A Wolf By Any Other Name Is Still An Idiot

I called one company and said “I’m a convicted murderer and child molester, and just got out of prison. I have excellent credit, though.” They said “come right in, we have several luxury apartments that can suit your needs.” One of the apartments they showed me had a special playroom for children! I found the following person via a recommendation from a friend; I should have known better. With the stress of trying to get an apartment, I forgot the most important factor-my friend is an idiot. " Applications are always cash -- I will give you a receipt. There is a studio coming up On August 1st that I think I mentioned yesterday. Here is the info for it: 184 West 70th Street. STUDIO, Apartment #8H $2,195 Doorman building, has small gym and laundry in the basement. Great, super great UWS neighborhood. Please try to take a look at this apartment. I will be sending you information as I find it. And, please let me know how you're progressing. Best, Name Withheld For Fear of Lawsuit." “small gym” turned out to be 2 of the first step machines ever invented (busted) and a hamster spinning on its wheel, in the basement. “Laundry” was a giant sink in the basement. Were those giant cockroaches, or laundry concierges? Turns out this person is trying to pocket 150 dollars of my hard earned cash (called an "application fee", non-refundable, of course, even if I didn’t get the apartment). They were trying to get an additional referral fee from a building that I found myself on the internet, and visited 2 weeks before I ever heard of them. There was no application fee if I applied directly with the management company, and negotiable rent. While trying to bilk me, this person didn’t even show up, but sent a dim witted assistant who went upstairs without me, leaving me sitting in the lobby with a nasty doorman. He finally showed me 2 dumps, and didn’t mention that rent was negotiable. The apartments were bastardized with cardboard walls and tiny square footage. My boot boxes are bigger than these apartments. It’s too bad, because from outside the building is beautiful. The assistant looked at me like I was crazy when I said it was stupid to pay 150 dollars, cash only, to possibly be rejected. That I would get a receipt seemed to make him think I’d find it less reprehensible. Thanks, pal. Nothing I’d like better to be reminded, in writing, that I was stupid and/or desperate enough to be ripped off by the likes of you. He urged me to apply, and asked “Do you want me to call the broker?” I said no and got out of there. As I walked away, discouraged, I remembered the events of my prior visit to this building. A tenant cornered me and advised that it was a very young crowd and management didn’t care at all. The one honest doorman said “Things get reported when I’m here, but I’m only here 3 days”. The other doorman has the personality of an undertaker on valium. My subsequent internet research confirmed that management rents out the vacant apartments to tourists, has open scaffolding and code violations, and treats tenants like crap. The broker sent another email today, urging me to apply for the apartment. I told her that I wasn’t in love with it. Here’s the nonsense I got back. . . "Thanks for getting back to me -- here's how I see it -- 1. You can "apply" for that studio and I can do my best to see you are "accepted" or 2. You can apply for the one you really like. I keep on thinking that if you are accepted by one landlord in the same neighborhood, you will have a better chance at getting an apt of your choice -- my opinion. Looking for more apts without knowing if you will be accepted isn't a great strategy. Ok -- let me know what you want me to do. Best, NWFFOL" ***Ironic- why is it that the worst people sign their e-mail “best”?

More Craigslist Madness

$1500 Upper West Side housing wanted. Date: 2009-07-21, 2:14PM EDT Reply to: hous-uzjkh-1281480746@craigslist.org Very small person looking for place in doorman, elevator, prewar chest of drawers with ample closet space and plenty of natural light, a la Kramer, on Upper West Side. Kramer's chest of drawers preferred but will accept similar chest of drawers. Will pay extra for top drawer; I realize this is penthouse location. Breakfast or wake up service not needed, but I will not tolerate gas, snoring or excessive noise from other tenants. I trust that my Rottweiler will not pose a problem. it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests *************************************************************************** (e-mail to undisclosed recipients, a/k/a everyone, received immediately after I posted my ad) Hello! Just incase you need help moving, I run a small Moving and delivery service and can help you move. Best, R **************************************************************************When they conclude with "Best", it's always the worst.    _______________PRINCE WITH A VAN, READY TO GIVE YOU A HAND *************************************************************************** Running a close second: Responses that arrive 30 seconds after the posting appears. Speaking of the devil: Hi, Are you still searching for an apt? this message was remailed to you via: hous-k9nsn-1284682751@craigslist.org. “No, in the 30 seconds since I posted the ad, the apartment fairy magically appeared and presented me with a lease for a prewar, 1 bedroom apartment in a luxury doorman building. I’m moving in 5 minutes.”

First Of Many Craigslist Postings

$2200 little old woman seeking bigger shoe (upper west side). Date: 2009-07-23, 10:51AM EDT. Reply to: hous-k9nsn-1284682751@craigslist.org. I'm a little old woman living in a Converse Chuck Taylor shoe. I have so many children, I don't know what to do. I need a bigger shoe, possibly a Converse Hi-top, Doc Maarten, or large boot. Good closet space and nice view required. Live in Super or shoe repair specialist preferred. Location: upper west side. it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests.

The Reason

The next morning: Walked to East Side gym, walked on treadmill for 30 minutes, called Bergdorf’s, had them put aside T shirt and matching leggings. Walked to Bergdorf’s, Happy birthday to me. Five days until I officially give up the search. It’s back to Bergdorf’s for me. I’ll go to gym more often, try some light cardio. Epilogue. The Monday after my birthday, I was shocked to learn that my company was going out of business. At last; the reason I was unable to find an apartment. I had to collect unemployment. This was clearly not the right time to move. I was easily able to afford my rent stabilized apartment. If I had moved, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the increased rent. The baboon lost his job, too. He got evicted. I started my apartment search again in Fall, 2010. Stay tuned for Adventures in Real Estate, Part Two. . .

