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.