#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.