Chapter 5: Smoke Signals and Awkward Entrances

My space was about five feet wide, six feet long. A perfect rectangle.

It was barely bigger than a walk-in closet. There was a single window, but it looked out over the alley, and the only furniture was a narrow bed wedged between the fridge and the microwave.

If I really slept here, every time I opened my eyes, the microwave would be grinning at me, crumbs everywhere. Pots and pans would be clattering around, and the occasional bowl would leap to its doom rather than remain whole.

I pictured myself waking up to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of someone reheating leftovers at 2 a.m. The idea of living in the kitchen felt both ridiculous and a little bit sad.

"Isn’t this the kitchen?"

"Uh, yes, technically it’s the kitchen, but the other girls rarely cook. So living here isn’t really a problem."

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. I glanced at the stove, half-expecting a rat to pop out and introduce itself as my new roommate.

"This bed—is it just a wooden board on top of milk crates?"

"No, it’s on bricks."

I stared at the setup, trying not to laugh. It was almost impressive how resourceful people could be when rent was this high.

"No way. I can’t do this."

I turned to leave, but the agent hurried to stop me.

He blocked the doorway, hands raised like he was talking someone off a ledge. "Hey, man, think about it—a house full of beauties!"

"Not interested."

I shook my head, but the words sounded weak even to me. The idea of sleeping on bricks in a kitchen was a hard sell, no matter how many “beauties” lived here.

"I’ll knock $10 off the rent."

I admit, I was tempted.

Ten bucks was two days’ worth of lunch specials at the deli down the street. I hesitated, weighing my pride against my wallet.

"$110 a month? Doesn’t sound great."

"Then $115."

"Get lost."

I couldn’t help but laugh. Was this guy for real?

"Dude, $105, okay? Venmo or Zelle. Ask around the whole city—where else can you get a place for $105 a month, with water, electricity, and a bathroom? You really won’t find it."

I moved my luggage into the cramped space, pulled out a bedsheet, shook it out, and hung it over the glass door.

It felt like I was setting up camp in a stranger’s kitchen, but at least I had a little privacy. I tried to convince myself it was temporary, just until I got on my feet.

For a moment, my feelings were complicated—hard to describe.

A mix of embarrassment, resignation, and a weird kind of pride. I was making it work, even if it meant sleeping next to the toaster.

I took out a Marlboro, flicked my Bic lighter, and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling before vanishing. The building didn’t allow smoking indoors, but I figured the kitchen vent would cover me—at least for tonight. The familiar burn in my throat made me think of home—late nights on the porch with my dad, both of us silent, just watching the stars. I missed that kind of peace.

Knock, knock—someone tapped on the glass.

I pulled back the curtain. It was Aubrey. Our eyes met, and her cheeks instantly turned red. She waved her hand in front of her nose and coughed lightly. "Um... you’re smoking..."

Her voice was barely above a whisper. I realized I probably should have asked before lighting up in the kitchen.

"Oh, I can’t smoke here? Sorry, sorry."

I was about to put it out, but she stopped me and pointed at the range hood.

She made a little gesture—flicking her wrist toward the stove, eyes darting away. I got it instantly and turned on the range hood. Wisps of smoke floated up into the vent, and the rumbling noise grew louder, like a scene from Mad Men gone wrong.

The fan rattled so loudly, I wondered if it might shake loose from the wall. Still, it did the job, and the smoke disappeared.

After I finished, I tidied up and looked around the living room and bathroom—everything was pretty clean.

For a place with so many people, it was surprisingly neat. Someone had left a stack of magazines on the coffee table, and there was a little basket of fresh fruit on the counter.

"Um... in the future... remember to turn on the fan when you smoke. I’m allergic to smoke..."

"Okay, okay, I’ll try not to smoke in the room."

I felt bad for not asking first. She seemed genuinely uncomfortable, but she wasn’t angry—just shy.

"It’s fine. Most people here smoke—only me and one other girl don’t."

"Uh, okay." Not bad, I’d have smoking buddies.

Maybe I’d find someone to bum a cigarette off of when I ran out. It was a small comfort.

Wait. Six people smoke? Did I misunderstand something? Maybe my room isn’t a kitchen at all—it’s a smoking lounge, like a bad college dorm prank.

I snorted at the thought. Maybe I’d end up with secondhand smoke for company more often than not.