Where to work if the thought of another day at the dining room table makes you suicidal.

I need a new place to go blog and be unemployed during the day with my computer… ok, with wifey’s computer. My requirements are simple. It has to be reasonably close to home, or at least in NYC. It has to be cheap (by which I mean free) and near food and a bathroom. It has to be quiet enough that music through my headphones will drown out any noise. And no one there can care how long I stay. Oh yeah, and it must have unicorns, and rainbows ending in pots of gold. Does anyone out there know of such a mythical place? I’m willing to give a little on the unicorns and rainbows. However, the pots of gold are mandatory, a deal breaker. No pots of gold… no Norm.

I’ve spent much of the last few months working at my dining room table. It’s one giant mess that wifey puts up with but probably secretly hates down to the very core of her existence. Let’s set the scene, shall we? The space where I work is closest to the kitchen facing the wall and a painting of kids on a carousel in France somewhere. I would sit opposite myself (and often do during out-of-body experiences) facing out into the apartment if squeezing into that space weren’t so difficult. My chair has no padding left, so I sit on an old pillow, prompting the occasional hemorrhoid reference from wifey. There’s a pile of printouts, business cards and computer wires pushed off to my left. The cats sit and drool on it whenever they decide to spend quality time with me. I often type with one hand and harass one of them with the other, because I’m ambidextrous like that. When they knock the pile to the floor, I put it back on the table, inevitably mixing it in with the assorted newspapers and magazines strewn about. The salt and pepper grinders stand tall – like beacons of domesticity in a job search wasteland – until I knock them over and scare the cats away.

My spot is nice and central, letting me be a part of wifey and the cats’ madcap escapades. It’s basically the center of my apartment, which is near the center of Jackson Heights, which is the geographical center of New York City. And everyone knows that New York is the center of the universe. So by extrapolation, my workspace is the center of the universe… which explains a lot. But spend enough time anywhere and you’ll tire of it. There has to be another spot.

My desk, where one would think I’d work, is piled high with papers and books and all the other things I’ve been meaning to go through and haven’t. It’s a disaster area, which the city keeps threatening to condemn, and removed from the rest of the apartment besides. I experimented with the couch as a daytime work spot. The TV remains off, because it really wouldn’t be work otherwise. But my urge to watch remains a distraction. So too does the amazingly hot battery in wifey’s computer. An hour of work leaves giant sweat marks on my pants, which would likely raise questions should she come home midday. The UPS guy gives me odd looks too.

My local options are limited… Espresso 77, the bench in front of Espresso 77 and the curb in front of the bench in front of Espresso 77. Starbucks would give me wireless access too if I had AT&T, but I don’t. The good news on that is I actually receive phone calls. Espresso 77 has a strict policy for laptop use. The first hour is free with a purchase on weekdays, and each hour after that costs $5. I’ve never seen it enforced. They did remind me about the policy during my last visit. I was the only one there. And you may remember the outlet-locking episode. I love their coffee, particularly the New Orleans ice coffee, which is some crazy double-brewed concoction with extra milk… sooooooo good. But I don’t feel terribly welcome when I bust out the laptop. The bench out front might work it ever stopped raining and wifey’s laptop weren’t trying to accelerate global warming. As for the curb, I’m not that desperate yet.

Communitea in Long Island City – a short subway ride away and convenient to Manhattan – is another workspace option. The coffee is solid, except for my last cup which tasted like sweetened, milky arsenic. The baked goods are scrumpdilicious. And the place is big enough that no one cares when I hang out awhile; I always make a point to spend more taxpayer money. The other customers are quiet and respectful, except for the smelly hippie guy who taps his ring to the tasteful alt-rock and talks on his cell phone. He’s just asking for a Hong Kong Phooey to the jaw. And maybe a little Captain Caveman action for good measure. I’ll do it, one of these days, so help me. Just keep not showering and sitting next to me. Bad things will happen; I’ve watched too many cartoons and endured too much unemployment.

The Brooklyn Creative League invited me to a blogging event to hype their new workspace for freelancers and small businesses. So I dragged my ass out to Brooklyn yesterday on the subway in a monsoon in search of a change of scenery. This is how desperate I’ve become. The New York subway system floods in a light drizzle, so you can only imagine what it was like in a steady rain. Water poured through the cement ceilings of the station multiple stories below ground. I felt like I was entering an underground torture chamber from a Mel Gibson buddy movie, and some wild-eyed fu manchu guy was going to string me up and shock me with a car battery. Gary Busey didn’t show himself, but I kind of suspect he was there. Why didn’t I just take the ark?

Brooklyn is the blogging capital of the world. It has more bloggers per square inch or per capita or per something than anywhere else. Understandable, since Brooklyn also has more subsidized, tech-savvy white people who are filled with angst, blessed with free time and convinced that everyone cares about their “struggle” than anywhere else on the planet. Maybe that’s just Williamsburg. This temporary relocation actually represented a powerful convergence of centers; the center of the world and the center of the blogosphere were one. Did you feel the great suck pulling you in? Not the pull from Yankee Stadium, the other one, from Brooklyn.