Shopping Is The New Cardio

Cardio adjustment: Walk to gym, purchase smoothie. Walk to bus, ride to office. After work, walk to Saks to take annual look at self in 3 way mirror. Horrified, begin light cardio at gym tomorrow. While I’m here, begin pre - birthday shopping cardio. Walk around entire 5th floor, try not to pause. Pause at denim section. Pick up many pairs of jeans, sprint to fitting room. Pulling on distressed jeans. Hudson, J Brand too tight; made many attempts to pull them up, but won’t get past my calves. Seven jeans made it up after many attempts, extra exertion trying to keep foot from going through holes in pants. Try on other random jeans, which look like the ones I already have. All jeans look awful due to horrendous expansion of ass. Try on cute special event fashion night in New York T shirt to benefit 911 victims. Exit fitting room, purchase T shirt and Seven jeans with most holes. Marvel about how I just spent the most money on the least amount of material. Rationale “You’re going to die, you can’t get an apartment, you might as well spend it all.” Not to mention the annual “It’s my birthday week; Happy Birthday to Me”. Go to ladies room, walk down escalator 5 flights, trying not to stop anywhere. Almost out of store, Chanel nail polish called to me. Kept going. Up 5th avenue. Leggings in Bendel’s window. Went in, lap around table with leggings. Lace, leather, zippered denim, black, navy, tights with sequins on front only (stupid); prices much too high for leggings; gasp, exit Bendel’s. Outside Bendels, get accosted by 2 con men/thugs pretending to sell their about to become a hit rap CD, asking for donations. Told them to screw off; how many calories did that burn? Traumatized by thugs, speed walked to Bergdorf’s. Had to go to 5F, just to see. Made revolution around, starting with shoes (gorgeous fringed boots by Joie; when did they start making boots?) Had to check out DVF. Found animal print/camouflaged leggings. Tried them on; made huge ass seem less horrific; Happy birthday to me. Noticed cute white Marc Jacobs Tee Shirt; kept going. Rode escalator down to basement. Chanel nail polishes called to me again. Met company rep who tried to make me over. Instead purchased new fall nail polishes. Happy birthday to me. Rep sent me back to Bendel’s to get last 2 Lilac polishes that Bergdorf's just sold out of. Almost made birthday appointment for makeover, but didn’t. Ran back to Bendels, past thugs, told them again to screw off. Climbed steps to Chanel makeup counter, bought polishes. Happy birthday to me. Walked home, muttering “What the hell have I done?” added up purchases, walked faster, in disbelief. Unpacked purchases. Happy birthday to me. Note to self: stick to treadmill and city. Walking in stores is too dangerous.

Decisions

THINGS I SHOULD DO TO BABOON Play CD recording of crowing rooster at top volume on Bose wave radio, every day at 5:00 a.m. including weekends. Bark loudly like mad dog during wee hours. Super inquires about dog, invite Super in and say “I’ve never had a dog. I told you that man is crazy.” When he cooks road kill, spray Lysol into kitchen fan, which will waft into his kitchen. Thought for today: Sometimes I just sits and thinks; Sometimes I just sits; Sometimes I just sits in sunny spot in office window, like a cat; Sometimes there’s Haiku: Air conditioning. Too much in this little room. Freezing my tail off. August 26, 2009. I haven’t thought about new apartment since my chest began to hurt. Dr. office called, wanting to do a $400 dollar test, not covered by insurance, to see if there is blockage. I have high cholesterol. I haven’t scheduled the test. They want to decide whether to put me on the cholesterol medication, which carries risk of liver or kidney problems. It all boils down to when your number’s up, it’s up. Is my number up? One final peek at Craigslist. Nothing interesting there. Birthday in 2 days, nobody here to celebrate, nothing to celebrate, no apartment. Looming possibility of imminent heart disease or Alzheimer’s. Happy Birthday. First things first: should I get the test? Maybe. I’d rather try to adjust diet and exercise more. Day one diet adjustment: I looked up heart healthy foods on internet. Everything I like, I can’t have. Salads? Hell, no. Microwave meals are not the solution; too much sodium. I can’t cook. If I try to cook, the apartment might catch fire. Does my gas even work? The stove is good for storing my perfumes. Where will I store my perfumes? Maybe try to find a heart healthy restaurant. The only one I saw on internet is vegetarian. The salt content in EJ’s food is probably higher than Atlantic Ocean. No pizza, no Chinese. Can I cheat with steamed dumplings? Cheeseless pizza? Is sautéing the same as fried? This is too depressing. . .

