An Architectural Marvel

The following Saturday, 67th and Columbus, dangerously close to Godiva and Magnolia Bakery: The good news: Amy was on time, aka only 15 minutes late, broker time. Broker motto: Always arrive at least fifteen minutes late; the time you waste can’t be your own. More good news: all the buildings on the block were beautiful, except one dump at the end of the block. The bad news: we were meeting in front of the dump. We entered the apartment, which was a square, cookie cutter bore with tiny closet, tiny bathroom, exposed brick wall (hated), faux fireplace (hated more), dark kitchen with horrible bicycle and dog stickers plastered to the first refrigerator ever invented. The stickers gave me the creeps. “I’m really excited; this is the biggest studio for the money; it’s really a one bedroom.” said Amy. “What a marvel! A one bedroom, without the bedroom. What architectural pioneer came up with that idea; Frank Lloyd Wrong?” “It was his Asian influence. He designed other houses on this block. The faux fireplace is the perfect place to put your gohunsun. There’s plenty of room to hold meetings.” “I’m glad I have magic belongings that disappear when I snap my fingers and say 'Buddhist meeting.' I’ve been hoping for an occasion to bring out the imaginary chairs. I’d love to fill the apartment with a pack of strangers. I’ll cook a faux dinner in the fireplace. We can invite Frank Lloyd Wrong!” Amy pulled out her cell phone, and called Evelyn, who had the good sense not to answer. “Hi, Evelyn. It’s Amy. I’m here with Cheryl. Do you want to chant? Call me!” As I debated Amy’s level of insanity, a nosy New York City neighbor barged in from across the hall, offering living proof that this urban legend really did exist. She looked like Cosmo Kramer in drag. Her shabby chenille bathrobe flew open to reveal more sags and wrinkles than a litter of Shar-pei puppies. Fuzzy slippers and 1950’s hair net completed the ensemble. She was carrying a bottle of Tide. “Are you moving in?” “Maybe” said Amy. I smiled. Not on a bet, but thanks for the entertainment. Lady Cosmo babbled for a half hour, complaining about maintenance, noise, the elevator, and other assorted problems. She was a realtor’s Anti Christ. “If you move here, you’ll already have someone to talk to. Do you want to grab a coffee? Maybe Evelyn will call.” We arrived at the real estate office before I could respond. “What a great coincidence. Susan, this is Cheryl. We just came from the apartment. This is my friend Susan, the broker I work with. It’s her building.” I tried not to stare at the short, stocky woman clad in leather jacket, black jeans, white tube top, silver studded belt and black cowboy hat. Her lips were shiny bubble gum pink; her eyes lined in black, accented with thick false eyelashes. Her poufy yellow hair, peeking under the hat, looked like frosted straw. Skull and crossbones necklace, silver hoop earrings and black nail polish completed the ensemble. Interesting outfit, considering she was 65 years old, if she was a day. Another NYC stereotype. I had to be dreaming. Too many New York movies and pizza close to bedtime. This could not be happening. “So, d’ ya’ lahhhk the apaaahtment? Ah ya’ gonna take the apaaahtment?” asked Susan, cracking her gum for emphasis. Did she pick her gum to match the color of her lip-gloss, or vice versa? If I hadn’t been too stunned to speak, I would have said, “Cyndi Lauper called. She’s sending the fashion police to arrest you for bastardizing her style.” “I rented an apaaahtment on tha Eeeeeast Side this mawning. They got a helluva good deal. So ah ya’ gonna take the apaaahtment?” “I guess Evelyn isn’t going to call. Do you want to apply? It’s perfect for you.” “I’ll let you know.” When gohunsuns fly.