Is there an act more universally dreaded then moving? My dad says, “ The three pivotal points in a person’s life are getting married, having kids, and moving.” I was forced to move every 12 months for the 11 years I lived in Manhattan. Why? It all begins right here.
In New York, rent can be raised to the maximum every year when your lease ends, unless you live in a rent-controlled apartment. Oh, what’s that “maximum” you ask? It’s a 20% increase on your annual rent. This is why I had to move every freaking year.
I actually lived in one place for two years while in NYC: 159 Essex Street. Honestly, I don’t know how I lasted 730 days in that apartment. Sure, it was a great location (Essex between Houston and Stanton), but it was also a shoebox. It was a small two-bedroom, a fucking studio that was cut into two bedrooms, about 300, maybe 400 square feet. A wall constructed across half the place made it a “two bedroom” by New York standards.
Everything was exactly one giant step away, literally. I could take one step from the front door to the bathroom, and one step from the bathroom to my bedroom. In case you’re wondering, I skipped over the kitchen on purpose. While it consisted of a refrigerator, sink, cabinets, small kitchen table, and stove, there was no oven. What about the oven? There wasn’t an oven! My first week in the apartment, I brought home a nice piece of fish, ready to chow-down, and once in that tiny kitchen, became utterly confused. “Am I crazy? Where the hell is the freaking oven?” I thought to myself as I was opening all of the cabinets in the kitchen to find nothing. I even looked in the cabinets under the stovetop, but nothing. You can add “oven” to one of the many “amenities” you can’t safely assume comes in a New York apartment.
Despite the shortcomings of the place, I had some good times there though. I mean, one advantage of not having a living room is when you bring a guy home; isn’t anywhere else to go except the bedroom. And on a holiday weekend when your drunk friends who all had to move to Brooklyn because they couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan anymore need a place to crash, you have three or four people jammed in your bed, which can sometimes lead to a little orgy. So, I guess that’s one plus for this “shared studio cut into two bedroom apartment” action.
Living in this type of environment is analogous to living in an animal shelter, though. Actually, I may have seen cats that had larger living spaces who resided at the ASPCA. Habitating in such small quarters will eventually wear anyone out. This was a big reason I did apartment searchs, and one particular time I felt basically like giving-up. Looking at my options made me feel discouraged. I couldn’t afford anything down in the Lower East Side anymore, thanks to gentrification – and let me tell you what starts gentrification. It’s not the first new luxury condo, what new building developers call “urban renewal,” or the Vanity Fair write-up. Those come after the gentrification happens.
A neighborhood’s first new trendy restaurant, one fancypants restaurant that all the trendsetters must go to, and then the neighborhood goes to shit. I think it was opening of Schindler’s that really did the Lower East Side in. Once people living in the Upper West Side and Upper East Side were no longer afraid to come to the L.E.S., we were done for. That was the beginning of the end, friends.
Affordability, though, comes to people in very specific ways from my observations. The only people that have affordable places are the ones that have been living in the L.E.S. for a long, long time. My friend Alex has been down in the L.E.S. since the 80s. And let me tell you, the Lower East Side wasn’t pretty in the 80s. Someone really didn’t go down there unless necessary, or you were a junkie, struggling actress, artist, or musician. That was when struggling artists, actresses, and musicians really could live in Manhattan. It truly was their city. Now I don’t know where they live. Redhook or East Bushwick? By the way, East Bushwick is listed as “Williamsburg” in the apartment listings and let me tell you, East Bushwick is definitely not Williamsburg (but it might be in another 5 years).
Anyhow, Alex lived in a huge two bedroom on Third Street between Avenue A and B. And I mean gigantic. It had two real bedrooms, ones where fitting a queen-sized bed and three additional pieces of furniture are not impossible. It had a separate living room, a complete luxury in the city – an average living room (if you’re lucky to have one) in Manhattan means kitchen slash living room. Translation: a kitchen counter, a kitchen table, a couch, and a coffee table end up living in the same room, which a lot of people end-up doing ordinarily than not. But, not only did Alex have a separate living room, he had a separate kitchen! I really couldn’t believe it when I first visited his place – it was a real apartment. To top it off, at the time he was paying $900 a month.
