If It Seems Too Good To Be True, It Probably Is

Tuesday evening, 6:30. Beautiful prewar doorman building, 74th and Amsterdam. I loved the prewar, Art Deco doorman building with the Spanish fresco in the lobby. There was no view, except for other tenants’ windows, meaning the apartment was probably dark. I loved the giant wooden door to the apartment. I loved the white crown moldings next to the pale yellow paint. I loved the black and white kitchen floor, tiny as it was. There was no counter space in the kitchen area, but there was a black breakfast bar with black cushioned stools. I tried to ignore the bucket, which was catching a leak from somewhere. The bedroom was a nice size, and the walk in closet was out of a fairy tale. It was painted sky blue, with rainbows, flowers, birds, and cumulus clouds. A tiny crystal ball anchored the light pull. To enter the en-suite bathroom, you had to step up, an accident waiting to happen. I couldn’t trust myself to remember to step up, or down. “Who designed this bathroom, an orthopedic surgeon? I’ll never be able to have a cocktail or take cold medication. My health insurance isn’t good enough for this.” The spacious bathroom had a big window and sconce lighting, although the wiring looked ancient and the medicine cabinet was falling off the wall. “How much is the rent?” I asked. “$1,850.” “Why so little?” “It’s a co-op.” My lawyer friends warned me that if a building was a co-op, New York law would force me to move in 2 years. “What about the NY provision that states a co-op can only be rented for 2 years?” She looked stunned. She never heard of it. “I’ll ask the owner.” Like that matters. The owner will say anything to get the apartment rented. “I like it, but I wish there was a better view. Is there any light during the day?” Despite the flaws, for the first time, I was excited about an apartment. Had this been my first apartment, I would have taken it. Now that I had furniture and possessions, moving was a huge, expensive pain in the butt. I wanted to love my next apartment, and stay there for many years. I was cautiously optimistic. “There’s another unit in the building. I can’t get in there tonight, but on Saturday we can look at it, and see if the view is better. Also, we can return to this apartment to see if there is light.” “I’ll think about it. “

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.

The Search Continues. . .

virgo/ cheryl, A chance to shift gears and embark on a journey is upon you. Your current responsibilities should not deter you from embracing this opportunity. This excursion will expand your experience and, if possible, should not be turned down. “Hi, it’s your broker. Sorry I missed the meeting. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m glad you went. An apartment is available in the building next to me, it’s not yet on the market. I thought of you. . .” My vacation ended, but not my desire to find an apartment. I called her back and arranged to meet her at 8:45 on Saturday morning, in front of the building. I woke up early on Saturday, and ran 5 blocks to catch the crosstown bus. I didn’t want to keep her waiting. 8:45 came and went, with no sign of her. I decided to call her. It would have been nice if I’d remembered to turn on my cell phone yesterday. “Sorry I can’t meet you in the morning, I couldn’t get the key. Please call me.” Oh,crap. I called her, and we agreed to meet at 9:30. I killed the 45 minutes in Zabars. I managed to find the most expensive chai tea ever made. For $12.50 this tea should fly me around the city on a magic carpet. We finally entered the apartment after walking through another trash filled entryway. There was a small brown kitchen to the left, as soon as we got through the door. No dishwasher or microwave, even less counter space than my doll sized kitchen. Directly across from the kitchen was a powder room consisting of a sink, small mirror, and toilet with plunger. Nothing like having the opportunity to spray fecal matter from the powder room into the kitchen. Eww. As if. The living area was small with a tiny closet, but had good light. It had a real staircase, with industrial type carpet so hideous that even Helen Keller would find it offensive. Upstairs, beautiful white French doors led to a small bedroom. A tiny balcony outside the bedroom attached to the adjoining balcony provided uncomfortable proximity to neighbors. A four by four indentation in the in the wall masqueraded as a closet. The bathroom was large and well appointed, but windowless, dark and gloomy. “I’m a klutz, I don’t like to climb steps.” “You won’t have to go to the gym. You have a built in Stairmaster.” “I love the French doors and location but I need more closet space. If I rid myself of all possessions or join a nudist camp, I’ll reconsider.”

Is Chanting the Answer? What was the Question?

Nothing else has worked. I don’t need three bedrooms; one bedroom will suffice. Maybe if I chanted for one hour a day. Is it ok for a Jewish person to chant for an apartment? Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyoh who the hell am I kidding?

