Wascally Wabbit

I am the Elmer Fudd of apartment hunting-- I just can't seem to shoot anything good.

As the sun slowly sets on my current lease and rises on (what is becoming) my impending homelessness, I find myself reaching a fever pitch in my apartment search. And when you live in New York City, trust me, it is a SEARCH. They don't call it "apartment hunting" for nothing. Scouring the NYTimes, tipping doormen, asking friends/colleagues/strangers in bars if they know of anyone else looking-- after a while you're just a magnifying glass short of the whole Sherlock Holmes getup. I mean, deciphering Craigslist ads alone makes me feel like I'm running through Rome with Robert Langdon, cracking the DaVinci Code. (Ah, gratuitous pop culture references. Side note: I never really pictured Tom Hanks in that role).

(Whatever happened to the blonde guy?)

Here are some pearls of wisdom that I've learned during my years in NYC and am happy to impart: "Cozy" means small; "cute" means really small; "small but...[insert either bright!, with a huge common area!, great location!]" means really fucking small. And don't even dream about finding a "loft" apartment. They're like Moby Dick-- you read about it, you know it exists because you've heard stories of real friend's work friends living in them, but you've never personally seen one and they're always juuuust out of your price range. Any lofts I've seen have long ago been sliced and diced into an almost college dormitory-style apartment. Let's see....what else. Oh! If an ad DOESN'T mention a bedroom having a window, it doesn't mean that common sense implies all rooms have windows, it means the bedroom literally has no window.

Now I know what you're asking: "Who would...? how could...? why should...?" And the answer to each of those questions is "I have no idea." I learned the No Window Rule the hard way. After psyching myself up for an hour about the possibility of leaving my conveniently-located apartment and moving down to the ends of the earth in the Financial District, I took the 40 minute trip to check out the apartment of a normal-sounding girl. When I got there, she showed me a decent-sized room and continually directed my attention to the great closet space, but I just couldn't get a feel for the place. After leaving the room, I immediately realized what was so strange about it-- there was no window. She showed me the rest of the apartment and then asked what I thought about it. "I think there's no window in the bedroom," I responded. She looked at me like I was crazy for even noticing OR caring and said "yeah, but it's not like the air is stale. You have that AC unit." Where I come from, a room with no window is a closet.

Last night, I saw three other gems. The first one was a "loft" apartment near FIT. The building looked half-abandoned, but was two blocks from the subway that takes me to work so I decided to head on in against my better judgment. An insane-looking man met me just inside and led me up the four flights of stairs through the dirty warehouse-style building to the "loft" he had. (I only followed him because he had his incredibly normal, J. Crew clad girlfriend with him who was super friendly). On the whole, the apartment bordered on Fine and Shithole, and when he showed me the room it was a fairly reasonable size. As I lifted the blinds to check out the view, I found myself looking directly into the windows-- maybe three feet away-- of another building. When I asked if those windows were another apartment, an office, etc., the guy responded with "Oh yeah, an old man lives there. He collects stethoscopes or something." Uh, Hannibal Lecter, is that you? Next please!

(Check ya later, Clarice)

When I got the address of the next place, it didn't immediately ring any bells so I'd decided to go and check it out. Turns out, it was on the sketchiest street in the sketchiest area that I've been to in Manhattan. Naturally, I tossed my instincts aside and went in anyway. After being buzzed into the building, I immediately had to walk up a ski slope of a three story stairwell. (All I could wonder was a) if they would install one of those movable seats that senior citizens use to climb stairs, and b) how I would ever make it home drunk). I was...well not "greeted", because that implies some type of welcoming words, but "let into" a window-less apartment by a strange Asian lady talking about neuroscience, to a room full of other hunters. Swear on this blog that my very first thought was "Oh my god, they're going to try and get me into their cult!" My second thought was, "Why is this Asian lady coughing at me?" The cough, apparently signaled that I had to take my shoes off, as did everyone else there. To me, this was a sure sign of the brainwashing to come, and for some reason left me feeling extremely vulnerable and violated. She pointed me over towards a couch where a giant bear of a gay man was sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, surrounded by a large group of other baffled people. He was careful not to introduce himself or ask a single person about themselves, focusing only instead on how he's so sophisticated and a world traveler. Then, he asked a guy named Eros if he was Spanish. Now I was not a Classical Studies major, but hello? Greek god of love anyone?? I took the opportunity to quickly run to the bedroom, which held just a double bed and had no closet, and peeked around. Quickly, I mumbled my thanks and something about the inadequate room size, grabbed my flip flops, and ran the hell out.

The last place I wound up at was an apartment full of men looking for female roommates to occupy the two empty bedrooms they had. While phrasing my invitation to come over as just me meeting the current occupants, what I walked into was a group situation of several women drinking on the couches, all vying for the empty spots. It was one kiddie pool of baby oil short of a porno. Except it would've been the most boring erotic film you've ever seen because one of the girls monopolized the conversation to talk about door knobs the entire time. What? Door knobs? Yup, door knobs. She works for a company that makes them and apparently finds them quite interesting. Scan stage right to me, silently sitting on the couch drinking a beer wondering where I'd gone wrong in life that this was my evening because, let's face it, I was in no mood for KY wrestling and what the fuck would I have to add in about door knobs?? "I like the way they...turn. Also, they're super helpful when opening doors!"

An hour later I rolled up to my gorgeous building in a cab that pulled into the circular drive around the glowing center fountain and the beautifully landscaped flowers and the doorman opened my cab door and wished me a pleasant evening as I floated into my lobby that had fresh flowers and was well-lit and the concierge waved hello to me. I got in a nice elevator and was dropped off on my floor into a hallway that looks like a hotel and glided into my apartment to my big room with my own bathroom. All I could hear in my head was the song "Glory Days." I'm going to be clinging to the door handle here screaming DONT MAKE ME LEAVE on moving day. Actually, maybe then I'll finally have found an appreciation for a good door knob.

(I think Bruce knows what's up)