UNHEARD OF!
“Do you know anyone moving out of your building, Alex? Have you heard of anyone moving out maybe soon?” I’ve been asking him for years, and the answer was always the same: “Beth, no one ever moves out of my building. It’s one of the only rent-controlled ones left down here. No one moves out unless they die.”
Well, as luck would have it, I got my wish. Alex and I made plans to hang out one night, and as I was making my way to the elevator (oh, yes, there was an elevator; none of this 75 steps to climb nonsense), I passed an apartment door with a bunch of cards taped to it. There were also flowers on the floor.
As I was waiting for the elevator, it hit me. Wait! WAIT! WHAT? I ran back to the apartment door to take a closer look. The cards were condolence cards!
I don’t believe it!
I don’t believe it!
It’s my lucky day!
Someone actually fucking died!
After the elevator carried me to Alex’s floor, I raced to his door, knocking ferociously and out of breath.
“What? What? Is everything okay?” Alex asked when he answered.
“I don’t believe it! You won’t believe it! Someone died on your floor!” I was jumping up and down so much I couldn’t contain myself.
“Oh, right. Ms.Giovanni died last week. She’s been in the building for like 50 years. I think she was like 98,” he said.
“Wait, you knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sorry! I didn’t know you were looking to move,” Alex replied.
“Was I looking? Who cares if I was looking? We’re talking about a rent-controlled two bedroom!” My excitement was now both pathetic and hopeful. “Okay, who cares really. More importantly, do you have the building manager’s number?”
After handing me seven numbers I hoped would change my life, Alex dished a little hope my way. “You’ll obviously be the first one to call. I mean, it’s not even listed yet. It should be as good as yours,” he said.
That’s right, as good as mine…it’s a dream come true. Bless your little heart, Ms. Giovanni, I thought to myself.
The next morning at work, I decided to call Alex’s building manager. As I started to pump myself up for the conversation, I also realized I had to come up with a couth, solid story. I mean, someone did die here, and now I was about to ask for that dead woman’s apartment. I was reminded of something my dad once told me about living in Manhattan: you would find available apartments to rent by looking in the obituaries. I’m not sure if that’s an urban myth or not, but it was starting to make more and more sense.
After a few rings, someone picked up in the building manager’s office. “Hello?”
“Hi, my name is Beth and I’m calling in reference to the vacant apartment at 220 Third Street.” She cut me off before I could really begin. “There isn’t an apartment available,” she replied.
“Well, yes, I understand it may not be listed yet. I’m calling under…unusual circumstances,” I continued, pausing slowly in between words to carefully move forward. “You see, many of us are still grieving, but I know Ms. Giovanni passed away in apartment 12, and I was…calling about it.” Please forgive me God, I know I’m increasing my chances of landing that express ticket to hell for this. But don’t I really deserve a rent-stabilized apartment? I kept repeating to myself.
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.
“Yes, well…I haven’t heard anything about it yet.”
“I understand,” I said. I wanted to seem empathetic to Ms. Giovanni, but my determination won out. “But, is there a way I can maybe give you my name and number for when…the apartment opens-up?” I tried to pause again, but the disgust in the voice on the other end was undeniable.
“Excuse me?” the woman said incredulously.
“Do you think I can leave you my name and number?” I repeated, slightly embarrassed, but accepting of the fact I was now on God’s shit list..
“Why don’t you try calling back tomorrow? The property manager who handles that building isn’t here today,” she replied.
“Thank you so much, I appreciate your help,” I said, and we disconnected. Okay, that didn’t go as bad as potentially expected, I thought. I just have to get this place! I would never have to move again if I scored it! Fucking joy!
