, NO.
I am not going there, I shouldn’t have to!
And I didn’t.
Is it still being petty when you are the only victim of your own pettiness? Do you still retain some honor if it’s not quite a hill you’re dying on?
I’m not sure, but I did my best to make it work. Things just took a little longer.
The shower head was chin height, but I’m 6’4 so its okay.
The vent in the bathroom sometimes carried the completely in Greek radio program some distant neighbor liked to listen to at odd hours.
And the kitchen had one outlet.
But it was there I discovered how to assemble gallery walls. I got to refine my taste in art, learned how to fail at making baguettes, and really cement the core concepts of the “Post Industrial Surrealism” I now use to describe my personal motif.
And now years later, I still count the outlets in the kitchen. Because I swear before the statue of black Jesus that I will not be so hoodwinked again!
-KC
I just love the way this is written, and I love the story. Sounds like a gorgeous place, even though it had some not-as-great things. Thank you for sharing. It made me smile the whole way through.