If I were a freelancer or a small business with any sort of steady income and I lived closer, I’d join the Brooklyn Creative League. The space – a decked-out floor of a warehouse with exposed brick walls, shiny wood floors, an open layout, various office necessities and a friendly, accomodating owner – is stellar. And the rates are quite reasonable. Alas, I do not have the wherewithal. But I did take the opportunity to look out a different window down on a different block (Carroll St. and Whitewell Pl.). From my perch, I observed an empty lot with an overflowing dumpster, an elementary school and the back of the Kentile Floors sign that greets F train riders emerging from the tunnel at Carroll St. It was actually fairly scenic in an album liner note photo kind of way. I got a lot done, then trekked back across the city to Queens. It’s back to working at home.

Can't work here either, as much as I'd like to. Maybe I could smuggle coffee into the library.

Jackson Heights is gentrifying, at least it was until the economy got all spooked and pulled the covers over its head. As part of the minority here, my wife and I have limited places to hang out. The varied ethnic restaurants are great, but don’t lend themselves to leisurely meals. The bars don’t cater to straight, English speakers. The bakeries, many of which have excellent coffee and scrumptious South American baked goods, are bright, loud and uncomfortable. And no place has wireless internet and electrical outlets for customer use. The lack of money thing is a tad problematic too.

A couple years ago, a cafe called Espresso 77 opened up just off the main drag, likely replacing one of the neighborhood’s 14,326 hair, nail and eyebrow salons. The place only has five or six tables. But they serve great coffee and invite people to stay with a light atmosphere and amenities like newspapers, magazines and, you guessed it, wireless and outlets. The cafe has become part of the community, offering story time for kids, bringing in musicians and staging exhibits from local artists. Starbucks – the neighborhood’s first – moved in a couple months later and a couple blocks away. But Espresso 77 has stood its own, cultivating a loyal customer base with a quality product.

Maybe once a week I pack up my laptop and notepad and head down there. The change of scenery helps to break up unemployment’s monotony and endless repetition. I’m still looking for a job (and distractions from looking for a job) while listening to music on headphones, but I’m doing it in a public place with people around. It’s social interaction through osmosis, and makes me feel like slightly less of a loser. Espresso 77 is pretty quiet in the middle of the afternoon – a couple people working and a couple more sitting around. I can nurse a strong cup of coffee, nibble a couple of chocolate chip cookies (by which I mean inhale like Cookie Monster on a bender) and do some work. After a few hours, I head off to the grocery store to pick up dinner stuff and then home.

This past Friday I took my show on the road, as it were. But waiting for me at my home office away from home office was quite a shock – little plastic covers on the electrical outlets, secured with little padlocks. The cafe was unemployed Norm-proofed, and I was devastated. They might just as well have kicked me in the crotch and pushed my hunched-over body into traffic.

Blocking off outlets creates a sort of time limit that isn’t that limiting, except for me. My four-year-old computer with its four-year-old battery lasts about 45 seconds if fully charged. I worked that day for less than the length of an album, and then left. My battery was dead. And my afternoons at the local coffee shop were over.

My guess is that people were abusing the cafe’s generosity and starting to cost them money. The plastic covers force out these computer users (once their batteries run out), without making staff act as bouncers. They save electricity and open up tables for more valuable customers – people who spend more money and leave more quickly. There’s a difference between use and abuse. And abuse hurts business. I get it. Customers who come in intending to sit down for lunch may end up leaving with a snack (or nothing) upon seeing no empty tables. Customers who walk by and think to stop in may not. Both may just go to Starbucks next time, where they’ll more likely get a seat.

The funny thing is I used to be one of the abusers, sipping a two-dollar cup of coffee in a to-go cup for hours until it was cold. My attitude was, “screw you, business owner, I’m following the rules you set up.” But I realized early on in my current stint of unemployment that this was not the spirit of the arrangement. I started spending more money during my visits and giving up my table when the place filled up.

Thinking about the matter later only depressed me more. Little plastic outlet covers had eliminated one of the few places I go regularly. A new computer or a new battery would solve the problem if I had the money. But I don’t. Now I have to ride the subway to go to a cafe with my computer, and that adds four dollars to the price of coffee and baked goods. Just how small and ridiculous has unemployment made my world that I even care about little plastic things and four dollars?

Selling crap only gets you so far.

My neighborhood – Jackson Heights – is more working class than many New York City neighborhoods, but more middle class than some others. It’s ethnically mixed but dominated by first and second generation immigrants from South America and India and other parts of Asia. Some significant portion of this group is undocumented, or they prefer to get in their wind sprints when government authorities show up. The neighborhood still includes residents who arrived shortly after World War II and never left. Every single one of them can be found weekday mornings in the cereal aisle at Met Foods. As if this mix weren’t crazy enough, the neighborhood is also stalled in the early stages of gentrification. Hence, me (or as I prefer to be called, “evil yuppie scum”), and people like me.

