Expectations

“Remember, you must lower your standards. What features are you looking for?” “Prewar, preferably doorman, definitely elevator. Good light, good closets. White kitchen. Must have quiet, Live in super. Clean building, no bugs.” Was she looking at me cockeyed, or was it my imagination? Blackberry in hand, she started for the door. Miraculously, it stopped raining. 1st apartment. Price: $2100. Location: 82nd and Columbus. Post war dump, walk up. 1st floor. Broker rationalization: “It’s on the 1st floor, so you’re not really walking up.” Brown kitchen cabinets. Half a fridge. No closet space. No light. It was a tiny room, yet there was a step down. You could barely see where the step originated. A broken ankle waiting to happen. The bathrooms on Amtrack trains are bigger. Brick walls. No sign of a super. “I’m not a fan of brick walls. Barbie has more space in her dream house. I have boot boxes with more square footage than this, which, by the way, is awful. If I wanted half a refrigerator, I would have saved the one from my college dorm. When I told you my preferences, was I speaking in foreign tongue?” Why did she waste my time showing me this apartment? Next apartment. Price $2150. Location: 80’s, somewhere between Broadway and West End. One bedroom, post war, walk up dump. Same brick walls, same brown kitchen, and a lovely “sleep loft.” No light. Heavy wooden shutters making the dark exposure even darker. No sign of a super. “I’m afraid of heights. That’s not a bedroom. It’s a shelf. I don’t want to climb a ladder to get into bed. What if I sleep walk? I could fall and kill myself. Are you kidding? What’s next. . . OOOh, this one’s got doorknobs. And the toilet is inside the apartment. There’s no on site super, but a plunger is included with the deal. Why did you bring me here?” Next apartment. Price $2100. 1 bedroom. Postwar, walk up dump. Same brown kitchen, same darkness, same tiny bath. It defied the laws of physics; how could a place with 3 big windows remain so dark? Good news: there was actually a bedroom. Bad news: it was so tiny, could it really fit a bed? “You can fit a twin bed there.” With Vaseline? “Don’t tell me; the advantage is that if you roll out of bed, you roll into the wall and can’t possibly fall on the floor.” Final apartment: prewar, elevator, 12th floor of mid rise building. Ornate lobby, but filthy. Newspapers and debris everywhere. Not a doorman, super around somewhere but did not live in building. Called a one bedroom but more like a large studio. Entry hallway so narrow that anyone larger than a size 6 would get stuck between walls. Cute art deco bathroom with floral printed tiles and window. Kitchen area, brown cabinets, window with view of rooftop and garbage dumpster. Would be lovely as just a kitchen, but this was ¾ of apartment. Tiny bedroom, but great view out 1st bedroom window. Other bedroom window: same view of rooftop and dumpster. In corner of bedroom, large pole. One small closet that wouldn’t even house my shoe collection. “I like the view, but it’s too small. The pole would come in handy if I was a stripper or practicing to be a firefighter. And if I ever have friends, I don’t want to have to tell them I’m sorry but you’re too large to enter my apartment.” We parted. I wondered how irritated I would have been if I hadn’t been on vacation, and had any expectations other than this would be a complete waste of time. Why do they bother asking you what you want, and then try to convince you to take something not even close? This experience reminded me the time I ordered Chinese food from Pig Heaven. It was tasty, but none of it remotely resembled anything that I had ordered. I still have no idea what I had for dinner that evening. I could have called and said “Please send a soup and entrée for one; surprise me. I’ll adjust my taste buds and appetite accordingly.” At least the Chinese food had been good. These apartments weren’t even average. Somehow the idea of paying 700 extra dollars a month to live in another dump, albeit in a better part of town, had lost its appeal.