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I’ve said it in blogs before and I’m sure I’ll say it again: I live in New York and I have a rooftop pool. I do this because I like to remind the world of the opulent sitch I’ve found myself in by being able to live in NYC and have the quiet oasis of a rooftop pool, 36 stories above the masses.
It’s prettayyyy pretayyyy pretty good. I mean, come on, check this shit out:
A Friday edition of conference calls and cardio pic.twitter.com/OqhCGKF8UQ
— Boston Max (@BostonMaxG) July 21, 2017
Living in NYC and not having a rooftop pool is so passé pic.twitter.com/gTrnVKKDJg
— Boston Max (@BostonMaxG) June 24, 2017
Conference calls and cardio SZN! pic.twitter.com/xe8P1n8S0x
— Boston Max (@BostonMaxG) May 24, 2018
But, like, this isn’t my pool; I mean, there are probably like five, six, I don’t know, let’s call it nine hundred people in my building. So, it’s our pool.
Anyhoos, I was recently on a little date night with my girly and we chose to cap the night at a wine bar near my apartment that we both love. Dimly lit, quiet music, a single TV playing a classic film on silent with subtitles on (think more Casablanca type classic than Armageddon, though both should be in the National Archives for the monumental impact they’ve both had on the cinematic community as well as the general populous as a whole. And on that note, is there a Presidential Medal of Honor for civilians? Like I know Harry Stamper wasn’t a serviceman, but he must’ve been presented with some sort of posthumous award, and I’d guess they’d make some sort of exception for him. Presidential Medal of Honor. You heard it here first.)*
We weren’t more than a few sips into our first round of tempranillos when we immediately recognized the first date situation that was unfolding to our immediate left at the bar. And seeing as how this wine bar is relatively quiet, it’s a perfect eavesdropping scenario. So instead of talking to one another and being all cutesy and in love like that annoying couple everyone hates, we decided to just be normal, sit there in silence while getting a little wine buzz, and snicker to ourselves as we watched an implosion of epic proportions unravel to our left.
You see, this particular date featured a male that you can only properly categorize as a “douchebag.” I’m talking ZERO self-awareness about what a shween this guy was. From the way he talked about all the minutia of his life that had the air of overwhelming self-importance, to the fact that he opted to buy AN ENTIRE BOTTLE of red wine for the first date (a psycho move), to the fact that he wore a Hanes white tee underneath his button down and for some reason it really pissed me off. I’ll spare you all the details but I did get this kid’s entire life story basically since for the hour-ish we were there, we heard the girl on the date say maybe five words. And for some reason she seemed into it, too.
This guy was a typical portrait of the yuppie wannabee who grew up in NYC or Westchester, went to Syracuse, joined a fraternity with a sketchy reputation and instantly inflated his sense of self worth by like fifteen million dollars, got a job at some marketing firm making $50K and moved into a frat castle in Murray Hill that sleeps three but they build a fake wall to squeeze in a fourth to save a bit on rent so their disposable income can best be leveraged by slamming Bud Latte’s at Brother Jimmy’s on Thursday nights (except when he’s scored a Bumble date and wants to impress her with a $60 bottle of Cab Sauv).
At one point, the conversation switched to summer plans. I fully expected this guy to be all about that share-house life. Maybe somewhere on the Jersey Shore like Manesquan or Belmar, filling the basement of The Parker House or D’Jais with the fourteen other guys he shares a house with. But this guy seemed a bit more entitled. He was a Hamptons boy no doubt. Montauk or bust. However, I was shocked when he made no allusions to a share house of any kind. No, he’d be slumming it in the city all summer, having to brave the humidity and heat that gets trapped among the high rises in this concrete hell hole like a cockroach you trap in your kitchen beneath a Solo cup and aren’t really sure wtf you’re supposed to do with it. Seriously, don’t come to NYC in the summer without any kind of potential liberation from the piss soaked streets and scents of garbage that waft from the East River to the Hudson, from lower Manhattan all the way up to the tips of the Bronx.
Ah, but you see, this young lad had a plan. He didn’t need a share house in the Hamptons. Or Fire Island. Or the Shore. He didn’t need a buddy who could get him into Soho House. Because he knew of a majestic oasis atop a high-rise mere blocks from his apartment.
“You know that big building on the corner? Yeah, they’ve got a pool up there. My dad used to take me there as a kid because I think he knew someone in the building or maybe it was open to the public. Anyway now that I live in the area I figured I’d use it.”
My ears perked like a deer in the woods after a long day of prancing along, being all thirsty, spotting a little brook, getting shot and checking out Joe Pesci’s leather pants. My pool? That sonofabitch is talking about using my pool? No way, Jose.
“Yeah, I called the building, they said the pool is for residents only but like, I don’t know how they’ll monitor that.”
Well first of all, Holden Caulfield, I’ll tell you how they monitor it: every summer I pay my building forty three thousand eight hundred seventy Japanese Yen (that’s four hundred dollars) and they give me a spiffy pool pass with my name, picture, and apartment number on it. The lifeguard checks it. I sign my name in a book next to where my name is printed. Now, do you have a spiffy little pool pass, buddy? No. No you do not.