Next morning at work, I called the building company again, ready to bring my game face again.
“Hello?” answered a woman.
“Hi, I called yesterday about the apartment at 220 Third Street.”
“Oh yeah – hold on a minute, please.”
Another woman picked up the call in the first woman’s place. “Hello,” she greeted me. “What can I do for you?”
Ugh, here we go again. My voice automatically does the pauses for effect. “Well, I’m calling under….unusual circumstances. (pause) Apartment 12 (pause), Ms.Giovanni, she was such a lovely women, but she passed away recently…and I was wondering about her (pause) apartment?”
“Nothing’s available in that apartment,” she fires abruptly.
Unfortunately for me, my fake, soft grieving voice becomes a little more harsh and to the point.
“I’m sorry, how could nothing be available if her apartment is vacant?” I demanded.
“I said nothing is available,” the woman said.
“Well, who is taking her apartment?” I asked.
“Try back next week. I don’t even know if her things are out yet.”
You bet your next rent increase I tried. Everyday, actually, for two weeks, all I kept getting from one woman or another was “Call back,” or “It’s not available yet.” I called so many times I was positive they recognized my voice. I even had a friend call, just to see if the office would say the same thing to a different voice, and they did.
As I was losing hope on week three, I called one more time to get down to business.
“Hello, this is Beth,” I started to say as the woman who picked up the call then cut me off.
“Listen, lady, the apartment has been taken.”
“What?! How can it be taken?” I asked, confused and slightly irritated. “I thought I was definitely the first one to call?”
“It’s taken. Please stop calling here.” And with that click of the phone, so went the apartment of my dreams.
Damn! I wondered if it really was true or not, so I called Alex later that evening; he said he saw the building manager showing Ms. Giovanni’s niece the apartment earlier that week. Ah, right…the niece. I should have figured, anyone with an access to a rent-stabilized apartment that big is going to give it to a friend or relative. Even in death. What bullshit!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
#1 - THE APARTMENT SEARCH
If you don’t live in New York or you’re thinking about moving here, let me break down what renting an apartment in New York City is like. First, you cannot get an apartment anywhere without paying a broker. You might think you can, but you can’t. Unless, ofcourse, you have an in with someone who lives in a rent-stabilized apartment, and out of the kindness of their hearts, they leave-it to you.
Well, I’m not one of those people – I almost was. My brother’s first wife’s sister (still with me) had a big rent-stabilized, one bedroom in a huge complex on 14th Street between first and second avenue. She was paying freaking $800!!
So, since my brother was marrying this chick’s sister and she was moving out-of-state, we all figured I was in the running to take the apartment. In fact my dad and I weren’t even so much concerned about this relationship’s future but rather I was nearing the end of a year-long apartment search. I politely called my brother’s wife sister to…you know, introduce myself, since we were going to be family and all.
She never called me back.
My brother’s response? ”She knows you want the apartment.”
“How the hell would she know I want the apartment? I didn’t even say anything about the apartment!” was my response.
Needless to say, the bitch never returned my calls to meet before the wedding. I was told her landlord “found out they were moving’” and it was lost. (Translation: she gave it to one of her lame-ass friends.) At the wedding, I tripped when I was near her, bumping into her and spilling Merlot on her dress.
Anyway, back to the scum of the earth known as real estate brokers. These blood-sucking leeches take twenty percent of the annual rent as a fee. Twenty freaking percent! It used to be one months rent, like that’s chump change. Who gives someone twenty percent for doing nothing but opening an apartment that looks nothing like the listing. If you do the math, on a $2100 one bedroom the broker’s fee is roughly $5,040. Let’s not forget deposit comprised of 1st month’s rent and security of last month’s rent. Now we’re in the ballpark of $9,240 that you have to pay up front on a rental, none of which you’ll ever see again. All this for an apartment where you are lucky to fit a full bed in the bedroom, no living room, maybe a walk-in kitchen, and that’s New York living for you.