Local businesses reflect the neighborhood’s makeup. But significant changes are afoot, as the economic downturn creeps through Jackson Heights. I see evidence everyday in my comings and goings – to the gym, the subway, Espresso 77 or my favorite Colombian bakery. Even looking out my bedroom window reminds me of what’s beset the neighborhood. Businesses are closing, and people’s lifestyles are deteriorating. And things will get worse before they get better.

Can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want this store.

A quick stroll around my block – 83rd St. to Roosevelt Ave. to 82nd St. to 37th Ave. and back – revealed 14 failing stores or empty storefronts. They include four clothing shops, two banks, two restaurants and various other businesses useless to me. In five years of living here, I spent maybe $40 at all of them combined. That tidy sum bought me some so-so Colombian food, passport photos, a toy train for my nephew and an umbrella that broke right outside the store two minutes after its purchase.

While I’d prefer these stores to be something else (batting cage… burger stand… anyone), I understand that I’m a minority around here. Proprietors of the dying and dead stores weren’t thinking of me when they put out a shingle. But uninteresting stores beat the pants off of empty stores. And there are way more empty stores now than at any point since I’ve lived here.

I guess I'll have to shop at one of the 4186 other cell phone stores in the area.

Some store closings are normal. Businesses that are profitable carry on (generally), those that aren’t don’t. When a store closes, a new one takes its place. That’s how the system works, in good times and in bad, here and everywhere. But the system seems to be broken. People aren’t buying things. Banks aren’t lending money. And entrepreneurs are scared to take risks. Stores can’t borrow to tide themselves over until sales pick up. And when they close, no new store can or wants to move in.

Empty storefronts dot the neighborhood, and more will follow soon. This leaves room for enterprising street vendors to set up shop. Some stretches of sidewalk present a sort of pedestrian slalom of tables and carts, even in good economic times. It’s worse now. The empty bank on my corner is now a de facto flower stand. Competing sellers will sometimes set up next to each other. The corner under the 7 train subway station is essentially a big cafeteria in the morning, with any number of people selling breakfast food and drinks out of shopping carts. Some street vendors are licensed and some not. The breakdown isn’t the issue so much as the sheer numbers. Many of these people would be making money some other way if they could.

Struggling stores rent out floor space to stave off closing. The Yofiore yogurt shop brought in a cell phone vendor before closing. A shoe store now has someone offering health insurance in a small space up front; the clothing boutique that once occupied the spot has since moved inside, I believe. Closed stores open up temporarily as something else to make a quick buck. What was once a passport photo place sold flowers this past Valentine’s Day.

Competition for buyers has also picked up. Until recently, I could expect to be offered a few flyers during the block and a half walk to the train. That number has doubled or tripled, and the people passing them out are more aggressive in trying to get them into my hands. I now have to actually walk through people’s outstretched arms sometimes to get by.

I can’t say if there are additional homeless or people who dig through recyclables these days, though I tend to notice them more. Nor do I know what’s happening at the local Salvation Army or Jewish Community Center thrift store. But if pressed, I’d guess numbers are up. My situation hasn’t deteriorated that much since losing my job a few months ago. But day-to-day life in Jackson Heights has to some extent. I expect the decline to continue, at least until this country gets itself turned around.

I was in the city today to see if the Apple Store people could tell me what’s wrong with my computer. (Turns out, nothing. It’s my network, yippee!). On the way back I stopped in at one of my favorite cafes – Communitea in Long Island City – to do a little work.

You can only spend so much time in your apartment combing through endless job listings without going a little crazy. Not that job boards aren’t supremely interesting but, well, they’re not. I’d rather memorize the side of a cereal box (mmm, 25% riboflavin). Some days it’s best to avoid the Netflix discs, the PS3 and all the other distractions at home. And some days it’s just nice to have a change of scenery.

All the tables at Communitea were full, which I’ve never seen before. It wasn’t even lunch time really. Everyone seemed to be settled in and working. Could it be like Mondays at the gym – full because people slacked off over the weekend? I carried on back to my neighborhood to try a new place.

My neighborhood (Jackson Heights) is paused in the early stages of gentrification. One of the first new arrivals was Espresso 77 about a year ago. It’s a great coffee shop, with stellar coffee and a cool vibe. And it seems to be holding its own against the Starbucks that opened a couple months later and a couple blocks away. The place isn’t much bigger than my living room, so I never bothered to bring my computer and avail myself of the wi-fi. I’d feel guilty preventing other paying customers from sitting down. As the signs say, I’d be kicked out after a half hour anyway.

But the place turned out to be slow during the day. People came in and worked on their computers or read the paper. One crazy-looking guy with blonde highlights had a video conference. The place was never full – my gauge for when to give up the table – and the people working were chill. I camped out for a few hours, nursed a cup of coffee so strong my head is still buzzing and got stuff done. Obviously I’d never do this on a Sunday morning. But random weekday afternoons seem to be fair game.

Let’s go ahead and add it to the list of work spots with free wi-fi (or ethernet jacks) that aren’t my apartment…

New York Public Library (Social Sciences branch on Fifth Ave.)
Communitea
Bryant Park (if it’s temperate and you have a full battery)
Queens Library (81st St. branch, but only in a pinch)
Espresso 77