Moving In

New York City was intimidating.

There was no other word to describe it.

All Justin had seen so far was the airport and the inside of the cab, but the traffic jam helped him gape, sorry, gaze out the window at the masses milling up and down the streets.

He was definitely insane to willingly come to this restless city. Justin could barely stand being around more than five people at a time, let alone being surrounded by hundreds of them. Being out and about would do wonders to his anxiety attacks. He had to renew his stock of pills.

"Here we are, sir," the cabbie announced, pulling him from his thoughts.

Sir? He called me sir.

Brian was going to have a field day, hell, a field month when Justin told him about it.

Justin saw the amount he had to pay and cringed.

Welcome to New Fucking York, Justin, he told himself as he handed the man his money.

With the duffle bag over his head, his backpack on his shoulder, and one of Brian's carry bags for suits (because he apparently needed a suit to impress the art critics) draped over his arm, Justin shuffled to the brownstone building.

At the door, he noticed an intercom and remembered Daphne telling him to write down every detail she gave him about her friend. Justin was still unsure how the fuck Daphne had a friend in East Village, but he guessed she was entitled to have her own secrets. He definitely had his.

He was in the process of searching his pockets for the piece of paper with the apartment number when someone, a new neighbor jogged up the stairs, key in hand.

The girl smiled widely. "Hi there. New?"

"Hello. Yes. I'm moving in with Izzy."

Her eyes widened comically as she led the way to the elevator. "Izzy? Oh, well. She could have done a lot worse than a cute blond."

Justin wanted to correct her that he wasn't the boyfriend, but whatever. She didn't seem to like his new roommate, though Daphne had only praise words to say about her friend.

Who should I believe? This girl who lives here? Or my dear best friend?

"The elevator can be rickety, so don't panic if it starts shaking. You'll get used to it since you live at six. That or you'll do your cardio on the stairs." She giggled. "I'm on the third floor."

"I'm used to old elevators," Justin said with a smile. If he survived Brian's elevator for five years, he could survive any other kind of elevator.

"Oh, silly me. I'm Jane. It was nice meeting you."

"Justin. And yes, nice to meet you. Thanks for letting me in."

"No problem. See ya!" She waved merrily, stepping out of the elevator.

Justin was already tired. He thought fake cheerfulness was something you found only in Hollywood, apparently it was a disease spread all over the country, probably the world.

Finally, he arrived in front of what was going to be his home for an indefinite period of time.

He stared at the old, paint-peeling door. Above the peephole were three numbers hanging loosely. 513. He knocked, not finding the buzzer. While waiting, he realized the last number wasn't actually a number, it was the letter B. Of course! It came back to him when Daphne kept repeating 51B, but who listened to her? Not Justin.

The door opened at last to reveal the opposite person he was expecting.

Justin thought he'd find a nice, bookworm-ish girl of what Daph had told him. His new roommate was definitely the opposite. She had long dark hair with streaks of pink, wearing minuscule hot pink pants and a black top with Jim Morrison's picture on the front. A very high Mr. Morrison.

She already got golden points in Justin's book.

Justin made to step inside, but she raised a hand solemnly. He realized she was holding a flip flop.

"Don't move," she whispered. Her eyes were fasted on a spot by the door, inside the apartment.

Faster than he thought possible, she whacked the flip flop to the wall. Whatever was there cracked and she smiled in satisfaction.

Then she turned to her new roommate. "Right. Sorry about that. You must be Justin. I'm Isabelle." She extended her hand.

Justin was wary to touch her after she had brutally murdered a bug. "Hey! Nice to meet you too." He shuffled inside, dropping the duffle bag on the floor.

"How did you get in? I was expecting you to call."

"I met Jane."

"Ugh. That must have been a horrid first impression. Want something to drink? Sorry about the mess."

Justin looked around taking in the disaster she called an apartment. "Yeah. Soda, if you have," he said, still standing by the door awkwardly. Fuck, he hated awkward situations. "Uh, where do I take my things?"

"Soda?" She scoffed. "You can do better than that. I'm having vodka. I can pour some in your soda. It's great with Fanta."

Living here wasn't going to be too much different than with Brian. Daphne had told Justin he'd get along very well with Izzy.

"Sure, whatever." He shrugged. What the hell.

While she worked on their drinks, she pointed to the narrow hallway to the right. "The door to your left. You might need to buy a new bed. My last roommate managed to destroy it. I mean, it's still standing, but it's shabby. So don't jump in it and you'll be fine."

Justin smiled, walking to his allotted room.

He had to admit, Izzy's place was everything he expected to find. Daphne didn't mention it, but Justin was positive Izzy was an artist too. There was a lot of paint sprayed on the floors and walls to be a mistake.

Justin's new room was probably the size of Brian's shower, maybe a little bit larger, but not by much. It was enough, though. There was a bed, a small chest of drawers that acted like a nightstand too. One of its legs was missing and there were textbooks shoved under it for leverage. On the back of the door was a long mirror missing a corner and cracked in the middle. There were posters of women splattered on every available spot on the wood and some on the walls.

They were going to be burned with a ritual of brain washing of these images.

Because he intended to keep his promise to Brian and stay in touch, to prove to him they could do it, Justin pulled his phone out and snapped a few photos. When he had internet connection, he'd send Brian the pictures of his beautiful room. He, of little faith, had guessed Justin's room was going to look like a pig pen.

