So I got the apartment. I was—rather ironically, as it turned out—concerned about the fact that the lease was month-to-month, rather than annual ("to protect both of us," said the landlady). Who knew, I might get all settled in only to have her jack the rent up dramatically. But I figured that this probably wouldn't happen, and that I was worrying about nothing.

Plenty of other people were worrying as well. My mother informed me that she was going to be calling to check up on me every time she heard about a violent crime happening in Newark, and that this meant she'd be calling constantly. My brother found a Newark Crime Map showing all the recent shootings in my area. (In that last link, you can do a search on "s 13th st at 16th ave" to zoom in on my area.) Even my friend Chris in Florida warned me that I'd regret this.

Still, for better or for worse, I'd already grabbed the place... and did I mention the walk-in closet? (Cue choir of angels again.) I was remaining confident that I'd manage just fine.

On moving day, my street-smart brother and My Sister The Graphic Designer checked the place out for the first time. After we got inside, my brother mentioned that he'd seen a drug dealer on the corner.

Now, I might point out that in the four months since, I have never once seen a drug dealer. Then again, I've never knowingly seen a drug dealer in my life. Given the places in which I've lived, and a basic grasp of statistics, this can mean only one thing: the only way I would recognize a drug dealer would be if someone came up to me and said "Pardon me, my good man, but would you care to purchase some cannabis?" (And even then I probably wouldn't be certain. It might be some sort of street theatre.)

They also noticed the police station two blocks away. "Well, that's reassuring!" I said, cheerfully. They both looked at me like I was insane, and patiently explained that police stations were generally in the worst areas. Oh.

Not terribly long thereafter, I arrived at Penn Station New York on my way to work. I was passing a Nathan's when a woman came up to me, said she was pregnant and hungry, and asked if I could buy her lunch. Given (a) my upbringing and (b) a credit card, there was only one possible answer to that. So we're making small talk while we're on line, she asks where I live, and I said I'd just moved to Newark. She looked startled. She asked for a more specific neighborhood, and I said I was near West Side Park. "You take the #1 bus to the train?" I replied in the affirmative. She allowed as how she knew the area well enough, and then said "I could never live there. It's not safe."

I had been under the impression that there was a maxim about beggars and choosers.

(She then backpedaled a bit, so as not to overly freak out the nice man who was buying her a hot dog and fries, noting that the park had recently been renovated and they'd gotten rid of the chop shop that used to operate in it, so the area was getting somewhat better...)

Later in the summer, I was at the bus stop just down the block from my place, reading a book while waiting for the bus. A woman came up to me and asked if I've been in the area long. I replied in the negative, explaining that I'd moved in only recently. She said that she'd thought so, and proceeded to lecture me on how I could not read a book at the bus stop; there was "a bad element," and it wasn't safe. The lecture continued for the next ten minutes or so after we both got on the bus. She said not to read books. She said to keep my eyes open. She said not to give directions. The one thing she didn't say was what to do if somebody asked if you'd lived in the area long and proceeded to lecture you on basic safety.

I also couldn't help but notice a curious phenomenon, one I had never noticed anywhere else I'd lived. Partly as a result of there not being much shopping available in my immediate area, I sometimes ordered food to be delivered... and as I was new to the area, I tried out several different purveyors of food. In almost every case, rather than coming to my door and ringing the bell, the driver called me on the phone from his car, and then handed me the food through the car window without ever emerging from the vehicle.

My brother took to reminding me that his business was slow during the winter, and that he'd be happy to help me move anywhere else if I so desired.

For my part, I had resolved to finish the move before crunch time hit at the almanac I was working for, and not to think about changing anything till it was done. Which carried me through the start of November. And then I resolved to see how I felt about Newark when I wasn't commuting every day, but was working at home. I was admittedly having second thoughts, but moving sucks, and, you know, it was still a good apartment taken in a vacuum... just a pity about the lack of stores nearby. And the crime rate. And the fact that the local postal service appeared to lose about one in five items of mail that I knew of. But aside from that...

Coming up, Part IV: "Was That a Submachine Gun?"