But, the pool is a magic place, and it’s virtues have been told far and wide, from the hoity toity streets of Tribeca, to the hardened criminals of Riker’s Island. And on any given Sunday, I’ll see many a person on the roof who does not in fact 1) live in the building or 2) have a pool pass. BUT, generally speaking, they know someone. I bring in friends all the time. I also grease the lifeguards with goodies so I can get away with bringing friends to my roof. And it did not seem like Biff Loman knew anyone in my building.
Regardless, I was pissed. That’s MY roof dude. You might be able to Steamboat Willie your ass right on by the stoned nineteen year old lifeguards. But once you get by them, you’ll have to deal with me. See, Wendy Peffercorn might be the gatekeeper, but I am the motherfucking key master, and if I see you on my roof, I’m going to politely tip off the lifeguard that you don’t belong.
Well, lo and behold, I was at the gym THE NEXT DAY, and there he was. Cut off sleeveless T, basketball shorts too big for his body, socks up to mid-calf. Flexing his relatively skinny pythons in the mirror. Lip-syncing in the mirror to what I can only guess was “Remember the Name” by Fort Minor. And let me tell you friends: I was THIS CLOSE to telling him to stay the fuck away from my rooftop pool. I didn’t, but, I will never forget his face.
And if he does in fact find himself on my roof, and if there isn’t a spot for me to sit down (and if there’s no spot for the handful of friends of mine who also don’t live in the building but are more deserving of a seat because they know me and I DO in fact live in the building), I will be writing a STRONGLY worded email to management, include a zoomed-in Snapchat screenshot of his dumb face, and say that I saw him brag about peeing in the pool. Make him have to spend his summer at a public pool. Ruin his summer. And that my friends is the American Dream.
*Okay, since I’m a lifelong learner – which means I Google everything I don’t know – I’ve learned that the Presidential Medal of Freedom is the highest honor a civilian can receive, but winners include Tom Hanks, Ellen DeGeneres, and Bruce Springsteen. Like, they’re awesome, but did they save the world from an asteroid? Harry Stamper deserves more. .
Respond
Boston Max
Spending my retirement fund at Trader Joe's and trying to remember to check my mailbox semi-regularly
@BostonMaxG
@boston_maxg
We get it, you have a rooftop pool.
I think PGP is purposefully making the comment section button harder to click so that they get more pageviews.
I rarely read the blogs. The comments are actually better than the content.
I’m going to assume your ankle tattoo says “Mia”
Nah, protect that view at all costs. If people want to live in the slums then they get the slum benefits: nothing.
I kept waiting for the Shyamalan-like twist where it turns out that the over-entitled douchebag who flaunts his money and has the social skills of a feral child turned out to be you looking at your reflection, but it never came. So much for self-awareness.
His parents’ money*. I’m considering moving to NYC sometime soon and looked at apartments there recently. If you have a job that affords you the ability to own an apartment with a rooftop pool, you’re not writing pieces for PGP to make some cash on the side.
I meant to say “to rent an apartment,” but owning one also applies.
There are plenty of shitty “luxury” postgrad buildings in Murray Hill, which is not a nice neighborhood at all, that have rooftop pools but will stuff three or four people into a 1br apartment with fake walls. Only people right out of college sign up for this and most leave to get more reasonable living situations in better neighborhoods after a year, but there are always fresh grads to cycle in.
Nye, throw me a DM. I’ll be transparent about income, rent, and the fact that my parents in fact do not pay my rent and have not since college
Not going the DM way because I like my anonymity when posting here, but I take your word for it.
I do not blog for side cash. I do it because I enjoy it
OMG dude THATS THE JOKE. If you freaks can’t understand sarcasm I can’t keep pumping out tongue in cheek blogs.
Is that a threat or a promise?
If you have to keep explaining that you’re making a joke to people, maybe you’re not very good at telling it.
“Freaks” is not a kind word, sir.
I’m sure some people will come at you for your rooftop pool posts but they’re just jelly. You have to defend the castle. I know snitches get stitches but I’d rat this guy out the second I saw him on deck
RTP (rooftop pool) is a privilege, not a right. And certainly not one that any Chad/Brad/Thad/Vlad can cajole for free.
Thad should get a free pass.
Are you sure it was a date though
Why should you pay for someone else to use your buildings amenities? Its randos like this douchenozzle that are going to leave weights out, not wipe down equipment, trash the pool, etc. Complain to management immediately, you pay them to take care of this.
Cant be letting no slumboy into our luxury apartment complexes
Forgot to add, if you ever confront him you need to ask “who do you know here?”
Wait… there are people out there who actually pay their amenity fees? I’ve always been able to negotiate and get mine waived. Sucks to be you, I guess.
I don’t mind paying for access to the pool. The $ helps pay for the lifeguards, the nice furniture, etc
I want to punch this guy in the face
JayTas > BMax
Ouch with the JayTas reference