by Andi Dorfman
“What do you mean? ”
“The sink, on top of the toilet, that can’t be permanent, right? ”
“Yes, it’s not uncommon. It’s to maximize space.”
And though I’m starting to understand this whole New York real estate agent lingo bullshit jargon, this one is beyond my comprehension.
“So let me get this straight. The sink is permanently affixed to the toilet.”
The agent nods, confirming my worst fear.
“So I’d be using the same water to brush my teeth that I use to flush? ”
“It’s convenient, though,” she says with a slight chuckle. At least she, too, knows that this is absurd. “It’s a no-go? ”
“Yeah, not gonna happen.”
“I don’t blame you. Listen, here’s my card, with my website. Let me know if you see any listings you like on there.”
I thank her before bolting out the door.
The next two days are like an apartment-hunting version of Groundhog Day. I wake up, check the internet for new listings, and head off to view an apartment. Each one seems, impossibly, to be shittier than the last. And each one makes me feel more hopeless.
One apartment has ants crawling in the bathroom. One has week-old takeout food strewn across the kitchen counter while a half-smoked blunt sits in the ashtray on the coffee table. Another one doesn’t even have a kitchen. One apartment is seven floors up with no elevator. The only one with any real promise turns out to be a total scam.
Oh, yeah, that one was fun. I responded to a Craigslist listing and set up an appointment with the “agent.” I arrive at a stunning brownstone with a staircase adorned with potted flowers and a freshly painted red-lacquered front door and press the buzzer, only to be greeted by a confused blond woman who asks how she can help me. When I tell her I’m there for the apartment showing, her confusion turns to annoyance, and she slams the door in my face. I should have known better, considering the place is fabulous, within my budget, in the West Village, and on Craigslist. That one leads me to call it quits for the day.
And with only six days left on my short-term rental, I find myself on the verge of panic. Despite there being a plethora of apartments available, even lowering my standards doesn’t seem to be enough to find the perfect one. I’ve gone from searching for perfection to being willing to settle on livable. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
To make matters worse, I’m still unemployed—and based on something that happened yesterday, I might be that way forever. I’d gotten an email from an agent I used to work with, inviting me to go on a last-minute casting call for some new show that Amazon was developing. I’d never been on a casting call before. I always thought those were reserved for models and actors with actual talent. The closest I’d ever been was for a reality television show, and as you may know, that didn’t turn out so well. I didn’t know what the show was about or if it was even something I’d be interested in, but I knew I needed an apartment, which meant I needed money. So I said yes. Moments later, a follow-up email arrived with an address and a list of instructions. The first was to come “camera-ready,” the second to come looking “stylish,” the third was that the audition would be tomorrow.
Come the morning of the audition, and I’m frantically rifling through my suitcases. Of course, like every other woman, I have nothing to wear. A mountain of clothes on the floor later, I concede and settle on a basic black A.L.C. dress I happened to pack just in case I got invited somewhere cool. I jazz it up with a pair of emerald-green stilettos I also packed just in case, taking it from regular basic to something more like Pinterest basic.
My basic self arrives shortly after noon, camera-ready, to the address given in the email. As I exit the elevator, I am expecting a lobby and a receptionist, but all I see is empty office space. Assuming I’m in the wrong place, I walk down the empty hallway until I find an open door, inside which a blonde sits on a couch typing on her computer.
“Hi, I’m here for the casting call. Do you know where I go for that? ”
She looks up from her computer. She’s super-chic, wearing a cream-colored one-shoulder ruffled top, her sleek-straight hair with a perfect middle part. “Sorry, I don’t work here, but I think it’s all the way down the hallway.”
Shit, it’s Whitney Port from that MTV show The City. Though she was never the most dramatic or extravagant character, I remember liking her because she managed to go on a reality television show, maintain a decent reputation, and catapult her newfound fame into quite the career for herself. And now here I am mistaking her for a receptionist. Mortified, I continue walking down the hallway until I find a short brunette wearing an earpiece and a walkie-talkie on her hip. She has to work here. I repeat my exact words, hoping not to eat them this time.