Even if an apartment listing in the Village Voice or Craigslist doesn’t specify it’s through a broker, it is. And it will still lie about the amenities that come with it:
« The listing that promised an “exposed brick wall”? Translation: some kind of faux/tin brick wall. I think the Barbie apartment house I had when I was five was made out of the same material.
« The terrace listing? Translation: a fire escape. You won’t have a bathtub unless you’re a millionaire, let alone a full-sized shower. Forget about a kitchen you can actually put a table or oven in for that matter.
At a former apartment on Essex, the listing originally read “lovely outdoor space.” Translation: an alleyway where the trash was thrown-out. No joke, we didn’t even have an oven at that place. I guess I had just assumed like everyone else in a regular apartment one would have an oven, so I brought home a piece of fish one night. After ten minutes of opening all the cabinets and looking around my 4x4-foot kitchen, the realization that there was definitely not an oven kicked in. In New York it’s called “the walk-in kitchen” for a reason: because all there’s space to do is walk-in, get something out of the refrigerator, and walkout.
And don’t even get me started with closets. I haven’t seen this so-called space where one puts clothes in about seven years. Movers just love hauling that Ikea wardrobe up all those stairs. Taking apart an Ikea wardrobe to put it back together again makes it look like the leaning tower of Pisa after the ninth reassembling. Half my wardrobe has been shoved under my bed in those plastic bins anyway. My coats are in a freaking filing cabinet for Christ sakes.
But one of the harshest realities is not even listed: the actual floor that some of these places are on. My current one at the time was on the third floor, which actually meant two sets of staircases for each floor, six flights up to the apartment, or 71 steps. I felt like I was climbing to the observation deck of the Empire State Building every single time.
There should have been a warning sign at the base of the staircase “Those with heart conditions, do not attempt.” And while you think your legs would get used to it, mine never did. Right around the top of the third floor, my body sighed, “Yep, there’s the burn.”
After talking to hundreds of these assholes over the years, you begin to anticipate when they lure you out to come see these places, always hopeful that it will work out, but always disappointed at the end. Plus, seeing these “great apartments” in all kinds of weather (blizzard of ‘99, thunderstorms, sleet, heat index warnings) just adds to the agony. After you’ve rushed out of work or woke up at eight on Sunday morning, all to walkthrough that door and see a “wonderful” apartment be a total fucking dump in actuality, a dump that costs more than a house in some cities. Usually not one freaking detail on a rental listing is accurate, minus maybe that the apartment has a front door and windows.
After years of dealing with this shit, you begin to figure out the questions you are going to need to get out of the way at first to get the truth about the apartment you’re inquiring about. Soon, you begin to learn how to talk to these scoundrels we call brokers. It usually goes something like this:
You: “Hi, I’m calling about the one bedroom.”
Scumbag: “Yes, it’s a fabulous one bedroom-“
(You have to cut them off immediately or they’ll go on about how great the apartment is)
You: “Is it a real one bedroom?”
Scumbag: “Yes, it’s fabulous-“
(You have to cut them off again, before they give you an ounce of hope)
You: “Can you fit a bed in the bedroom?”
Scumbag: “Yes.”
(Here comes the money question…)
You: “Can you fit a full bed in the bedroom?”
Nine times out of ten, the answer will be “No.”
