so gather 'round boys, to this tale that i tell
you wanna know how to take a short trip to hell?
1. go to new york city.
2. call a real estate agent.
ok, you're pretty much THERE.
the night before the apartment hunting was to begin, my mom and i got lost. we do this every time we drive to new jersey together, without fail. as soon as we cross the state border we know we're done for. i remember clearly the very first time we got lost together in west orange. my mom was driving 80 down the highway, we had been listening to neil young on repeat for three hours, and i had just announced that i was in love. (the object of my affection was one jeremiah white, self-proclaimed psychic of the second grade. he had made the romantic and intriguing prediction that i was going to die of lead poisoning.) my mom was so startled at the declaration that she flew by our exit.
and so i'm reminiscing about that as i drive down the highway at 80 miles an hour, listening to iron and wine on repeat for the third straight hour, once again in love (the object of my affection being one steven hasty, who has made the romantic and intriguing prediction that i am not going to die a yuppie), and i realize, jeremiah WHITE, second GRADE, that was TEN YEARS ago. suddenly i am in college and here we are driving to new york city to rent me an apartment. and for absolutely the first time in my life, i feel old. eighteen is way too young to feel old. and it's such a startling feeling that i fly by the exit.
anyway, many, many hours later, we are actually looking at these apartments, and it is so horrible that it's funny. we go in, we look around, we flee the building in terror while trying to hold back hysterical laughter.
i quote:
"did the ad say it was a three-bedroom? oh, it's just the one little bedroom. but you could put up some walls..."
"ok, the ceiling leaks! but i mean, you can fit two beds in there and still have room for a few buckets!"
" we advertise it as two stories because if you climb over the guardrail you can go out onto the roof."
the trick with real estate agents is to develop a level, steely gaze, yet never look them in the eyes. if you lower your eyes they interpret it as weakness and tell you you will NEVER find what you're looking for, you have to add a thousand dollars to your budget and you have to live on 63rd street. if you seem warm and inviting they interpret this as hopeless naivete and send you out to apartments where the shower is next to the stove. if you look them in the eyes, they hit on you.
but i think, i think, i think we found what we were looking for. we called Darin, an agent who redefined "wheeler-dealer" by not taking his roller blades off until we actually had to climb stairs. and up those stairs...was Heaven. all the paperwork is in, all our fingers are crossed. but the deal is not yet done so i will say no more about it except that come september, sarah and casey and tory and i will likely be living the collective fantasy all artsy kids develop sometime around second grade: a sixth floor walk-up on the Lower East Side of our very own.
1. go to new york city.
2. call a real estate agent.
ok, you're pretty much THERE.
the night before the apartment hunting was to begin, my mom and i got lost. we do this every time we drive to new jersey together, without fail. as soon as we cross the state border we know we're done for. i remember clearly the very first time we got lost together in west orange. my mom was driving 80 down the highway, we had been listening to neil young on repeat for three hours, and i had just announced that i was in love. (the object of my affection was one jeremiah white, self-proclaimed psychic of the second grade. he had made the romantic and intriguing prediction that i was going to die of lead poisoning.) my mom was so startled at the declaration that she flew by our exit.
and so i'm reminiscing about that as i drive down the highway at 80 miles an hour, listening to iron and wine on repeat for the third straight hour, once again in love (the object of my affection being one steven hasty, who has made the romantic and intriguing prediction that i am not going to die a yuppie), and i realize, jeremiah WHITE, second GRADE, that was TEN YEARS ago. suddenly i am in college and here we are driving to new york city to rent me an apartment. and for absolutely the first time in my life, i feel old. eighteen is way too young to feel old. and it's such a startling feeling that i fly by the exit.
anyway, many, many hours later, we are actually looking at these apartments, and it is so horrible that it's funny. we go in, we look around, we flee the building in terror while trying to hold back hysterical laughter.
i quote:
"did the ad say it was a three-bedroom? oh, it's just the one little bedroom. but you could put up some walls..."
"ok, the ceiling leaks! but i mean, you can fit two beds in there and still have room for a few buckets!"
" we advertise it as two stories because if you climb over the guardrail you can go out onto the roof."
the trick with real estate agents is to develop a level, steely gaze, yet never look them in the eyes. if you lower your eyes they interpret it as weakness and tell you you will NEVER find what you're looking for, you have to add a thousand dollars to your budget and you have to live on 63rd street. if you seem warm and inviting they interpret this as hopeless naivete and send you out to apartments where the shower is next to the stove. if you look them in the eyes, they hit on you.
but i think, i think, i think we found what we were looking for. we called Darin, an agent who redefined "wheeler-dealer" by not taking his roller blades off until we actually had to climb stairs. and up those stairs...was Heaven. all the paperwork is in, all our fingers are crossed. but the deal is not yet done so i will say no more about it except that come september, sarah and casey and tory and i will likely be living the collective fantasy all artsy kids develop sometime around second grade: a sixth floor walk-up on the Lower East Side of our very own.