CHAPTER ONE

Chandler


"Apartment 19, 90 Bedford Street, New York."

I look down at the piece of paper in my hand and read again the classified ad from the Village Voice that Ross gave me.

This is the right address. I knock lightly.

No answer.

"Hello, is anyone here?" I ask.

No answer.

Another knock and still no answer.

I drop my bag alongside the other few boxes I brought and left in the hallway. This isn't a good start, and as the minutes pass by, I start to get nervous.

Ross was sure, and Ross isn't the kind to pull cruel pranks on me. He said he found an ad and he knew the place, and I could get it by just going over there. Though it seemed too good to be true, everything looked fair and square when I called, and we were both excited. It wasn't too far from his and Carol's place, and he could spend plenty of time over since his sister also lived in the building.

That's when it came back to me: Yes! His sister! My lord and savior.

I turn around and face the door to apartment 20. That's her place, and just as I'm about to knock, I recall a tiny teeny detail ...

Oh wait, that's Ross's sister, as in ... Crap.

She severed my foot! That's right, Monica Geller cut my toe a few years ago. Double crap.

And that was the last time I really saw her. Sometimes she came to our dorm room but she always left before I came in, perhaps avoiding me because of that Thanksgiving Chainsaw Massacre night.

Well, in all fairness, it wasn't a chainsaw, it was a knife she dropped while we were flirting. I think we were flirting, I can't even tell now.

Still, it felt like a chainsaw. From the fuzzy memories of that night, I recall her meek apology when we were at the hospital, then she left. I went back the next day to the NYU dorms, and since then, we never really talked again.

This is going to be so uncomfortable.

Let's see, Ross and Carol are out of town and I'm out of money, so either I sleep on the street tonight or I have a very awkward conversation with the girl who was at the root of my "Sir Limps A Lot" nickname in college.

Maybe it's not that cold in New York at night this time of year …

I sigh. That wouldn't work. I shudder at the idea of being alone in the mean streets of New York at nighttime... Who am I kidding? I wouldn't survive a hot minute out there.

I take a deep breath and finally bring myself to knock. A first hesitant knock, then a second and a third more insistent ones.

The door opens and there she is.

The first thought that comes to my head was that I forgot how hot Ross's sister is. Her eyes are bluer than in my memories, her hair thicker and shinier and her body … Stop it, Bing. Not the time or place.

Still, that's not good, my already poor social skills disappear around hot girls.

She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows and then her eyes go wide as if she's just realizing who I am, and I truly believe a vein is popping out of her forehead.

She … closes the door.

What the hell just happened?

I swallow. Does she hate me? Why would she? I am the one who should hate her! Now, that fear of confrontation faded away, instead, I feel anger coursing through my veins.

She cut my toe! And closed the door to my face! Who does any of these things, let alone both?

I take another deep breath but this time, I am riled up. I knock again, harder.

"Hey," I say, through gritted teeth as she opens again. "You know, the way a door works, is you open it," I explain while gesturing, "maybe say a greeting or two, have a conversation then you can decide whether to close it. Fairly simple concept."

"You must be Chandler."

I exhale my frustration and nod. At least she remembers me.

"Do you need anything?"

She won't make this easy, will she? I cock my head to the side, staring at her incredulously. "I was supposed to move in across the hall but no one's answering the door. Can I use your phone to call the number from the ad?"

She takes a pause, hesitating way too long for my taste. "Sure. Don't move the pen."

"The what?"

"The phone pen, please don't move it."

I shake my head and hold my hands up innocently. "I won't, I promise," I reply, though I admit I was mocking her. A phone pen?

I could hear her mutter "Ugh" under her breath, I ignore that and call the number from the ad. "Hello, this is Chandler. I'm calling about the roommate ad at 90 Bedford Street."

"Yeah, about that," the other voice from the phone says. "It's no longer up for rent. The apartment's illegal, dude. I'm out of there."

Blood drains from my body, I may be about to pass out. "W―what?"

"Yeah, look, man, I'm sorry but I was evicted. Something about rent control fraud."

"I can't move in?"

"Nope. The landlord's not there. Shady stuff going over that building I tell you. I live in Queens now, sorry about the hassle and good luck."

And just like that, he hangs up, and I'm definitely not feeling well. I take the liberty of going over the couch to sit, not that I am thinking straight anymore. I drop my head and leave my feet instinctively on top of the table.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I turn my head to face Monica, she's standing in the kitchen chugging a bottle of water, her eyes shooting daggers at me, but that's the least of my problems at this moment.

"I―I think I'm homeless."


NOTE


Don't ask what this is or where this is going, this is the result of +20 days of quarantine. Think of it as a social experiment.

Thanks for reading and stay safe.