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.