I should have known it was too good to be true. For a mere $1700, twelve hundred square feet of a brownstone apartment could be mine. For those of you gawking at that fine ransom, keep in mind we’re talking New York City rents, where $1700 in Manhattan gets you a shoebox with plumbing. Twelve hundred square feet?! I don’t even know what I would do with that kind of space in New York. I pondered my future life, roller skating through my apartment to get to the bathroom, hosting dinner parties for forty people, living the dream, as it were.
Before I embarked on my adventure I checked on a map to see what train station I would be traveling to: seven in total once you crossed the water and entered Brooklyn. Not bad. Just the other weekend I had gone one singular stop into Brooklyn and found myself in the Heights, a stupendously beautiful area with trees, multi-million dollar homes, and a charming promenade. Oh yes, and Sir Anthony Hopkins. What could change in six stops?
As I walked off the subway, I noticed that a woman had fallen and was surrounded by people helping. I would have stopped but I was late for my appointment. Just kidding. I would have stopped but it seemed she had all of the help she could get at that point. When I emerged from the underground, a cop was already waiting on the fire truck pulling towards the sidewalk. She was in good hands.
My fate, on the other hand, was debatable. This was one of those situations that my mother would be none too happy about were she watching me by satellite. With no clue as to what direction I was heading, I summoned the courage to ask one beefy gentleman sporting a snug wife-beater which way Atlantic was. He pointed. I survived. I continued on my journey.
Now, I didn’t spend the entire walk in fear – though, admittedly, my gait was rather snappy. There were charming moments. Like when I walked past the Gospel Radio Shop, its church music blasting onto the street. I smiled and thought to myself, Now this could be a real experience. The notion was a fleeting one, however. On the next block was a group of large, unemployed men engaging what I am fairly certain were illegal activities involving gambling and/or drugs. I quickened my pace.
I turned on to Dean Street, an example of a once-was-charming kind of neighborhood with expansive brownstones and the occasional dying tree. “You look like a Jenny,” I hear. I look up at a friendly man whose own name I could not pronounce, so I avoided saying it in our phone conversations. Instead of exchanging common pleasantries like, “Hello, [fill in their name]. My name is [fill in yours],” I opted to circumvent the opportunity to bumble his name and come across as ignorant WASP by laying on the friendly factor real thick.
We shook hands and he turned to the building we were headed into. While walking up the steps to the first floor, I noticed that the apartment building next door was completely burned out. At this point, I knew that no matter how lovely the inside of the apartment, how divine the wood floors, or spacious the bedrooms, there was no way in hell I was moving in. Although, to make a counterpoint, the fact that one of the adjacent buildings was already burned out, means that I had a 50% lesser chance of being engulfed by fire in the near future.
The man whose name I couldn’t pronounce led me to the front door which had a sign next to it reading, “Please Remove Your Shoes.” “My kind of people!” I said to the realtor. He laughed and we both proceeded into the room, keeping our shoes on, of course.
The apartment was on the parlor floor, the most “desirable” level according to New York apartment research. Such units typically have high ceilings and better light. This one had high ceilings, but the chartreuse paint on the walls gave the place a grim, encroaching feeling that I didn’t want to live with full time. “Would they be opposed to painting?” I asked. This started a series of going-through-the-motions questions that saved me from awkward, pensive, no-way-in-hell-am-I-living-here pauses. He answered them all graciously, but I’m fairly sure we both knew what the end result was going to be.
Once in the kitchen, I realized there was no real refrigerator to speak of, something that I had noticed in pictures but didn’t necessarily over think. Under one of the three small counters were two mini-fridges better suited for a dorm room. “Oh!” I said, trying to come up with a response that could make my response charming. I can’t remember what followed; having no recollection of a witty quip means that I most likely failed miserably.
After wandering around, staring at the ceiling blankly for what I considered the average amount of time one spends in an apartment without giving the impolite appearance that one is horrified, I thanked the realtor for showing me the place and asked for an application. He handed me a stapled piece of paper and a business card, both of which I had no intention of using.
The evening before I had a nightmare about the place while falling asleep. It involved fire and brimstone and all sorts of ghosts with gnashing teeth. Perhaps I should have taken that as a sign, a feng shui call to arms gone largely ignored. Next time… next time I will listen. Or at least do a brief Google search.
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