Despite the restrictions, Mr. Leahy faced fierce competition and had to woo his way into his cubbyhole. His ex-girlfriend, an artist, told him about the unorthodox residence and referred him to the landlords, who were swayed, he said, by his “very long, thoughtful, funny, charming email” that described, in detail, his minimal grocery storage needs.

He took the space sight unseen and insists that he had no misgivings when he arrived.

“I think I was happy to be in New York and that I actually had a place,” Mr. Leahy said. “It was just kind of comical. It is comical. Whenever I show people where I live, they always laugh.”

He awakens many mornings to the sounds of experimental theater: strange clanging, performers speaking in gibberish, chants. The space is ovenlike in the summer, cozy in winter.

And though he doesn’t see much of them, he likes his quasi-roommates: seven other artists and creative types who live in the warren of more traditional rooms at the back of the building. “Though I’m always jealous when I see them sitting on chairs in their rooms,” he admits.

Occasionally, there are parties in the building — and not just any parties, really good ones — “the kind of thing you’d imagine happening in Bushwick or Ridgewood,” he says.

There are some serious drawbacks, of course. The door behind his bed opens onto a sheer drop into the performance space, which gave him a scare a few months back when he leaned against it and felt it moving. Nor does he recommend nights of heavy drinking or hosting visitors, especially if romance is in the cards.