Valises Under The Bed

When I arrived at 201 W. 88th street, a “part-time” doorman (who appeared to be a full time drunk) staggered to greet me. If anyone lit a match near this guy, the building would ignite. “Part time” consisted of daytime hours, but I could rest assured that the video surveillance would catch the rapist, murderer, or robber who gained access the rest of the time. He let me wander around the spacious and well-appointed lobby, complete with fresh flowers and large antique mirror. I noticed a variety of packages for tenants piled against an unattended wall. Anyone could easily walk out, or go upstairs, with someone else’s package. Note to self: Insure all packages; you may never receive any of them. Fate stepped in, and the super appeared. I inquired about the vacant apartment. “The studio?” “Yes.” “Are you meeting a broker?” “Not until tomorrow, but can I see the apartment now?” “Go ahead. 14G; it’s open.” The elevator went to the 15th floor, bounced, then returned to 14. “That’s normal”, said a tenant. It’s all about lowering expectations, I reminded myself. I flashed back to my former building, where the elevator bounced, dropped three floors, and permanently injured me to the tune of two herniated discs. I opened the door to the apartment, and, sadly, fell in love. Even though it was under construction, I knew it would be exactly what I wanted. If the building would have me. Which it would not. The kitchen had big black and white floor tiles, with white cabinets and everything new. The bathroom had a tiled decorative black and white floral pattern on the floor, beautiful sconce lighting and everything new. There were 2 California closets, one walk in. I walked through an archway to a large space with crown moldings, 2 more sconces and a chandelier. It was a northwest exposure, filled with big windows and plenty of light. Even the kitchen and bathroom had windows, facing west. The apartment was quiet, with solid walls and no signs of baboonery. A beautiful newly polished patterned hardwood floor completed the room. This was the closest I had seen to perfection, and reminded me of my beautiful apartment from the non-loser part of my life. Except it cost a lot more money, was about a quarter of the size of my former digs, and Homer (my beloved sixteen year old cat who passed away from cancer) wasn’t there. Heavy sigh. If Homer was still here, would I even care about finding a new apartment? I rode downstairs to find a different, sober doorman. He explained that he was a substitute. (Had the other one passed out, or gone to an AA meeting?) I asked him about tenant complaints. He said the only complaints are that the owner is cheap. Insanity took over and I asked him how to apply for the apartment. “Here’s the owner’s number. Call him now; he’ll answer or call you right back. He knows everyone in the building.” I called the owner, who invited me to his office around the corner from the building. When I walked into his office, I saw a perfect match, a prewar owner to go with the prewar building. He probably rented an apartment to Ben Franklin. He probably bought the first building in New York. I sat down, and he started grilling me. “You’re a lawyer? There are many lawyers in the building. One just moved in, went to Harvard. I like lawyers. Now they are too busy to cause trouble. Used to be they had time on their hands, to sue landlords.” To sue for what; insufficient kindling to light the stove? Leaky bucket for the well? Is it appropriate for him to be rifling through rental applications and telling people about his tenants? “The apartment is $2100. Did you use a broker?” “I called, and got the address. The broker wasn’t available until tomorrow, but I wanted to see the apartment today. I took a shot.” “Did you give your last name to the broker? Cancel the appointment.” I saw where he was going with this. He wanted to save the broker fee. Like I cared. “No problem; I will cancel the appointment. But the ad on Craigslist said the apartment was $2000.” He ignored that comment. All three times I made it. Maybe he wasn’t such a nice old man. “Are you sure you would keep the apartment nice? I have a tenant, I don’t like her. She keeps valises under her bed.” “I’d keep it in pristine condition. I love the apartment.” “I hate clutter. You’re not one of those shopaholics who will cram the apartment?” he glared suspiciously at the bag containing my Gore-Tex sneakers. “How many sneakers do you have?” “I needed those. I don’t have any waterproof sneakers.” Was that an appropriate question? Who was this guy? I did love this apartment. “You don’t have any pets, do you?” “No. Why don’t you allow pets?” “A long time ago a tenant had a little dog that bit another tenant. I don’t want any more messes in my building.” “What if I had a dog that went to Harvard? Or the Yale mascot bulldog?” “What?” “Nothing. I don’t have any pets. Does this include cats?” “No cats, either. Too dirty.” Could I really live somewhere where getting another cat was not an option? “I don’t have any pets.” If I get one, I’ll keep the litter box under the bed, next to my valises. I wouldn’t get the apartment. It didn’t matter. Maybe if hell froze over and I got the apartment, I could sneak in a cat, dress him in an outfit from Bonpoint and say he was my son. “If any maintenance is needed, put the request in writing. Then I come to your apartment to evaluate the problem. It may take a day or two.” He appeared so frail, it was a miracle he could press the elevator button. “Do you make the repairs?” “No, I need to check on what is going on in the apartment. I visit my buildings every day. I’ll send you to some apartments, so you can see how they decorate. You will keep the apartment nice, won’t you?” Wait a minute. A property owner who dictates decoration and prohibits clutter? Since when is that a requirement in NYC? Had his radar gone off, pegging me as a shopaholic, queen of clutter, and all around slob? How desperate am I? “Here’s a pamphlet I give out, with instructions on how to care for the tiles, fixtures, and floors.” Is he kidding? “How’s your credit?” Here we go. I told him the sad story, the identity theft, sick parents, the works. “But I have recommendations, salary verifications and bank statements.” “Why don’t you earn more money?” How humiliating. I launched into how moving to the city was stressful enough, so I took a less demanding position. “How many places have you been rejected from?” The nerve of this guy. “None. I haven’t liked anything enough to fight for.” “These are very nice letters. Joanne, make a copy of these.” “Why haven’t you saved more money?” I told him about trying to clean up identity theft, dealing with sick parents, root canals, cat with cancer, and living in New York. “I think you’re a shopaholic. I know you had it rough, but that does not help.” Should I be grateful to this man, or just embarrassed? “Why haven’t you cleared up this mess? You’re a lawyer.” I tried to explain it happened a long time ago, there were complications, I retained a lawyer who is working on it, but it takes time. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?” Oh, man. I had better get out of here before he takes a Sharpie from his desk and writes LOSER on my forehead. “What are these numbers? Do you owe all this?” “No, they are debits from my bank statements. I don’t owe anything. All the items on my credit report are from identity theft.” “You are nice. I don’t let people live in my buildings unless they are nice. But I have to order your credit report. I will let you know. Thank you for coming in.” “It was nice meeting you.” Don’t worry, I won’t let the door hit me on the way out, and if it does, I won’t sue you. Thanks for making me feel like such a flaming jerk. I crossed the street. The M72 was waiting, but I needed to walk. I didn’t care if it rained on me. I had my waterproof sneakers, but left my dignity in the old fart’s office. I hadn’t felt this hopeless in a long time. I used to have life by the balls. How did I allow myself to get in this position? I got home, devastated. I had a large Tasti-D-Lite for dinner and cried myself to sleep. Giving up on the apartment search feels like a bad break up, only worse. In my former life, if a man broke my heart I cuddled up with ice cream and my pussycat in my lovely apartment. I should have skipped the Tasti. Now I’d be fat and miserable, living alone in this baboon infested dump. I never missed my former apartment in Philly more. I couldn’t miss my cat more. Nothing is worse than losing your best friend after sixteen years. I’ve cried for him every day since December 3, 2007, the day he passed away. Ok, so there are things worse than losing an apartment. I’ll try to remember that during baboon mating season.