For the one time of year when you see a listing with those big bold letters that dreams are made of: “St. Mark’s three bedroom duplex; NO BROKERS FEE.” You better get your sweet ass up and make sure you’re the first one there with a briefcase full of cash, Knicks tickets, a Barney’s gift certificate, and any other devices that might sway the landlord to give the apartment to you. Needless to say, when I saw those beautiful words “NO BROKERS FEE”, I got my sweet ass up at 8:00 am Sunday to ensure I was one of the first people there. Walking down second avenue with my double espresso, taking notice of the drunks who were just coming home from the night before, I noticed a motley cast of characters walking a few steps a head of me: the business suit; the fashionista, and the beloved East Village punk. Then I looked behind me: trailing behind was the young buttoned-up NYU (or Columbia) student, the well-manicured gorgeous gay man (ugh, they’re all gay, but we’ll get to that later), and the gleefully happy couple, probably infiltrators from the Upper Eastside thanks to that Vanity Fair article on the “hip” lower Eastside. FYI, in the 80’s through the early nineties the lower Eastside was home to mostly struggling artists, musicians, and junkies. I looked at this colorful bunch walking behind me a little closer. We all had one thing in common: we were all holding the ripped-out apartment listing. DAMN IT!
I began to up the speed on my already-incredibly fast New York walk, successfully passing the suit and fashionista. Too bad the glamourzon had to wear those fabulous Mark Jacob heels. After cruising by the punkster, I then took my hand out of my pocket. That’s right; I now had an arm swing in full force propelling me past the pack. They all took notice; in fact, we all took notice of each other, recognizing we all had the same destination. As we turned left onto St. Marks, we looked like a pack of racing dogs, all speed-walking as fast as we could without breaking into a full run. We came to a crashing halt as we hit the gate to the apartment. One by one we tried to collect ourselves as we entered the apartment to introduce ourselves to the landlord.
This place: oh, it actually was fabulous and renovated too. It had new hardwood floors, new kitchen appliances, and a clean bathroom. The toilet looked like it was never sat on. I lifted the toilet seat when no one is looking to find a crystal clean bowl. Don’t get me started; you would think people would clean apartments before showing them, I once lifted a toilet seat and saw so many pubes you could have made a 5x8 shag rug out of it.
It was a little over my price range, but I didn’t care. I figured I put the money down, and get some of those studious NYU students to pay a little bit more than me. Whatever, I found the apartment.
Before making my final decision, I wanted to see the last bedroom the listing had mentioned. The two decent sized bedrooms were downstairs, and now I had to climb this amazing spiral staircase to view the third bedroom, which I assumed was upstairs. I climbed to the top to see nothing. “Wait, I don’t get it,” I thought to myself, now standing in about a 3x5-foot square that does lead out to a real nice rooftop – but where the hell is the third bedroom? I yell down to the landlord.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!”
“Yes, may I help you up there?” he answers.
“Yeah, can you come up here for a minute?” I respond.
He climbs up the stairs and we’re now definitely invading each other’s space as our bodies are almost touching squeezed into this tiny space. “So, ugh, where is this third bedroom?” I ask.
I thought I had seen it and heard-it all. I really did. But nothing could have prepared me for his response, as he went where I thought no landlord would dare to go: he actually tried to explain how this box we were standing-in could be a bedroom.
"Well, if you get a futon mattress and cut it into thirds…”
I cut him off. “I’m sorry, are you kidding me? Unless you’re a freaking vampire bat and plan on hanging from the ceiling to sleep, I really don’t see how anyone can sleep here, let alone do anything up here but stand in this box. It would have been a smarter idea to pitch the roof as a freaking bedroom.”
And that is only the beginning of what we call the New York City apartment search.
Well, I’m not one of those people – I almost was. My brother’s first wife’s sister (still with me) had a big rent-stabilized, one bedroom in a huge complex on 14th Street between first and second avenue. She was paying freaking $800!!
So, since my brother was marrying this chick’s sister and she was moving out-of-state, we all figured I was in the running to take the apartment. In fact my dad and I weren’t even so much concerned about this relationship’s future but rather I was nearing the end of a year-long apartment search. I politely called my brother’s wife sister to…you know, introduce myself, since we were going to be family and all.
She never called me back.
My brother’s response? ”She knows you want the apartment.”
“How the hell would she know I want the apartment? I didn’t even say anything about the apartment!” was my response.