“Hi, yes, all the way to the back, last door on the left.”
My shoes are already painfully rubbing the back of my ankles as I make my way down the hall to the last door on the left. I walk into a room of no fewer than fifteen women sitting in folding chairs along the wall. All silently reading the blue index cards in their hands. All of them are camera-ready and dressed to the nines, some in trendy culottes and chic blouses, others in harem pants and skater dresses. As I scan the room, I notice that everyone’s style is different, but everyone has style. Except for me. I’m so fucking basic it’s appalling.
I take an empty seat and wait until a lady comes into the room and calls out my name. She introduces herself as one of the producers of the show and takes me back to hair and makeup to get touched up. While I’m in the chair getting powdered, she gives me the rundown of what the hell it is I’m actually doing here.
“So what we’ll do is partner you up with someone . . .” She looks down at a stack of papers and flips through them. “I’m not sure who yet, but I’ll have that shortly. The segment will be about fifteen to twenty minutes long. These are the topics.” She hands me a stack of blue index cards. “And obviously, you can just read off the teleprompter, but feel free to ad-lib. And most important, lots of energy!”
“Teleprompter? ”
“Yeah, a teleprompter will be there, so no worries if you forget anything.”
“Shit, I’ve never used a teleprompter.”
“It’s easy. Also, no cursing.” She laughs as if she’s relieved to finally see someone who doesn’t have her shit together.
“Oh, right, sorry.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not that hard, honestly. Plus, all we’re looking for is chemistry and lots of energy! Lots and lots of energy.”
Needless to say, I didn’t get a callback. I guess being stylish and having lots of energy are not my strong suit. Then again, I could have told you that before humiliating myself on camera.
That evening I return yet again to my sprawling rental (which I think is growing bigger by the day), where frustration leads me back to my usual remedy: a glass of wine (or two) and a bubble bath. Once again, while my body soaks in bubbles, my mind soaks in the anxiety of my decision to move here. I do give myself credit, though, for not shedding any tears this time. But I realize what I’m missing. Gone are the comforts of Atlanta. Gone is the short drive to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner. Gone are the familiar roads and shops. Gone are all my friends. I’m in a city of millions of people, yet I feel more alone than ever.
It’s not until a day later when I get a random text that my loneliness subsides. It’s from an old friend from back home, Michelle, and she’s asking me if I want to grab dinner. She must have a sixth sense when it comes to lonely Atlanta girls living in New York.
I use the term “old friend” loosely, since Michelle is really the best friend of one of my best friends, and we’ve only hung out a few times in Atlanta, but I’ll take what I can get. She had moved to the city years ago so she could become a personal stylist. Tonight, she is sitting in the back corner booth of Rosemary’s, a cozy neighborhood restaurant on the corner of Greenwich and West Tenth. I walk in and we embrace like the long-lost
friends we kind of are but kind of aren’t. She looks the same as I remember: petite frame, shiny beach-waved blond hair that rests slightly above her shoulders, and bright red lipstick. Still as chic as ever, and she now has a city-girl vibe to add. She never was the Atlanta type of girl. In a world of pink and green Lilly Pulitzer dresses and matching Jack Rogers sandals, Michelle has always stood out with her rocker-chic leather jackets and studded booties. She is the type of girl who probably just wakes up cool.
Over pesto-infused burrata, tortellini, and plenty of red wine, we gossip away about what we’ve been up to, including my now infamous breakup, which continues to haunt me thanks to the weekly tabloids. Gag. She gives me the lowdown on all the hot spots to party at and a list of her favorite restaurants, as well as her love life. Turns out the party-girl-make-out-with-a-random-guy-at-a-bar Michelle whom I used to know now has a boyfriend. She even lives with him. His name is Pete, he works in finance, blah, blah, blah. All I really hear is “boyfriend,” and then I tune out. Despite her not being single anymore, there is still a familiarity with Michelle that evokes the comforts of home and makes me momentarily escape the reality of my apartment-hunting shitstorm. I say momentarily because, of course, she asks me where I’m living.