Indecision

Another call from Marty this morning. “Just want to see if you’re still alive.” “The guy across the hall from me moved. He was the only good neighbor. Now I’ll probably have three crap neighbors. I can’t get an apartment.” “You can’t do it now anyway, with the economy so bad.” “I don’t know if I should sign the lease, or go month to month.” “You should sign the lease, but then you have to stay. You already have one judgment on your credit report from the identity theft, you don’t need another one.” “My credit’s already screwed. Maybe it doesn’t matter.” “Have you been going out?” “I go the gym on the Upper West Side. They have a nice restaurant. I sit there and read.” “Who do you sit with?” “I sit alone. Who am I supposed to sit with; Regis?” “I can’t believe you haven’t found anybody. You can’t be trying.” "I'm trying." “Then you must be contagious. What do you have, MRSA and all the STDs combined?” “You get worse every time I talk to you.” I couldn’t tell him about yesterday’s terrifying near death experience. I had chest pains. I had them for a week, but ignored them. Suddenly, they were all I could think about. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent ten hours in the 93 degree heat, on the sundeck of the Upper East Side location of my health club. I go there every so often to remind myself how much I want to live anywhere but on the Upper East Side. I was listening to “The Confederacy of Dummies”; a gaggle of immature, pathetic old men, bragging about themselves and talking about the twenty something women as if they had a chance. Same cast of characters every week. High white wedge woman; wedge sandals so high she needs a stepladder to put them on. At first glance it looks like she painted two bricks white and taped them to her feet. Old, bald, deaf, senile, fat fart; puts his chairs on top of yours, even though there are miles of unoccupied space; sprays lotion that goes on you, not on his cue ball head or medicine ball stomach; coughs, grunts, and stares at you like he's a wild animal. When someone calls him on his rude behavior, he ignores them. Other characters include an assortment of Park Avenue blonde bimbos, proudly showing off their recent breast implants; butt - floss - wearing "happy ending" masseuses; hookers accompanied by Wall Street losers who bring them as guests. Must stop now. Too depressing. Luckily, I got an appointment with the only decent Dr. on my health plan. Normally, there is a 2-month wait for an appointment. They had a cancellation, and I got right in. I prayed I wasn't dying. The Dr. said my problem was muscular, that chest pain upon exertion is when to worry. After many tests, the Dr. said that I was okay. I didn’t bring my sunglasses to the Dr. because I was sure he would put me in the hospital and I didn’t want them stolen. I felt relieved. At least I wasn’t as dead as my neighborhood. If only the baboon would move. . .

In The Toilet

My apartment search is in the toilet. The one percent of my brain containing my common sense says this is for the best. I’m better staying in the low rent dump next to the baboon, because it beats homelessness in a bad economy. However it’s the ninety-nine percent remainder of my brain that’s urging me to continue the search. The last time I looked for an apartment, it was easy. This time it is impossible. There has to be a reason why. Limped to work. Missed M2 bus that failed to stop at bus stop, but stopped 2 blocks later, not at bus stop. Driver: “This isn’t a stop.” Me: “You didn’t stop at the stop, and you’re letting off passengers here.” She slammed the door in my face, and bus sped off. Message on voice mail, which is closest you ever get to speaking to someone at MTA: “I just want to let you know that the M2 driver failed to stop at 50th and 5th Avenue, but stopped and illegally let out passengers 2 blocks later. The nasty driver saw me limping to the correct stop, but sped by. When I tried to board the bus after people got out, she refused, and shut the door in my face. I know you won’t take any disciplinary measures. But I was hoping that maybe you can give this message to the driver: the limping woman you refused to pick up today called to say ‘go screw yourself’.” Went to Starbucks. Nobody there. No line. They still made the wrong drink, and I waited 20 minutes. “Of course I understand how iced café Americano sounds like iced peppermint mocha. How many shots did I order? Are you kidding?”

My Left Foot

I have a hairline fractured left foot. How I got it, I have no idea. On Tuesday evening I got off my bed and my left foot hurt. It was swollen and partially numb. I didn’t recall banging it, or hurting it. Who gets a fracture sitting on their bed, watching a telenovela? I panicked. Had a poisonous insect bitten me? There are countless ways for pests to enter my apartment; I might as well be living in a tent. I went to sleep, hoping it would get better. Sure enough, it got worse. While at work, I plugged my symptoms into Web MD, which convinced me I was dying. I could have cellulitis, or a blood clot. Since the probability of needing money for a new apartment is near zero, I went to my expensive celebrity Upper East Side Dr. who treats Jim Carrey, Oprah, and me (his token loser). “Your foot is black and blue. Didn’t you notice?” “I’m nearsighted. My apartment is dark. I couldn’t see that far.” “You have a hairline fracture.” “How did I get it? I didn’t feel anything. I was sitting on my bed, and when I got up, it started to hurt. How does someone break her foot by watching TV? It wasn’t even an action show.” “Do you exercise?” “Yes, but I don’t recall hurting myself. Am I so insane as to not realize when I injure myself?” “Yes.” “I was afraid it was a blood clot, or I was dying.” “You’re not dying.” “Since I’m not dying, I might as well buy more supplements.” Three hundred dollars later, armed with omega 3, antioxidants, vitamin D, acidophilus, and multivitamins, I limped home in the rain. All those Tasti-D-Lites and skim milk lattes and I still get a f**king fracture. Maybe it’s time to buy the calcium supplements that taste like chocolate or caramel.

Instincts

VIRGO. August 11,2009. Sally Brompton horoscope. “Once again you are paying too much attention to what others are saying and not enough to what your heart is telling you. You don’t need advice or assistance, you just need to listen to and act on your instincts. It shouldn’t be too hard.” But Sally Brompton, it is hard. For the first time, I don’t trust my instincts. I don’t know what my instincts are anymore. I’m beaten and defeated with this apartment search. I don’t know what to do. My instinct says don’t sign on for another year living in crap, next to that babboon. My instinct wants a better apartment that I can call home. My instinct yearns for the peaceful feeling I had when I moved into my fantastic apartment in my old hometown, before my life crumbled into disaster. My instinct is sad that I didn’t get the old fart’s apartment, even though it was too small and I don’t want an old fart interfering in my life, banning valises and pets. My instinct says don’t give up, but my rational depressed brain says you probably won’t have a choice, accept your fate, and save your money until next year. If you’re foolish enough to continue living in this godforsaken city. $1900 Live like a STAR w/o PAYING! Luxury Doorman Studio+Gym&More!*NO FEE! (Upper West Side) (map) Great idea, until they evict you. Any more bright ideas? Craigslist, I’m over you.You’re no longer funny. You are pathetic. As am I.