Justin spread the suit on the bed, before joining Izzy. She was on the sofa, which looked like it had seen better days. For some odd reason, it reminded him of the couch he'd helped Ethan carry to his place. The mere thought of him made Justin shudder.

"You're not running out the door. It's a good sign," she declared, gesturing for him to join her.

"It's not like I have a choice, besides this place has style."

"A true artist, I see what Daphne meant." She beamed. "I'm an artist too."

"I figured. The paint splotches gave you away," Justin joked.

She laughed, sipping from her glass. "What do you use?"

"Sorry?"

"To paint. What do you use?"

"A lot of things, from the common brush or a charcoal pen to a computer. Which will arrive by the end of the week."

Her eyes widened. "You paint on a computer? Like the professional kind, right?"

"Uh, yeah. You'll see when it gets here." No one had even questioned his painting on a computer. Besides those asshole teachers in college.

"Well, I use only my fingers. I love the feeling of the paints. See that one over there?" She pointed to a small painting by the window. "It's my first attempt at finger painting."

"Not bad," Justin said, eyeing the painting with a critical eye. It was raw and the colors were cold, just like he used most of the time. "So you have a space in a gallery where you work?"

Izzy threw her head back, laughing loudly. "Outsiders, gotta love them. Welcome to Hell, Justin."

He frowned, feeling deeply hurt. "Did Daphne tell you why I'm here?"

"Of course she did. I don't want to burst your bubble, but I had a friend who thought Simon's word was law and he shit gold or something like that. It wasn't until he realized Simon had many like him all over America. Then he packed his shit and left the country. He's a fucking success in Paris now."

He glared into his glass. He knew Simon was a cunt. Justin had proclaimed it loudly ever since they met.

"Since you're here for him, I suggest you do one or two things to impress him, so he'll take you to his high class parties. You meet new people there and smooch with the right ones, then you can kick Simon to the curb and do it on your own. But it's only my suggestion." She shrugged.

"That's what I plan on doing," Justin agreed. "Thanks for the advice."

"Anytime. Ask me anything. I've been here for years. I know when they want to play you."

He downed his glass, nodding. "Sure. Listen, do we have Internet here?"

"It might look like the prehistoric era when people were communicating in sign language, but I do live in the 2005. Of course, there's Internet. The password is treble clef, in one word."

"Treble clef?" Justin inquired, confused.

"Like that sign for music. I don't speak music," she muttered.

He laughed, thinking of how well he'd get along with her. Izzy wasn't a girly girl like he'd feared. She had claws.

"I know what a treble clef is. I went to school, too. I even dated a musician."

Her eyes widened and she had the most repulsed look on her face Justin had seen at anyone. "I hope you aren't seeing that person anymore! Or I'd have you pack your shit and kick you out already. I tolerated this wanna-be Bob Dylan for three months, until I had it with him and his harmonica. Then, because I'm lucky like that, I ended up with a piano player. I even dated him, which makes me question my own sanity. I thought he was inoffensive. We couldn't fit a piano in this place, so I thought I was safe. Apparently, he bought this mini piano, whatever the fuck you call them. He got booted after two weeks."

Justin was gasping for air, unable to stop laughing.

"So are you?" Izzy demanded.

"I'm not crazy, I promise. Your roommates were batshit crazy, though."

"Thank you. Though, I mean…are you still with the musician?"

"No. It was a mistake anyway."

She wiped invisible sweat off her forehead.

"So why don't you change the password if it brings back such horrible memories?"

"Do I look like an IT girl to you? I know how to push the power button, search the Internet for what I need, send an email, and close the laptop."

"Don't worry. I'll change it."

"You can? Awesome! Can you also change the name of our network?"

"Of course. Is it something bad memory inducing too?"

"Nah. It's Izzy Buzzy. Again, the harmonica player's idea. His name was Buzz." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, you should see what names the people in this building have. If you can change it, I've always wanted my network to be Van Gogh's Ear."

"Seriously?" Justin snorted, wiping his tears from laughing so much. "Okay. Network name: Van Gogh's Ear. Password: starrynight?"

"That would be stupid. Everyone could guess it," she said thoughtfully.

"How many people do you really think know art?"

"Point taken. Until further notice, I agree with you. You can use my computer to change it."

"I can do it from mine. Don't worry."

"You're great! I've never liked my roommates." She beamed, then downed her glass. "Well, I'm headed out. My shift at the club starts in an hour, but it takes forty-five minutes to get there."

"Where do you work? I should start looking into something to do, too."

"I'm a waitress at a bar. Best job ever. The tips are fantastic."

"My tolerance of being around drunk straight people is close to zero," Justin mumbled.

"Oh, did I forget to mention it? I work in a gay club. I tried the straight one. After being groped ten times from as many different directions in the first night, I quit."

Justin perked up. "Now, you're talking. You have to tell me all about it."

"You might be in luck. Oliver, the owner, has been looking for new staff for weeks. He's very pretentious. I'll ask him if he's interested. Give me your cell number." Izzy handed him a pink post-it note and a pen to write his number.

With a smile, she disappeared into her room to get ready, while Justin went to his own room, not believing his luck. He was sure it would take him days, if not weeks to find a job, but he ended up getting an offer within the first day in New York.