It was a dark and stormy day when my roommate, our po-mo hipster real estate agent friend and I went to view a fine piece of Bushwick property: a two-bedroom railroad apartment with a nice view of some dumpsters and the JMZ. I was hungover and moody after pulling a blogging all-nighter and being woken prematurely at 1pm; we had no umbrellas to shield against the rain that freely assaulted us from above.
We approached what we thought was the right address, opened the gate and made our way across what would be a front yard if Bushwick had any kind of suburban charm or was capable of sustaining minimal plant growth. Lacking these things, what we actually walked across was a rectangular plot of cement covered in dead rats.