90something Degree Rant

It’s easy to understand why so many angry comics come from New York. Fifth Avenue was a parking lot, and after waiting 20 minutes for a bus, I walked 22 blocks. I finally caught up with a bus; eight blocks from my office, only to find my Metrocard expired a day early, due to the fare increase. To celebrate this increase, the MTA decided to cut several bus routes and not tell anybody. Like the chorus in a Greek tragedy, other frustrated passengers chimed in, “They think no one will notice.” Why would anyone notice standing at a crowded bus stop for 45 minutes in 90-degree heat, that their regular bus was nowhere in sight? I wandered into Starbucks, where the wait was longer than at the DMV. I stood in line like a fool, wondering why the tour bus folks always use the Starbucks bathroom. They never buy anything. Is this part of the tour? Get out at Starbucks, use restroom, and return to bus. The barista smiled and repeated a new mantra: “If it’s not perfect, I’ll be happy to make it again.” “This isn’t what I ordered. I wanted a venti non-fat ice decaf with sugar free hazelnut. This is too small. Not to mention I could have renewed my drivers license in less time than it took to get this wrong beverage.” The smile turned into a scowl. “The ticket says grande.” “Well, I didn’t say grande.” The barista growled, turned around, poured more coffee and added ice. Which gave me time to wonder why the smallest thimble sized beverages are called “tall”. “Why the attitude? It’s not like you had to go to Columbia, ride on the back of a donkey with Juan Valdez, and pick coffee beans in stifling substandard conditions. You changed a cup and added ice. At least tell people the truth-it it’s not perfect, I’ll make it again, but I’ll glare at you and you’ll be lucky if I don’t spit in it.” She looked like she wanted to shoot me. Has anyone ever noticed that if you take the i out of “barista”, replace it with a d, and scramble the letters, it spells “bastard”? Put that on your recycled cups.

Facing The Truth

My inner optimist thanked him for caring. My inner pessimist got angry. How dare he give me false hope, talking about how nice he would make the apartment, when I had so little chance of getting it? Obviously, he was waiting to see if anyone better took the apartment over the weekend. My inner dreamer tried to figure out how to make the finances work, panicked over clutter, and considered using eBay or having a moving out sale like in Confessions of a Shopaholic. My inner fool felt sad about leaving the current apartment; giving up rent stabilization, temporarily forgetting about the baboon and Borat, the pests, the noise, the splinters from the floors, the insensitive super, the pampered alimony witches, and being surrounded by Golf - Umbrella - Toting - Type -A - Upper - East - Side - Jerks. My inner realist said you don’t have a prayer ; give up; this is not the right time, or the best situation for you. Over the weekend, I remained confused as ever. Was I more afraid of not finding an apartment, or finding one? My musings repeated themselves, as if I had selected “repeat” for the CD player in my head. In the rare event that he offers me this apartment, am I meant to take it? Is this the only apartment I may ever get? Is this my destiny? If he doesn’t offer the apartment, it wasn’t meant to be. Odds are good to excellent I’ll give up, accept my fate, and stop looking. I’ll be disappointed, but will I be more relieved than disappointed? Will I be devastated? Will he even call at all? This was like deciding whether to take a case to trial. Without an offer, there’s nothing to decide; you try the case and fate steps in. With an offer, you have a choice to make. I sat on pins and needles, waiting for an offer. Monday afternoon arrived, and the CD in my brain continued to ramble. I’m in limbo. No phone call yet. If he doesn’t call, he’s someone who doesn’t keep his word and I’m better off. If he calls and says no, I will be devastated. How many more times can I put myself through this agony? I must give up. I’ll be deaf, cluttered, and unhappy, but there's always next year. I feel trapped already. Must stop obsessing. Maybe check out Craigslist one more time. Search: done. Result: nothing. Note to self: If the good Lord, your real estate agent (and the only one you can trust), has not found you an apartment by August 31, it isn’t the right time to move. Accept your fate as a blessing, which it most likely is.Try to make it through the year without going insane. Get rid of your excess crap and save some money. 2:35 p.m. no phone call. Office mate asking, “Shall we make it like the medical shows? What time shall we call it?” Time of death of apartment search, dashing of all hope to live like human being in lovely apartment on Upper West Side, return to imminent loser status? Assistant saying giving up sounds so sad. Yes, it is. I should have known. If he were nice, he would have at least given me a courtesy call, saying thanks but no thanks. To keep someone hanging, hope seeping away every second that goes by. . . It’s cruel. Of course, they’re cruel. They’re in real estate. Whoever said real estate is happy, was nuts! This is worse than waiting for a man to call. None of them are worth it. Note to self: this apartment is not worth it. Try to relax, be positive, and enjoy rest of day. When shall I call it, totally? End of month, or when I get call from current management company? Man, oh, man. I hate giving up. I was so close to being Weasy Jefferson. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. It.Wasn’t.Meant.To.Be.Period. Loserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloser You big loser. Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world. It’s rude to not call when you say you will. It’s the way of the world. It’s NYC. Bright side: the good Lord wants you to have a pet, maybe. Or at least that option. And a bedroom. And enough closet space. And to have savings. Bad side: baboon. Etc. UGH. Maybe leave NYC? What a jerk. He could have called. Rip my heart out; why don't you? For a brief moment, I thought Dad was speaking to me through this man. Dad would have said all of those things. Was this a sign? Dad wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, then left me hanging. Unless he needed to teach me a lesson that would make me see the big picture. A new record has been set. The oldest man in the world promised to call me and broke his promise. And it hurt the most. Maybe that’s why I went through the torture of liking and not getting the apartment. As a wake up call. But this is not making me feel any better. 201 W. 77th apt 14G time of death: 4:14 p.m. I give up. On this apartment. On the project, I’m not sure. Can you feel my devastation jumping off the page? Too sad to write. Tomorrow is another day. The bright side? At least I didn’t spend 50 bucks to be rejected. Or three hundred.

