By Alex Berger
There was one restroom in the hall shared with three other families on our floor. And, there were a few critical moments when many users were in need of “rest” at the same time. However, unlike the families living above and below us, we were fortunate to have considerate neighbors who weren't long readers. Over time, many of us, by necessity, developed iron kidneys and lived to tell the tale. The others simply vanished, never to be heard from again.Under very difficult conditions, my mother tried valiantly to keep the apartment clean for her large family, Superman and the boarder. And considering the overwhelming obstacles, she did a very good job. But the apartment always looked grimy and in need of a paint job.The landlord, Mr. Roifer (who never forgot to appear at our door promptly the first day of each month to collect the rent), kept “forgetting” to paint the apartment every three years, as per our lease agreement. With many lame excuses, he made certain that paint jobs for us were few and far between.Looking back, I never realized our apartment was grimy and needed painting, since all apartments appeared the same. That is until one glorious afternoon Bertram, a second-grade classmate, invited me to his apartment after school for milk and cookies.Bertram lived in the exclusive Ageloff Towers, a luxury apartment building located on Avenue A and Third Street. It stood out majestically like a gold thumb, nestled between and betwixt its neighboring slum tenements. It even had a doorman and an elevator. (For those who may not know, Jews were mostly barred from living in the more desirable areas of New York City, Long Island and Westchester. Many of the wealthier families congregated in the ritzy Ageloff where every apartment had two bathrooms.)In my young eyes, Bertram's home resembled an emperor's palace. The apartment sparkled, the walls were not grimy and the milk and cookies tasted better. What a revelation! I promised myself that when I grew up, became rich and married, I (yes, moi), would move into the Ageloff Towers and forever live in a non-grimy, sparkling apartment. But, alas and alack, that was not meant to be.Nonetheless, I grew up, met Gloria on a blind date and promptly proposed to her. Three months before the marriage we bought a garden-apartment in Queens. Not quite the Ageloff Towers, but it also had two bathrooms. My first question to the real estate agent was how many times had the house been painted. “I don't know,” she answered, “but 15 years ago, the bedrooms were 10 by 18. They are now six by eight.” I knew I had chosen the right residence.My first order of business before we moved in was to paint the apartment and make it sparkle (like Bertram's apartment). In retrospect, I still get goose bumps recalling the time when I (yes, moi), a notoriously, non-handy, all-thumbs, nerd, who didn't know a trowel from a drop cloth, attempted to paint the unit myself.Gloria insisted that we hire a “paintner,” the Yiddish word for a house painter (as opposed to the English word “painter” which designates both a house painter and an artistic painter). “Humphh!” I said to myself, “I will paint the house myself and show my bride what a resourceful person I am.”So, unbeknownst to her, 10 days before our marriage, I tiptoed into a paint store and purchased several gallons of purple paint, Gloria's favorite color (which the proprietor quickly changed to an off-white color “if I wanted my marriage to be successful”), a stepladder, brushes of all sizes (even the teeniest one to get into the teeniest of corners) a stick to mix the paint and, of course, a white painter's cap. Paying for these items on our tight budget was no easy task. But for a guy about to get married to the most wonderful girl in the world, no expense was spared. I envisioned Gloria's surprised expression after she sees our sparkling, non-grimy, apartment and the news that I had painted it all by myself. Wow!My initial task was to open that first can of paint and I broke all my fingernails trying. When I finally succeeded in opening the can, I placed it on the stepladder and it promptly spilled all over the polished wooden floor. I had to return to the store for paint remover.To make a long story even longer, the tortuous first day ended with me trying to remove splattered paint from the floor, refrigerator, washing machine and me. The second day found me trying to remove splattered paint from the windows, mirrors, light fixtures and me. The third day found me calling a commercial painter, er, “paintner,” (Domenick LaRosa of Flushing) to finish the job. Our original move-in date had to be pushed back three days. I learned that living with my in-laws was not a good way to begin a marriage.Immediately following Dom's paint job, Gloria did allow me to do a little touch-up work – but only with a fingernail brush. Because of the good work, Gloria dubbed me “Michelangelo II.”Since then, Gloria makes certain that our apartment receives a paint job every three years. With my blessing, she contacts Jimmy (Dom's son) to paint the apartment again and again and again (with touchups by moi, of course). Given my “druthers,” I'd “druther” live in my present apartment in Queens than in the Ageloff Towers and so would Gloria.Now whenever I think back to the “good old days” of my Lower East Side apartment, Mr. Roifer and Bertam, a wide smile creeps across my face.Reach columnist Alex Berger at timesledger.com or call 718-229-0300, Ext. 141.
