Slip 51

The truth...is out there.

Or so the X-Files would have us believe. But aren't there times when events and issues are so convoluted - so twisted - that there can be no real hope of uncovering the truth? Aren't there times when fate conspires with misfortune to hide it forever behind an opaque and shifting shroud of baffling behavior, double denials, and good old-fashioned bullshit?

Such is the case with Slip 51. Nestled in a New Jersey marina, directly across the Hudson from Manhattan, Slip 51 and the boat that occupied it were to be my new home. More than that, it was going to be the staging ground from which I was planned to launch a new chapter of my life. But before I even arrived, strange phenomena began to dog me. Shady circumstances. Creepy coincidences. And an unsettling hunch that I had only scratched the surface of what Slip 51 had in store for me.

A Light on the Horizon

The whole affair started innocently enough during a conversation with a now-ex-coworker (the ex-status having nothing to do with the events about to unfold, but rather concerning her own personal improvement plan).

"Man, you've gotta rent this houseboat in Jersey. It is fucking awesome. It's right across the river from Manhattan and it rocks."

It sounded pretty good to me already. But the sale continued.

"The guy is kind of a male whore, but he'll probably let you live there for like $200 a month or something."

"How big is it?"

"It's like a studio, I guess. The best thing is that it's got two decks - one on the back, and then the whole roof. It's even got a grill. It is a total party pad."

Yeah. This could really rock. Even if this guy wanted $500 per month, I could probably cover it without any trouble, given my obscenely low rent in Chicago. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more heaven sent this opportunity seemed. The novelty of commuting from the North Side to the Loop every day to work at my "real" job (the only goal I had bothered to set for myself during my college years) had waned rather swiftly and unexpectedly, and I found myself thirsting for a new adventure. I had been kicking Manhattan round as an idea, ever since having spent a few days at my firm's New York office, and had actually found some crucial supporters of the idea in the upper reaches of the WG management there. As both friends and colleagues, they seemed to be making it easier each day.

But this took the cake. For here, dropped literally in my lap, was an opportunity take the whole city for a test drive for the summer - all the while living on some sun-drenched houseboat. The possibilities seemed endless. I pictured myself lounging on the deck, dressed like Sonny Crockett, sipping some disgustingly sweet and elaborately garnished drink, telling my guests how peaceful the city seemed from the boat at night, before tossing a couple half-cooked steaks from the grill into the waiting jaws of my pet alligator. Or maybe I'd kick it East Coast style. I'd get outfitted with some yachting gear, (including a captain's hat) start referring to portions of the boat as starboard, and of course, name the alligator Spaulding.

It was a no-lose situation. If I liked it (and please...), I would have all the time in the world to scout out Manhattan, learn the ins-and-outs, and find a good apartment without paying an exorbitant amount of money to some invertebrate real estate broker. I could do some writing, do some exploring - perhaps maybe even do some growing. If I didn't like it, I could just kick it back to Chi-Town and ease right back into my slot at 1217 (which I would keep by continuing to pay the pittance rent) with some good times, some stories and some perspective under my belt.

It was time to hatch this plan, so I called one of my biggest supporters in NY (who was actually friends with the boat owner), got the guy's number and gave him a call.

Of course no adventure worth undertaking is going to be "smooth sailing" from start to finish. So when I hung up with LD (as my esteemed landlord will be referred to from here on, an account of some very striking character similarities he bears to Larry Dallas of Three's Company fame,) I tried to take the slightly tarnished luster of the opportunity in stride.

Not only did he want a minimum of $1,000 per month in rent plus one month's security (for a FUCKING BOAT!), but he was actually considering moving the boat up to "the Hamptons" for the summer and renting it out there. Furthermore, if he did keep it in New Jersey, he would want to rent it ASAP, to help defray the costs of having it docked at its present site. All of these issues were understandable from his end, I guessed, but they were of little comfort to me. I hadn't saved a dime for this adventure, hadn't discussed it with anybody close to me in any real detail, and I had to pull the trigger on it in a matter of days.