Haunted By Mom

After I wrote the below paragraph, the man called. He questioned something on my bank statement; another debit card purchase that he thought was a debt. I clarified the issue for the second time, shocked to have heard from him at all. He said I needed a financial adviser and could not believe I had so little money saved. “You are not in control of your finances. You don’t need all the items you have; they don’t make you happy. Get rid of the clutter. You probably have 200 pairs of shoes that you don’t wear. You need to pay rent, Con-Ed, and cable. For a treat, you can eat out or go to the movies.” Wait a minute. Am I really hearing this? “You must dress better. You need to get your hair done. You have to respect yourself. When I say good morning to my tenants on their way to work, they are impeccably attired.” I’d have to look presentable when I saw him before going to work, to say “good morning”? What am I, in boarding school? This, coming from a cross between Montgomery Burns and Ebenezer Scrooge? How could I make him understand that I go to work in jeans, leggings, and Uggs? I talk on the phone all day. Nobody sees me. “The women in the building always look great, even when they are going to the gym.” I envisioned him wearing a Lucy van Pelt (Peanuts)/Ladybird Johnson fright wig. He morphed into my mother. I had almost forgotten how awful it felt when she used to comment how much prettier and more fashionably dressed the other women were. When I brought home a cute guy she’d say “You’ll never hold on to him. He only dates showgirls.” Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming back to haunt me. What took you so long? I guess the Alzheimer’s disappears when you get to Heaven. I finally understand why people used to say that I grew up normal in spite of my mother. “I’m not your father, but I’m talking to you like this because you are nice.” He’s not my father, but if Dad was around he would have said the same thing about my finances. He would have left the fashion insults to Mom. Were my parents sending me a message from Heaven? Wasn’t it bad enough that last night, I cried myself to sleep with shame? Was he trying to help, or just making me feel even worse about the situation and myself? “You should look at the other apartments; how beautiful they are. Except for the girl who keeps valises under her bed.” I heard you the first time. Enough with the valises, already. No clutter. I get it. You’ll enter my apartment whenever you want. Which would not be a problem, but valises under my bed would be the best scenario. “Will you really keep the apartment nice?” For the umpteenth time, I assured him I would. Why did he keep asking me? Was he senile? What kind of question was that, to ask, even once? Why wouldn’t I want to keep a beautiful apartment nice? Why didn’t he trust me? Did he trust anyone? A warning went off in my brain as I recalled a quote from his first tenant, Ben Franklin: “The people who don’t trust the most are the people you should trust the least.” “Can you pay 2 months security deposit?” “Yes”. If I were a normal apartment seeker with a less tragic situation, would I even consider renting a place from someone who cares what I keep under my bed? The no pets issue is also a problem. I loved the apartment. If I were a normal, animal hating, clutter free person with savings, invisible suitcases, and hardly any clothes, this would be perfect. Except for the sober doorman who said the owner is cheap. Except for the drunk part time doorman. Except for the unattended packages. Except for no pets. Except for fear of being broke, and the $2000 curse. (Once my rent goes over $2000, something bad happens. I'm destined. . .) Except for the location across from a schoolyard that looks more like a section 8 slum. Except for the substandard elevators and multiple outstanding building code violations. California closets will not help if I’m falling 14 flights down an elevator shaft. Except for the owner jacking up the price of the apartment to $2100 dollars a month, the day after I saw it advertised for $2000 on Craigslist. What would happen if this guy entered my apartment, saw something he perceived as clutter, and tried to evict me? This is New York. He is proud of having lawyers in the building. Will he tell the subsequent applicant that he rejected the prior applicant because she was a broke loser who had too many belongings? Has this search driven me so insane as to believe I should rent from a person who inspects my apartment and tells me how to spend my money? “I’ll call you Monday.” “Thank you, Mr. Burns.” “Excuse me?” “Thank you, Sir.”

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.