“Oh, don’t even get me started.”
She rolls her eyes and nods in agreement as if she knows exactly what I’m going through.
“Long story short, I’m in a short-term rental right now while I search for a place. It’s a total shitshow trying to find something decent.”
“Oh, girl, tell me about it! It’s insane.”
“And expensive!”
“Fucking extortion.” She takes a swig of wine. “My first apartment was a shitty shoebox on the Lower East Side. Now we live uptown.” Of course they live uptown; they are a couple.
“How shitty? ”
“Shitty shitty!”
“Fuck!” I have no chance.
“Yeah, we’re not in Atlanta anymore, girl. What neighborhoods are you looking at? ”
“Well, so far, I’ve seen a place in Soho—”
“Hell no!” she interrupts.
“One in Chelsea.”
“Not bad. Not bad at all, actually. Just stay away from the Highline. God, that thing is such an eyesore and a total tourist trap.”
“But I really like where my place is now, in the West Village.”
“Duh, everyone likes the West Village. It’s the best. And the most expensive.”
“So I hear.”
“Just know that stuff moves really quickly, so if you find something you like, be ready to say yes. Nothing lasts more than twenty-four hours. Nothing good, at least.”
We finish dinner after making plans to hang out again soon. It feels nice knowing that at least I have one friend here. Plus, Michelle is a ray of hope I desperately need right now. She’s living proof that even girls from the quiet suburbs of Atlanta can make it in the Big Apple.
I start walking home, breathing in the chilly air, which feels slightly warmer thanks to a night with a familiar face. That and the two bottles of wine in me. I’m strolling through the quiet streets of the West Village, when out of nowhere a sign hanging above a stoop catches my eye: APARTMENT FOR RENT. Hmmmm. I look around the street. It’s serene and beautiful. The brownstones are pristine. Some of them even have colorfully painted lacquered doors. And there’s no Chinese restaurant or bar selling two-dollar shots in sight. I take my phone out of my leather cross-body and type the phone number into a new note so I can call in the morning.
I’m just about to turn onto Grove Street when a muffled voice starts shouting at me. “Hello! Hello? Can you hear me? ”
I look around to see where the voice is coming from, but I’m alone on the street.
“Hellllooooooo!” The voice gets louder and angrier. Fuck, the sound is coming from my purse.
I dig back into my cross-body. Shit! I’ve just pocket dialed a stranger. “Hello! Hi, I’m so sorry. Can you hear me? ”
“Who is this? ”
“Ummm, hi! My name is Andi, and umm—”
“Are you calling about the apartment? ”
“Yes, actually, I am!”
“Which one? ”
“Ummm, one second.” I run to the nearest corner to find out what street I’m on. “Perry, the apartment on Perry.”
“Hold on, let me look. Yes, it’s available. Do you want to see it? ”
“Yes, please!”
“Tomorrow at noon? ”
“Perfect. See you then!”
And just like that, I’ve (well my pocket really) scheduled yet another apartment viewing. Go, me! Despite the fact that I don’t know how big or how much a month the apartment is, I feel a buzz coming on and it’s not just from the wine.
a new lease on life
The following morning, I retrace my steps from the previous night, making my way down Perry Street for a few blocks before I finally find the familiar sign. The short brunette (in a black peacoat, naturally) standing on the stoop scrolling through her phone means I probably have the right place.
“Hi. I’m Andi, here for the viewing.”
“Sheila. Nice to meet you! Come on in.”