Needless to say, the bitch never returned my calls to meet before the wedding. I was told her landlord “found out they were moving’” and it was lost. (Translation: she gave it to one of her lame-ass friends.) At the wedding, I tripped when I was near her, bumping into her and spilling Merlot on her dress.
Anyway, back to the scum of the earth known as real estate brokers. These blood-sucking leeches take twenty percent of the annual rent as a fee. Twenty freaking percent! It used to be one months rent, like that’s chump change. Who gives someone twenty percent for doing nothing but opening an apartment that looks nothing like the listing. If you do the math, on a $2100 one bedroom the broker’s fee is roughly $5,040. Let’s not forget deposit comprised of 1st month’s rent and security of last month’s rent. Now we’re in the ballpark of $9,240 that you have to pay up front on a rental, none of which you’ll ever see again. All this for an apartment where you are lucky to fit a full bed in the bedroom, no living room, maybe a walk-in kitchen, and that’s New York living for you.
Even if an apartment listing in the Village Voice or Craigslist doesn’t specify it’s through a broker, it is. And it will still lie about the amenities that come with it:
« The listing that promised an “exposed brick wall”? Translation: some kind of faux/tin brick wall. I think the Barbie apartment house I had when I was five was made out of the same material.
« The terrace listing? Translation: a fire escape. You won’t have a bathtub unless you’re a millionaire, let alone a full-sized shower. Forget about a kitchen you can actually put a table or oven in for that matter.
At a former apartment on Essex, the listing originally read “lovely outdoor space.” Translation: an alleyway where the trash was thrown-out. No joke, we didn’t even have an oven at that place. I guess I had just assumed like everyone else in a regular apartment one would have an oven, so I brought home a piece of fish one night. After ten minutes of opening all the cabinets and looking around my 4x4-foot kitchen, the realization that there was definitely not an oven kicked in. In New York it’s called “the walk-in kitchen” for a reason: because all there’s space to do is walk-in, get something out of the refrigerator, and walkout.
And don’t even get me started with closets. I haven’t seen this so-called space where one puts clothes in about seven years. Movers just love hauling that Ikea wardrobe up all those stairs. Taking apart an Ikea wardrobe to put it back together again makes it look like the leaning tower of Pisa after the ninth reassembling. Half my wardrobe has been shoved under my bed in those plastic bins anyway. My coats are in a freaking filing cabinet for Christ sakes.
But one of the harshest realities is not even listed: the actual floor that some of these places are on. My current one at the time was on the third floor, which actually meant two sets of staircases for each floor, six flights up to the apartment, or 71 steps. I felt like I was climbing to the observation deck of the Empire State Building every single time.
There should have been a warning sign at the base of the staircase “Those with heart conditions, do not attempt.” And while you think your legs would get used to it, mine never did. Right around the top of the third floor, my body sighed, “Yep, there’s the burn.”
After talking to hundreds of these assholes over the years, you begin to anticipate when they lure you out to come see these places, always hopeful that it will work out, but always disappointed at the end. Plus, seeing these “great apartments” in all kinds of weather (blizzard of ‘99, thunderstorms, sleet, heat index warnings) just adds to the agony. After you’ve rushed out of work or woke up at eight on Sunday morning, all to walkthrough that door and see a “wonderful” apartment be a total fucking dump in actuality, a dump that costs more than a house in some cities. Usually not one freaking detail on a rental listing is accurate, minus maybe that the apartment has a front door and windows.
After years of dealing with this shit, you begin to figure out the questions you are going to need to get out of the way at first to get the truth about the apartment you’re inquiring about. Soon, you begin to learn how to talk to these scoundrels we call brokers. It usually goes something like this:
You: “Hi, I’m calling about the one bedroom.”
Scumbag: “Yes, it’s a fabulous one bedroom-“
(You have to cut them off immediately or they’ll go on about how great the apartment is)
You: “Is it a real one bedroom?”
Scumbag: “Yes, it’s fabulous-“
(You have to cut them off again, before they give you an ounce of hope)
You: “Can you fit a bed in the bedroom?”