The (West) End Is Near

I can’t even get a shoebox on the upper west side. I’m writing about it to keep from going insane. I’m Gilligan; I’m never going to get off my upper east side baboon- infested island. Today I ordered a pair of distressed jeans, to match my state of mind. No way am I going to get an apartment. Who am I kidding? Question of the day: how many times, in one summer can the Manhattan real estate community make me feel like the biggest loser on the planet before my head explodes? Yesterday morning, in spite of 100 % humidity, temperature in the 90’s, and high probability of thunderstorms, I arranged to view two more apartments. If I could barely breathe, I felt too stressed to notice. During a moment of premenstrual foolhardy masochism, I made an appointment to see the apartment I’d probably love but had no chance of getting. I spoke to a space cadet masquerading as a broker and agreed to meet her at 201 w. 77th street, tomorrow at 5:30. Then I left a message for the owner of a building on W.88th Street, asking to see his apartment. Twice, I almost went home. After I picked up my newly altered denim leggings (that I never should have bought in the first place) at Lululemon, I walked up 3rd avenue. If the M66 was at the bus stop exactly when I got there, it would be a sign that I should ride to the Upper West Side, grab a smoothie at the gym, and wait for the owner of the 88th street apartment to call. I was almost home when the bus appeared at 67th and York. I boarded the bus when my cell phone rang. It was the genius broker confirming our appointment for tomorrow, making sure she had my correct phone number. I got off the bus at 67th and Columbus, purchased yet another paperback from Barnes and Noble, which I read for an hour while drinking my smoothie at the gym. I spent more time at the gym sitting on the sun deck, drinking smoothies, than exercising. I broke tradition and actually used the weight machines, hoping to get the call about the apartment. While I was in the locker room, a story came on CNN about a crazy man shooting people at a gym. “What a great day to start exercising. Yet another reason not to do Pilates. Where was this?” “Pennsylvania. The man didn’t have a date in years, women rejected him.” “I got out of Pennsylvania just in time. Nice to learn there was one crazy man in that state who didn’t find me.” The call never came. I left the gym, intending to check out the West Side Lululemon and go home. I almost bought another jacket when the phone rang. The owner said to come over, the apartment was at 88th and West End. “Shoot.” The ad specified “park block”. I assumed it was Central. Riverside Park is nice in summer and for finding crime scenes from Law and Order episodes, but I didn’t want to be that far west. Might this be the apartment of my dreams? Did this mistake happen for a reason? What the heck; I was already almost in the neighborhood. “Excuse me?” “I’ll be right there.” Violent thunderstorms were on the horizon. I was wearing my not-yet-ruined-by-rain sneakers. The 90-degree heat and humidity coupled with my desire to save my sneakers convinced me a taxi was in order. Leave it to me to find the only barely air-conditioned taxi in the city, with a driver that had no grasp of English. Ten dollars and a hair raising 10 minutes later, I arrived at my destination. “Shhhn hmp rrrkucc. . .” he tried to use sign language. Was he trying to tell me to turn off the barely there air-conditioning? “I’ll do it when you learn English; thanks for almost suffocating me”. Nice street, beautiful building. The owner came out to greet me. Lucky man, he inherited 3 adjoining landmark buildings from his parents. 4 agonizing flights of stairs. Northern exposure; perfect for vampires and those allergic to sunlight, with balcony. Will I ever see sunlight again? Who needs a balcony? A flimsy, cheap looking, plastic stair contraption provided access to the balcony. Hey, brokers. Spin this: “You don’t want to break your leg climbing to a sleep loft? Break it climbing on and off your balcony, using this cheap looking plastic step thing. It adds a tacky, post war, k mart touch to this otherwise charming prewar apartment.” “You can go outside for light”, said the owner. Great. After I break my ankle, I’ll have light while waiting for someone to hear my cries for help. Oh wait. That will probably be the next-door neighbor whose balcony is next to mine. There is something worse than a baboon-a baboon with a balcony next to mine. The kitchen was airy, with a lot of cabinet and counter space. However, it was brown and dark. The bathroom was big and pretty, with original tiles. There was a walk in closet. The apartment was better than many I’d seen, but it didn’t feel like home. A young couple entered who loved the apartment. Better them than me; their bones are less brittle. I thanked the owner, took an application, and left. The skies cleared, and I congratulated myself for giving the taxi driver 10 dollars toward his English lessons, when I could have walked. On Amsterdam Avenue, I realized I was in the neighborhood of the building I was supposed to see tomorrow. I decided to check it out. On the way, I stopped into the Super Runners Store and inquired if there was such a thing as waterproof sneakers. They had a pair, made of Gore-tex. I hadn’t found an apartment, but at least I’d never have to ruin another pair of sneakers. I hoped I had enough orange shirts to cover a weeks worth of predicted rain. Every time I failed to get an apartment, my inner shopaholic drove me to buy something I was able to get, which took me further from my goal of saving money to get an apartment. It was a vicious cycle. I understood the psychology behind my actions, but continued nonetheless.

A Bit of Karmic Kindness From the Fates

But the karmic forces took care of me on Thursday evening. I hadn’t found an apartment, my spirit had been crushed, and I had wasted time with my first NYC jerk. On Thursday evening, I got off the bus and (literally) bumped into Ed Westwick from Gossip Girl. They were filming at Sotheby’s and his trailer was on 72nd Street, next to the bus stop. I felt happy for the first time in months. “I can die now. I’ve seen Mr. Big from Sex and the City and now I’ve almost knocked over Ed Westwick.” If the fates were kind enough to arrange this, there had to be a good reason why I hadn’t found an apartment. If only I knew what that reason was.

A Lovely Evening For A Walk

The next day I sat on the sun deck, and he approached. “I left you a voicemail and a text.” (I sure can pick ‘em) “My phone’s off.” “I texted you to ask if the deck was crowded.” “Well, now you know.” Thank you, Reebok club, for being too cheap to provide enough posh chairs for all your cranky, Type - A members, and rollerblading, sun worshipping, two timing fools. “Do you want to go for another walk Thursday evening?” (insert laugh track here, and Gordon Ramsay saying, “You donkey, are you mad?!”) “I plan to schedule a root canal.” Which would be far more enjoyable. “I’ll call you.” I heard it, and I still don’t believe it. When I got home, I listened to the voice mail “Since you’re walking through the park, I thought you’d like to stop by the bandshell and watch me rollerblade.” What am I, thirteen? On Thursday he sent an email, saying he was going to see Harry Potter and wondering if I’d changed my mind about the walk. I didn’t reply. It turned out to be a lovely evening for a walk; continuous, violent thunderstorms.

A Chance Encounter

Flash forward: I’d rather get the great apartment, then a cat. I really don't need a man right now. I can’t tell them that. To pacify Marty, I promised to try to find a man. Why not? I tried every other way to find an apartment. Maybe I would meet a man who knew about an apartment. I wouldn’t sleep with him. I’d hang around only long enough to find out if he could help me. Chasing a man was never my style, but I could smile and try not to alienate anyone. This was the best I could hope to achieve. Marty called, asking what I’d done lately. “I went to the sun deck at the Reebok club. I asked the man next to me if the chair was taken. He said no. His voice sounded very familiar. I glanced over and realized it was Regis.” “Well, unless you slept with him, I don’t care. Have you met anyone?”