In addition, I felt a broader, more general unease lurking beneath the surface of my thoughts. There was something about the conversation that just went too smoothly. LD came across as a hip, laid-back guy. But he glided across the details with an effortless charm, as if he were merely pouring himself like lacquer over an already polished surface. This didn't sound like a guy that had this enormous boat "headache" on his hands and couldn't wait to resolve it, as I had come to believe. This was a business transaction. An opportunity. A deal. And the fact that it was already a "friendly" deal somehow made it worse, not better. As far as I was concerned, we weren't quite friends yet.

One good thing did come of the conversation, though: LD was going to email some JPEGs of the boat to me. Talk about rushing in - I didn't even know what the hell this thing looked like. All along, I had pictured a boat like Crockett's - slender, white and set low in the water, with a mast and furled sail (I hadn't really thought about how a gas grill would fit into that mix.) What if it was one of those old, creaky wooden barges you see moored along the back canals in Amsterdam? I shuddered a bit. I could just see myself: unwashed and unshaven, sitting on the deck, smoking a cigarette and telling my demi-rodent dog to stop yapping at every god damned person that walked by, before going down into the hull to work the hand pump so that the fucker (the boat, that is) wouldn't sink to the bottom of the river. Suddenly, I was in used car shopping mode: I was going to kick every tire (or buoy?) and make sure this thing was the real deal. And I certainly wasn't giving anybody $2,000 up front for anything less than one hell of a set-up.

When the pictures arrived in my inbox, I was understandably eager to check this boat out. But when my browser loaded the first image, I was nothing short of shocked. This was no barge. And no sail boat. This thing was a fucking RV on water! Cream colored vinyl siding. Sea foam green decorative stripes. Dark tinted windows. It was like somebody had driven a motor home right off the end of the pier - except that you couldn't tell the front from the back.

Needless to say, this development was particularly unsettling. I mean, I had heard of such "vehicles," mostly through second-hand accounts of people telling me why I should never allow myself to get tricked into attending a boat show. But I never considered the reality that they actually exist outside the realm of mid-afternoon programming on ESPN. Now I was going to pay a grand a month to live on one of these abominations? Jesus, I'd be a traitor to good taste.

Could I really wake up in such an environment every morning without thinking either that a) this just isn't me, or b) life is a cruel cosmic joke? This would test my propensity for Post Generation X irony beyond its probable limits.

I shared these grave misgivings immediately with both of my cohorts in our New York office, but both replied with the same advice: If I wanted to move to New York, I wasn't going to get a better opportunity, or a better deal. And to be honest, this wasn't really about a summer vacation, living on a boat, or even emulating Sonny Crockett anymore. Because what started as a simple, boredom-fueled rejection of my present reality had quietly blossomed into a realization and a quest for a better, more permanent, and more adult reality. This was about moving to Manhattan to start the true adventure of my life: becoming a writer.

There. It was out. And there was no going back. Now all the criteria were changed. "Is this ugly boat worth $1,000 per month?" became "Can you put a price on following your dreams?" Quite simply, it became a question of what I was willing to do to make this happen. Was I serious about changing my life forever?

Yeah, what the hell, I guessed I was. So I emailed LD to talk turkey about the deal. I said I wanted a three-month lease at $900 a month, as a trial, just to see if I could handle living on a boat, which, having grown-up in the Midwest, I had never done (I invoked the possibility of sea sickness, when sea foam green sickness was probably closer to the mark). If things were cool after 3 months, I would kick it up to $1,000, which I realistically figured I would do for another three months, which is when my Chicago lease would be up. By that time, I planned to have a Manhattan lease lined up, especially since it looked like I would need a place to put my furniture from the Chicago apartment.

LD agreed. I would pay him $900 in security, and $900 for first month's rent up front, in separate checks, mailed to his P.O. Box in Manhattan. The P.O. Box worried me. Why does this guy need a P.O. Box? What was wrong with his house, or his business? It struck me as odd, but I felt perhaps I was overreacting. Plus, everyone I knew in New York was vouching for him. So I took the plunge (though I hoped not literally) and sent him the first check. "What was the worst that could happen?" I thought. I had no idea that an answer would soon be forthcoming.