Scumbag: “Yes.”
(Here comes the money question…)
You: “Can you fit a full bed in the bedroom?”
Nine times out of ten, the answer will be “No.”
For the one time of year when you see a listing with those big bold letters that dreams are made of: “St. Mark’s three bedroom duplex; NO BROKERS FEE.” You better get your sweet ass up and make sure you’re the first one there with a briefcase full of cash, Knicks tickets, a Barney’s gift certificate, and any other devices that might sway the landlord to give the apartment to you. Needless to say, when I saw those beautiful words “NO BROKERS FEE”, I got my sweet ass up at 8:00 am Sunday to ensure I was one of the first people there. Walking down second avenue with my double espresso, taking notice of the drunks who were just coming home from the night before, I noticed a motley cast of characters walking a few steps a head of me: the business suit; the fashionista, and the beloved East Village punk. Then I looked behind me: trailing behind was the young buttoned-up NYU (or Columbia) student, the well-manicured gorgeous gay man (ugh, they’re all gay, but we’ll get to that later), and the gleefully happy couple, probably infiltrators from the Upper Eastside thanks to that Vanity Fair article on the “hip” lower Eastside. FYI, in the 80’s through the early nineties the lower Eastside was home to mostly struggling artists, musicians, and junkies. I looked at this colorful bunch walking behind me a little closer. We all had one thing in common: we were all holding the ripped-out apartment listing. DAMN IT!
I began to up the speed on my already-incredibly fast New York walk, successfully passing the suit and fashionista. Too bad the glamourzon had to wear those fabulous Mark Jacob heels. After cruising by the punkster, I then took my hand out of my pocket. That’s right; I now had an arm swing in full force propelling me past the pack. They all took notice; in fact, we all took notice of each other, recognizing we all had the same destination. As we turned left onto St. Marks, we looked like a pack of racing dogs, all speed-walking as fast as we could without breaking into a full run. We came to a crashing halt as we hit the gate to the apartment. One by one we tried to collect ourselves as we entered the apartment to introduce ourselves to the landlord.
This place: oh, it actually was fabulous and renovated too. It had new hardwood floors, new kitchen appliances, and a clean bathroom. The toilet looked like it was never sat on. I lifted the toilet seat when no one is looking to find a crystal clean bowl. Don’t get me started; you would think people would clean apartments before showing them, I once lifted a toilet seat and saw so many pubes you could have made a 5x8 shag rug out of it.
It was a little over my price range, but I didn’t care. I figured I put the money down, and get some of those studious NYU students to pay a little bit more than me. Whatever, I found the apartment.
Before making my final decision, I wanted to see the last bedroom the listing had mentioned. The two decent sized bedrooms were downstairs, and now I had to climb this amazing spiral staircase to view the third bedroom, which I assumed was upstairs. I climbed to the top to see nothing. “Wait, I don’t get it,” I thought to myself, now standing in about a 3x5-foot square that does lead out to a real nice rooftop – but where the hell is the third bedroom? I yell down to the landlord.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!”
“Yes, may I help you up there?” he answers.
“Yeah, can you come up here for a minute?” I respond.
He climbs up the stairs and we’re now definitely invading each other’s space as our bodies are almost touching squeezed into this tiny space. “So, ugh, where is this third bedroom?” I ask.
I thought I had seen it and heard-it all. I really did. But nothing could have prepared me for his response, as he went where I thought no landlord would dare to go: he actually tried to explain how this box we were standing-in could be a bedroom.
"Well, if you get a futon mattress and cut it into thirds…”
I cut him off. “I’m sorry, are you kidding me? Unless you’re a freaking vampire bat and plan on hanging from the ceiling to sleep, I really don’t see how anyone can sleep here, let alone do anything up here but stand in this box. It would have been a smarter idea to pitch the roof as a freaking bedroom.”
And that is only the beginning of what we call the New York City apartment search.
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