That fall, when Wall Street self-destructed. Teichberg had already fled his apartment in Manhattan’s chic Tribeca neighborhood for a room in a squat-like loft in Bushwick, Brooklyn. The cinderblock, fortress-like structure was sandwiched by a Chinese food distribution warehouse and Surreal Estate, a residential arts and activism collective.
Teichberg’s new place was known by the numerals in its address: 13 Thames. “13,” was filled with graffiti, crust punks, street kids and empty cans of Four Loko. There was a constant smell of marijuana, and a white powder called diatomaceous earth was spread in front of the loft’s many rooms to keep bedbugs and fleas at bay. In 13’s basement was the Bunker, a space filled with computers, cameras and Pelican cases of electronic equipment.
In Teichberg’s windowless room, an extra-large computer monitor linked to a hacked-up Mac glowed perpetually. Teichberg was always in front of it, organizing online while chain-smoking cheap American Spirit cigarettes in between short trips to the 24/7 deli around the corner for cups of coffee.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 11/18/17