And then the euphoria subsided, replaced by an icy sting of fear. In total, I now have $18,205 in cash and another 900 grams of gold. Suddenly, the bustling streets of Manhattan seemed hostile. Every passerby who glanced at my backpack turned into a robber in my imagination. Without thinking twice, I jumped into the nearest shop, bought the cheapest and most unremarkable plastic bag, put all the cash and the remaining bars into it, and then put this precious bundle into my Inventory. Phew. It became much calmer. Now I can walk down the street without flinching at every shadow.
I can sell the remaining gold within a couple of days, in different pawnshops, so as not to flash a large sum at once. But that's later. A financial safety net has been created. So, the next question on the agenda is renting a new home!
Returning to my cramped studio, I felt a sharp dissonance. The air was stuffy, and the walls seemed to press even harder than before. The contrast between this wretched shelter and the tens of thousands of dollars hidden in my Inventory was almost physically palpable. It was time to end this.
I immediately sat down at the laptop. Pages of Craigslist and StreetEasy flashed on the screen. The filters were set clearly: the areas of Brooklyn and Queens, the mandatory presence of a garage-extension and a backyard. The very first results made me wince. The prices inflated by brokers looked like outright mockery. These digital vultures were ready to gouge thousands of dollars for a couple of emails and one showing. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, I clicked my tongue in annoyance and removed the "brokers" checkbox from the filters.
And a miracle happened. The price, which had seemed inadequate before, suddenly began to please the eye. Private owners were renting out housing for twenty, or even thirty, percent cheaper. Deposits were more reasonable, and there was no commission to pay. Although I had become an order of magnitude richer than I was in the morning, this did not absolve me of responsibility. Easy money goes just as easily if you spend it thoughtlessly.
Another half hour was spent on careful selection. I settled on three options that won me over with their adequate descriptions and active, non-fake owner accounts.
First, the most attractive: a one-story house in Brooklyn, in the Bay Ridge area. A garage-annex, a backyard thickly overgrown with greenery—an ideal cover from prying neighbors. Price—$3,000 a month plus utilities.
Second: a two-story house in the same Brooklyn, but already in Marine Park. $4,500, but utilities are included. A bit pricey and too much extra space.
Third: a two-story house in Queens for $3,500. This option was the most suspicious. Too sweet a price for that square footage. Obviously, there's a catch. I decided to call him last, if at all.
All thoughts returned to the first option. It was perfect. Compact, without extra rooms that would have to be overpaid for. The Bay Ridge area is strategically advantageous: close to the bridge to Staten Island, not far from the port—if I need to rent a shipping container or warehouse, everything will be at hand. The ad itself was trustworthy: notarized contract, rental period of at least a year, a deposit of only $3,000, and, importantly, willingness to accept cash. Apparently, the house was being rented out by a family moving to another city. This meant that they most likely wouldn't bother with excessive checks, they just needed a reliable tenant. It is decided. I dialed the number, hoping for luck.
"Hello, good afternoon. I'm calling about the house rental ad in Bay Ridge. Is it still available?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
"Good afternoon. Yes, it's available," replied a female voice, in which there was a hint of fatigue, probably from the move and endless calls.
"Great. I would like to see it. I can come by in the near future, if it's convenient for you."
"Okay... And who will be living there? A family?"
"No, just me. I'm a student, moving for studies. I just need a quiet place to study in peace."
"Oh, a student..." a note of doubt slipped into her voice. "You see, we're looking for someone for a long time. Without parties, loud music..."
"I understand you perfectly," I hastened to assure her. "I'm not a partier, quite the opposite, the most introverted introvert in the world. Noisy companies are not my thing. And a year's contract suits me perfectly, that's why your ad attracted me."
There was a short pause on the other end of the line. She was clearly weighing my words.
"Okay," she finally said. "Are you... local?"
It was a veiled question about my appearance and origin. "I'm Caucasian," I replied directly. "Can you expect me within an hour or two?"
"Yes, okay, come on over. Do you know the address?"
"Yes. I'll be there soon."
I ended the call and exhaled in relief. I passed the initial assessment. Now I had to live up to the created image.
The plan was simple: to make an impression of reliability. First of all, wash off the very aura of Hell's Kitchen. After a shower, I went to the nearest clothing store and spent a hundred dollars on simple but decent clothes: clean jeans, a polo shirt, and decent sneakers. Ideally, I would have gone to the hairdresser, but there was no time left. Changing clothes right in the fitting room, I called a taxi.
In the yellow cab, taking me from Manhattan to Brooklyn, for the first time in a long time I felt not just surviving, but living. I'm not going to hide, but to start a new life. And my future home awaits me ahead. I hope.