Why e harmony Didn't Work

virgo: cheryl, Sticking to a challenging project results in a great accomplishment. You now have the know-how and confidence to take on and master something new. The ability to follow and fulfill your dreams now feels like a reality. My friend Marty has a different view on how to resolve my dilemma. “Don’t bother with an apartment; find a man with an apartment! Go to Starbucks, sit there and draw. Get your boobs done. Get laid. There has to be a blind, hearing-impaired man somewhere in that city. Do it now, you’re not getting any younger. I don’t understand it. You’re not that ugly.” “But once you sleep with them, they no longer want you.” I protested. Not to mention, all the men I meet look like Larry David. My friend Susan concurs. She suggested e harmony. She also suggested the website that led me to the home of the Adolph Hitler postage stamp collection; I had a feeling this would not end well. To: Susan74@hotmail; From: Me. Why e harmony didn't work: I was watching the movie "Words and Music" with Hugh Grant when it occurred to me that I wanted a Hugh Grant. Or a Cary Grant. e harmony kept sending me General Grants.  Alter cockers who didn't live anywhere near NYC. The youngest one went to school with Lincoln. I can volunteer at the assisted living facility to meet younger men; at least they live in the city. Somehow, the idea of meeting a geezer from Purgatory New Jersey, drooling and adjusting his dentures at the dinner table, taking a two-week holiday between courses, carrying Viagra and a coffin, does not motivate me to spend money to join this organization. As if! Susan called. “Why don’t you try J date again?” “The last time I tried to sign up, it kept disconnecting me. It was a sign. Maybe they don’t accept freeform Jews who eat ham and cheese on matzo during Passover.” “That’s ridiculous.” “I have no luck with these websites. Remember the time you signed me up at Nerve.com (Should have been called perv.com) and promised if I went on one date you’d never make me do it again? The guy was 3 feet tall, had Pinocchio’s nose, was carrying an overnight case and told me the last woman he met from the website asked him to pee on her, and he did, with pleasure. Good thing I met him at the train station; I left him there. Not to mention Hitler postage man.” “You have to do something. I worry about you being alone.

The One That Got Away

FOUR MONTHS LATER June, 2009. Lease expiration date: 8/31/09. Time to start looking: now. I resumed the search by posting an ad on Craigs List. It worked the last time. Maybe lightening would strike twice. $2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted-Upper West Side (Upper West Side)  Date: 1969-12-31, 7:33PM EST Reply to: hous-rcbpv-1303284339@craigslist.org Single female looking for Quiet studio or 1 bedroom, Upper West side; good closets, good light; Doorman or at least elevator; on site super; prewar preferred. good management company. Brokers are not welcome. I will NOT pay a fee. I looked at the date on my ad. 1969? Had I traveled back in time? Did they even have Craig’s List in 1969? I wondered if that would remain. The expiration date on postings is one week. Forty years and one week has to be pushing it. Was this a sign of things to come? Are the forces telling me the only way to get an apartment is to travel back in time? The first response seemed to good to be true. It was a one-bedroom apartment in the Astor, the first prewar building I fell in love with. Centrally located at 75th and Broadway. Near Zabars, H&H Bagels, around the corner from Barneys and a cat veterinarian. Working fireplaces in all units. Washer dryer on all floors. Grand lobby, original fixtures. I’d seen a tiny studio in February, with a northern exposure, no closet (under construction) and miniscule yet well appointed white kitchen and bath. It reminded me of my old apartment in Philly. Had circumstances permitted, I would have moved there in a heartbeat. Now, first shot out of the box, I hear from an Astor tenant who needed to sublet. I tried not to get my hopes up but counted the seconds until the viewing, 10:30 on Saturday morning. We pushed it to 10:45, because she had yoga, or cycling, or something. I arrived at 10:30. I wanted to get a feel for the building and stay as long as possible. A not too friendly doorman greeted me. “Who are you hear to see?” “Someone named Jodi. I’m here to see her apartment.” “Which apartment number?” “She didn’t say. I’m meeting her here.” He stared blankly at me. “What do you think; I’m trying to rob the place?” I tried to make small talk, but it was like trying to get those guards at the palace in London to crack a smile. “Where’d you go to charm school?” Jodi arrived just in time, accompanied by a large, red faced, sweaty woman wearing very small tights. “Cheryl? Hi, I’m Jodi. This is Elsie; she’s in my class and wanted to see the apartment.” "Great." Already I’m competing for this apartment. Wasn’t Elsie the cow in the Borden dairy commercials? “It’s kind of small.” said Elsie. You wouldn’t have a problem squeezing into it. Hell, you made it into those tights. You can't possibly own a mirror. If you’d seen how your butt looks in those pants, you would have never left your house. It was a cute, sunny apartment with a working fireplace and big windows overlooking a courtyard and a view of other apartments. At least the apartments were far enough away so as not to see into them. A white ladder like stairway (or a stairway like ladder) led to a spacious loft, which was more like a walk in closet. It even had a large shelf. “Go ahead, climb up.” Jodie climbed up. “See, you can stand in it. You can use it for either a bedroom, or storage.” I climbed the first two steps, but was afraid to continue. If only I wasn’t afraid of heights. And clumsy. No way would this be a bedroom, but it would be a great closet, even if I had to tip someone to climb up and get whatever item of clothing I was storing there. A faux antique lamp stood in the corner. The kitchen was white, across from a window, and very narrow. It had no microwave. If Elsie took this apartment, she better keep doing the cardio, or she’ll get stuck between the fridge and the stove. While Elsie clomped around the loft, Jodie said they had rented the apartment for their nanny, but it didn’t work out, and she wasn’t comfortable saying more. This raised a red flag, but I loved the apartment. We hit it off immediately. We were wearing the same shirt and the same color nail polish. “Kismet," she said. “What’s the rent?” “$2,000. We’re paying $2,250 but we want to sublet it fast, so we’re offering a discount.” Red flag number two. “We’ll have to check your credit; it’s fine, isn’t it?” I was too embarrassed to say otherwise, especially while the blimp in tights hovered above us. “We’ll need first, last, and security.” Jodie was nice, but my radar sensed a tough businesswoman underneath. “Would I pay the building?” “No, you pay me. I live around the corner. You can drop it off, or I’ll pick it up.” “Couldn’t I pay the building?” “No. Technically they don’t allow sublets, but Charles the rental agent said he would look the other way, since we just took the apartment. We’d have a sublease, and your name will be added as an occupant of the apartment. Next year, you can apply with management and keep the apartment.” Warning bells went off in my head. My rational self knew this wasn’t a good idea. But the other 99 percent of my brain tried to figure out how to make this work. Pros: The apartment is great, the building is great, the location is great. Cons: You will have to pay on the 1st of month, or she will torture you and throw you out. If management doesn’t get your checks, you won’t be able to argue at end of sublease that you’ve paid timely for a year. They could easily kick you out. The rent will go back up to $2,500 by next year. She won’t rent to you anyway once she sees your credit with the identity theft issues, so why are you still thinking about this? I discussed this with my lawyer co workers. “What if she decides she wants the apartment back when she gets another nanny? You have no legal right to the apartment. Even if she doesn’t kick you out, management can, at any time. This is a terrible idea. Forget it.” Later in the week Jodi emailed me that they would let me have the apartment for 1st month, and security, to be paid when I moved in. I was tempted, but my colleagues would not allow it. A couple weeks later, in a moment of weakness, I asked if it was still available. Alas, someone else was illegally subletting my apartment. I’ll always think of the apartment at the Astor with sadness, as the one that got away. Even if it was for the best.

