Real estate stories, of claustrophobic kitchens, tyrannical landlords and rodent-size roaches, are a New York rite of passage. Stories of misery, unexpected good fortune or strange living arrangements  surely every New Yorker has one.

Ed Casabian has a few.

There was the time he hunkered down in a one-bedroom, the size of a shoe box, that was filled with three roommates, two of whom were romantically involved, along with two yapping dogs. There was an unforgettably luxurious apartment on Central Park South where dapper doormen hailed cabs with the flick of a brass-buttoned wrist. And there was the time a hard-partying roommate almost reneged on an offer to share his place because he had sworn off alcohol on a bet and worried that Mr. Casabian would be bored by his sober company.

Plenty of New Yorkers would yawn at these stories. But Mr. Casabian’s come with a twist: They all happened in the last six months.

That is how long he has been constantly on the move. In his New York, Sunday is not a day of rest or shopping or church  it is moving day.