When I lived in Manhattan, I shared an apartment that realtors lovingly referred to as a 1-bedroom flex. But mid-way through our 2-year lease, we were told that the plaster dividing my bedroom and the living room had to be torn down. Blah-blah-something-new-fire-codes. Not wanting to deal with finding another apartment, Erik and I lived out the rest of our lease. He, in a 12x15 bedroom, and I, behind two bookshelves and an oversized IKEA picture frame.
After moving to Chicago, a friend sent me a newspaper article about the dawn of a "cataclysmic change" in Manhattan living. Apparently, the fall of plaster is being heard throughout the island as building managers suddenly face the strict enforcement of a 5-year-old law spawned by the death 2 firemen in a Brooklyn 1-bedroom flex. According to the story, the firefighters became disoriented by the random construction of walls and ultimately jumped to their deaths.
As a human being, I feel for the men who were undoubtedly surprised by an uncharted layout, especially considering it was thick with smoke. But as someone who paid $1,200 a month to sleep next to a dishwasher, I can't help but feel for the new generation of 1-bedroom flexers.
Our wall (and most I've seen) are anything but random. They tend to perfectly divide small living spaces, ultimately creating some semblance of affordability. But if these trained firefighters are becoming disoriented in a 650-square foot apartment...well I just don't know what to tell them.
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