Sheila is much peppier than most of the other agents I’ve met. Though I should have realized that when she took my phone call last night at ten o’clock. She’s quite petite, even in her bundled-up Canada Goose coat. She opens the door that leads into what she calls the “foyer,” which is really just another narrow hallway, and I follow her up the stairs. As we climb, she rambles on and on about how the building is from the 1800s and how it’s been kept up so well and is in the best neighborhood. Unbeknownst to her, I’m an apartment-hunting pro who knows none of the shit she is saying matters if there’s a bathtub in the kitchen or a sink attached to the toilet. I’m relieved when it takes us only one flight of stairs to reach the slightly ajar door labeled 2C. The instant it flings open, a whiff of fresh paint fills the air. Straight ahead is a wall adorned with an adorable small white-brick fireplace. The kitchen isn’t so much a kitchen as a ten-foot wall, but the black granite countertops and wooden cabinets look new.
“All of the hardwood is original,” says Sheila.
She’s starting to tell me something about the number of units in the building when I blurt out, “Is there a dishwasher? ”
“No.” She chuckles with a this-is-New-York-honey kind of laugh.
“Not a common amenity in this city, is it? ”
“Not unless you’re a millionaire.”
I ask about the laundry situation, and she tells me there are washers and dryers downstairs. We move into the bedroom. I use the term “bedroom” very loosely in this instance, because again, there is no way in hell a bed could actually fit here.
“How in the world does a bed fit in here? ”
“It’s definitely on the small side, but you could do a Murphy bed.”
Me, a Murphy bed? No, no, and hell fucking no.
We make our way back past the kitchen wall (a whopping twelve feet) and toward the two large windows that reveal the backs of a dozen other brownstones, all with small yards separated by wooden fences. It’s a large space, and the high ceilings make it feel even larger.
I start thinking aloud. “What if I somehow sectioned this part off and made it the bedroom?”
Sheila reaches for her purse and takes out a piece of paper with the floor plan on it. She starts spouting out square footages before telling me what a great idea that would be.
I take a few laps around the apartment, envisioning where I could put my furniture and how I could decorate the walls. This could work. This could really work! After everything, could it be that one accidental pocket dial may be the golden ticket to my new pad?
“I forgot to ask, what’s the price? ”
Sheila looks back at her piece of paper and reads off the listing price. I black out. This is not going to work. Seeing the expression on my face, Sheila starts
telling me what a great deal this place is for the location, and she’s so sweet and convincing that I actually start to believe her. She’s different from the previous agents. She actually seems to care. That is, until she hits me with the “broker’s fee” speech.
“And . . . then . . . there’s the broker’s fee on this property, which is twelve percent of one year’s rent.”
“Broker’s fee? ”
“Yeah, broker’s fee. Every unit has one.”
“Is that like a security deposit? ”
“No, it’s in addition. I could do ten percent for you, but that’s the absolute lowest.”
I go silent. Sensing something is off, she asks me what I’m thinking.
“It’s just a little more than I want to spend.” Actually, it’s a lot more than I want to spend.
“I understand. Living in this city is expensive. If you’re looking for something cheaper, I’d suggest Soho or the Lower East Side. Maybe even Brooklyn.”
“I know, but I really like this neighborhood. Can I have some time to think about it? ”
“Of course! But it just came on the market, and I can’t see it staying available for long. And unfortunately, I can’t hold it for you. But take my card and think about it. Also, if you do want it, there will be an approval process. I’ll need to see your credit information, tax returns, all that stuff. Also, what do you do for a living? ”
Fuck, the dreaded occupation question. “I’m a blogger,” I lie.
I can’t tell her the truth, which is that I’m a former attorney who went on a reality television show, who is surviving on odd jobs like attending events that I really have no business attending, and getting paid to post on social media. I know she’ll roll her eyes and mutter “Damn millennial” under her breath, I just know it. Luckily, my little blogger fib seems to appease her enough to forestall any follow-up questions.
We leave the apartment, and I tell Sheila that I’ll be in touch. Immediately, I call Patrick, my cousin’s boyfriend, who is a real estate agent in the city. “Okay, so I just saw a place on Perry Street—”