A Colorful Experience

“Oh, sorry. I’m lost. I just got so caught up in the meeting, I got confused.” “No problem; it’s the other way. Can you manage?” “I’m fine.” I walked back, but spotted a set of open double doors leading to a room large enough to land a plane in. Each wall was a different color. The outburst of Barnum and Bailey crayon red, sky blue, green, and yellow dwarfed the beauty of the crown moldings. A six foot tall clown sculpture stood in the corner, between another fire place and set of tall French windows. The centerpiece of the room was a round table with a red and white checked tablecloth that looked like it came from a pizza parlor. A plastic pig wearing a chef’s hat sat atop the table. Bizarre sculptures made from plastic toys and dolls were scattered throughout the room. A black and white diner clock was sandwiched between two large clown paintings. When Amy said the apartment was like a circus, I thought she was kidding. I wondered if they ever tried to shoot anyone out of a cannon, or hung trapezes from the chandelier. “Who decorated this room, Ronald McDonald? Paintings by Grimace? Is this the Mayor McCheese dining salon?” I mumbled to myself. “Excuse me?” Oh,crap. “Whose artwork is this? It’s spectacular.” “It’s mine.” “Evelyn, you have a gift. I’ve never seen anything like it.” What a waste of a beautiful room. “Your apartment is gorgeous. You’ve done so much with it.” Too much. “Brandy and I chanted for 3 hours a day, for 3 months, to get it. We needed a place to hold the meetings. We got in under a special artists deal. This is a three bedroom. The rent is only three hundred dollars a month.” WHAT?! The others filtered into the room and started saying their goodbyes. I didn’t get to see the kitchen or bedrooms. Darn, darn, darn. “We’re having another meeting Thursday evening, 6:30. Can you make it?”asked Evelyn. “I’d love to.” I had to see the other rooms. I said goodbye to my new Buddhist friends, rode down the elevator with my new elevator attendant friend, took one last, longing look at the tragically unoccupied courtyard, sighed, and exited the building of my dreams. Did they really chant for three hours a day for three months? I believe they did. These people were deeply committed. Or just nuts.

Post Meeting Roundup

I rang the gong and chanted again with Brandy. The meeting ended, and everyone gathered to plan Buddhist get-togethers and future meetings. “Will you join our Lincoln Center chapter? It’s great having someone so enthusiastic about Buddhism.” “Absolutely. I’m over the moon. I look forward to seeing you all again.” What a great way to see more apartments. No need to tell them I’d only attend meetings that were held in landmark prewar buildings. That would be mere coincidence. I listened politely and attempted to join in the conversation, but I was distracted, obsessed with seeing the rest of the apartment. “Excuse me, Brandy, may I use your bathroom?” “Oh, this isn’t my apartment. It’s Evelyn’s. It’s the second door to the right.” Evelyn was a divorced musician, once married to someone famous, who she refused to identify. She looked the part, with funky dark glasses, long hair, and relaxed clothing reminiscent of the seventies. Did she get this apartment as part of a property settlement? I was dying to find out, but didn’t want to appear pushy. I settled for a quick tour of the bathroom and additional snooping. The bathroom was white, with a large French window that looked out on the sun-drenched courtyard. A marble bathtub and sink with antique art deco fixtures stood proudly on a gleaming floor featuring giant black and white tiles. A bud vase containing a pink rose hung on the corner wall that separated the toilet from the bathtub. White wicker shelves held various perfumes and cosmetics. Missoni towels and washcloths hung from a heated towel bar. A small pink, sea green, and white framed floral painting hung opposite the ornately carved mirrored medicine cabinet. “I could live in this bathroom.” I thought. I looked out the window and sighed. I should have returned to the meeting room, but temptation took over. I tiptoed down the hall to a closed door. “This has to be the bedroom. . .must see bedroom!” I put my hand on the doorknob. “What are you doing?” asked Evelyn. Oh, crap.

The Meeting - Part Two

I returned to the sofa, zipper halfway down, button popped, but otherwise my pants remained unscathed. Mary leaned over and showed me the book, which was entirely in Chinese? Japanese? Buddhist? Is that a language? I still have no idea. Everyone introduced themselves and a discussion followed. Interesting points of discussion: Brandy’s dad was a Protestant minister. April, a heavy set brunette with whom no one dared to disagree, rambled on about how she used to work for Jerry Falwell and Scientology, that Buddhism is nothing like religion for dollars, and it is not a cult. Nor is Tom Cruise as short as everyone says he is. Marcia and Evelyn kept trying to make an appointment to come over my house and set up the gohunsun (not sure of spelling), aka magic box that centers your spirit. I didn’t want to spend money on this item. I tried to tell them that my apartment was too small to hold three people, and there was no room for the box. Maybe a matchbox. Couldn’t I use a box from my Manolos? I stand in front of Bergdorf Goodman and that centers my spirit just fine. While everyone read from the book and discussed the origins of Buddhism, goals, etc. one of the words sounded like “Chicken lo Mein”. I longed for the day I would order delivery to my new apartment from the best Chinese restaurant the Upper West Side had to offer. I tried to pay attention, but kept sneaking glances around the room, taking in every detail, pretending that I lived there. When they got very involved in the chanting, I full out stared. I craned my neck toward the door, hoping to see inside the other rooms. If I snuck around the apartment, would someone miss me? Before I had the chance to find out, Brandy asked me to help her end the meeting.