Bye, Bye, Buddhists

One would think I’d never hear from Amy again. A few weeks later “Hello, it’s your broker. I guess you weren’t interested in the apartments. I’m calling to tell you about the next Buddhist meeting. . .” Bye, bye, Buddhists. I reviewed my finances. Moving would be massively expensive, even without the broker fee. I’d have to fight my management company, who would never let me break the lease. I’d end up in court with people who I might need a recommendation from. Who was I kidding? Reality reared its ugly head. There was only one solution. Bye, bye, apartment search. I give up. See ya’ in June. I’ll stick it out until the end of the lease, and try again. Clearly, this wasn’t the right time to move.

Climbing the Alps

The following Saturday; 80something and West End Avenue. Arrived in front of slumlike entrance exactly at 9:00. No sign of Amy. Not at all surprised. Sat on bench on Riverside drive, watched traffic and river. Walked back, passed many Hasidic Jews. There must be a synagogue nearby. Returned to slumlike entrance at 9:15; received voicemail that she would be a bit late. She finally arrived at 9:30, complaining because the keys were labeled incorrectly and we could not get into the apartment. “It’s not a big deal. By the way, is this another walk up?” “Yes.” “What part of I don’t really want a walk up did you not understand? Aren’t we going back to the co-op? We returned to the co-op. Miraculously, through the wall of windows, the place had some light. What about the other unit in the co-op, the one with light?” “That was rented. But I have one more walk up to show you, if you’re interested.” Darn. I had gotten my hopes up about the co-op, but it was Saturday morning and I had nothing better to do. We approached 84th and Columbus. It was a beautiful block, and the house was pre war beautiful. Unfortunately, the apartment was on the 5th floor with very steep steps. “Can I get some oxygen here? This is like climbing the Alps.” I don’t remember much about the apartment, except it was too small, had a brown kitchen, no closet space, no light, and a broken bathroom window. On the way down, she showed me a second floor apartment, a beautiful 2 bedroom, with white kitchen, plenty of closet space, and a private deck. “That’s way out of my price range. Why’d you show it to me?” “I don’t know. Are you interested in the other apartment? I’m showing you this building because she is a very caring landlord. She lives in the building and will work with your identify theft issues. I don’t understand why the guy who moved in here moved right out and is suing us. I think he bought a house.” “What’s the lawsuit about?” “I can’t talk about it.” Or you won’t. “I really liked the co-op. I wish I could have it for longer than two years.” “I’ll contact the owner and call you when I find out.” “By the way, how much is the deposit?” “I think I can get these owners to agree to three months rent plus first month and security.” “That’s five months? What happens to the three months, does it go toward the end of the term?” “No, it stays in Citihabitat’s escrow account for a year.” Unless they remodel their office again, while the bank statements take flight across Columbus Avenue. “These are no fee apartments, correct?” “No. Whatever gave you that idea?” Common sense? Misplaced confidence? Belief that you would do the sane thing and find me a no fee apartment, when there are many available? “How much is the fee?” “Fifteen percent of a year’s rent, plus three hundred cash application fee.” “Why cash?” “We’ll give you a receipt.” “You didn’t answer my question. Speak to the co-op owner. Find out how long I could rent the apartment. Meanwhile, I’ll think about it.” During the week, I did research. There were no guarantees. I might be forced out of this co-op after two years. It would be interesting to find out what she’d tell me. My dwindling faith in her credibility would boil down to her response. “This is your broker. I talked to the owner. He won’t make you move after two years. You won’t have to move in two years. There is no such law in New York.” This, coupled with the ridiculously high fees and questionable cash application procedure, led to only one decision. Bye, bye, broker.