by Andi Dorfman
“Great street,” he interrupts.
“Sooooo great! It’s a one-bedroom, but I could kind of convert it into two. Only problem is, it’s expensive as fuck.”
“Welcome to New York City!”
“Why does everyone fucking say that? And get this, there’s something called a broker’s fee that she’s trying to charge.”
“Yeah, typical. What percent did she say? ”
“Twelve, but she could do ten.”
“That’s a steal!”
“A steal? Why am I paying a broker fee when she’s not even my broker? ”
“She’s the landlord’s broker. That’s how it works here.”
“So basically, I’d be paying her ten percent to what? Open the unlocked door? ”
“Yup! Welcome to New York.”
“You said that already.”
My head drops in defeat as I realize it’s just another day in the city and I am once again sitting on the couch of my luxuriously spacious, unbelievably extravagant short-term rental. But at least this time I’m not pondering depression, rather I’m pondering Perry Street. It’s really a stretch budget-wise, but it’s so cute, and it’s on Perry Street! The same street Carrie Bradshaw lived on in Sex and the City. That makes it the ultimate bachelorette pad, and Lord knows I could really use that right about now. But it’s so damn expensive. I’d need to get a steady job, start budgeting, and stick to ramen and two-dollar pizza slices for dinner. But I could do it. Maybe.
Instead of recklessly saying yes, like I did about moving to this city, I decide to go back on the internet to see if anything new has been listed. I’m scrolling through the same apartments I’ve scrolled through a dozen times, when I suddenly see something new. I zoom in on the location to see that it’s right around the corner on Hudson Street. I flip through the pictures and see that it’s not terrible. It’s no Perry Street, but it is much more affordable. And the fact that there’s an open house tomorrow is making it seem less terrible and more tempting, almost as if it’s fate. With Perry Street still on my mind, I make a deal with myself: I will go to the open house on Hudson tomorrow with an open mind, and if I don’t like it, I will call Sheila. If she says Perry Street is available, then I’ll take it as a sign that it is meant to be, and I will pull the trigger and officially become a renter. It will all be out of my hands. I will relinquish control to the New York City rental market gods and hope I end up with a roof over my head by the end of the month.
I wake up the next morning with one thought on my mind: Perry. With four more hours until the open house on Hudson starts, I look it up again. Photo by photo, Hudson is losing its appeal. It just doesn’t compare to Perry. I’m torturing myself as I look at the clock. An hour passes, then another fifteen minutes. I can’t take it anymore. Fuck it. I cave and call Sheila.
“Hey, it’s Andi. Is Perry Street still available? ”
She tells me it is.
“Ten percent broker’s fee? ”
There is a long pause.
I cross my fingers. Please say yes, please say yes.
“Sure.” She definitely didn’t want to say yes.
“I’ll take it!”
We set up an appointment for the following afternoon for me to come by and fill out the application, sign some paperwork, and, most of all, cut her some checks. I can’t help but prance when I walk into her office. I’m seated across from her, making small talk and trying to hide my excitement as she’s clicking away on her computer and the printer spits out page after page.
“Start by filling out this basic info page,” she says as she hands me a pen and the first of many forms. “There will be a security deposit and first month’s rent due today, so if you can, please write two checks according to the amount listed on that third page. Also, I’ll need your tax returns, because the building requires the tenant to make ninety times the monthly rental amount.”
The pen falls out of my hand and onto the desk. “Huh? ”
“Last year’s return needs to show that you made ninety times the monthly rent. It’s usually forty to sixty times, but the better the neighborhood, the higher the number. It’s because of the eviction laws in the city and, honestly, controlling what kind of people live in the building.”
“Wait. Ninety, like nine-zero? ”
She nods.
“Ummm, yeah, I didn’t make ninety times the rent last year. Pretty sure I’d be living in Tribeca if I did.”
“It’s okay, because you can have up to two cosigners. Maybe your dad or another family member? ”
My worst nightmare has come to fruition: I’m a grown woman, and I need Daddy to cosign on an apartment for me. I know he’ll do it, but I really don’t want to have to ask him. I have no other option, though. Kill. Me. Now. I step out of Sheila’s office and into the lobby to make the dreaded call.
“Hey!”
“Hey, Dad!”
“What’s going on? How’s New York? ”
“Great. Well, cold but great. I actually think I found an apartment!”
“That’s great, honey.”
“But there’s one thing . . . I’m actually with the broker right now, and basically, in order to get the apartment, I have to show that last year I made ninety times the rent.”
“Ninety times. What the hell? You livin’ in a damn penthouse or somethin’? ” He’s resorted to his ultra-redneck Southern twang, something he always does when he hears something is expensive or chic.
“More like a shoebox.”
I don’t say anything about needing him to cosign or borrow money. I don’t have to. The next sentence out of his mouth is, “Okay, well, send me the documents, and I’ll cosign if you need.”
“You don’t have to. I can figure out a way—”
“Andi, stop. Send me the documents.”
“I really didn’t want to have to ask you, Dad.”
“I know. But you didn’t ask me. I just offered.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to ask you to do this for me.”
I’m on the verge of tears. Not because my ego is bruised but because my father is quite simply the best. He’s here for me. He’s been here for me through it all: the ups, the downs, the tears, and the embarrassing moments on reality television. And even though I don’t want to need him right now, the fact that I don’t have to say out loud that I do makes me overwhelmingly grateful to have a father like him.
“Andi, listen to me very carefully. You need to learn that sometimes it’s all right to ask people for help. It’s not a sign of weakness. You asking me to cosign because of some absurd nine-hundred—”
“Ninety.”
“ . . . some absurd ninety-times rule. The point is, it doesn’t make me think of you differently. I know you can hold your own and take care of yourself, and I’m very proud of you for that.”
My eyes well up with tears. I’m too choked up to say anything except a soft whisper. “Thank you.”
“And also congratulations. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
I regain my composure and walk back into Sheila’s office with my two thumbs up. “Good to go!” I finish filling out the forms without any hesitation, until I get to the final page of the lease agreement. I’ve initialed nearly twelve pages, and now all I need to do is simply sign my name. I pause. Am I really ready to do this?
I feel the same reluctance that I felt months ago, back when I was looking to lease an apartment in Atlanta. I’d seen a ton of places that were perfect for me, and yet I never could manage to sign on the dotted line. Deep down, despite the apartments being perfect, they just never felt right. Now I’m hesitant again but not because this place doesn’t feel right. In fact, it feels so right. I know this is my apartment. But I also know that this one signature is going to change the rest of my life. Because to me, in this moment, it’s not just a signature. It’s more than that; it’s a commitment. It’s a commitment to following through on that one-way flight, a commitment
to myself to move on from my past and leave heartbreak behind. I spent so many months withering away because of the painful ending of my engagement, waiting for the time when I would eventually crawl out of that dark hole. And now “eventually” has arrived, and instead of feeling empowered, I feel terrified. It’s interesting how sometimes we find ourselves sad for so long that we become resistant to happiness.
I’m one signature away from potential freedom and yet my hand won’t move. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. A moment from a few weeks ago plays in my head. It was Kelly sitting on my bed telling me how proud she was of me for moving to New York. We were clutching each other’s hands, crying tears of achievement and pride.
I open my eyes and realize I can’t let her down. I can’t let her or my family or any of my other friends down. And most of all, I can’t let myself down. I’ve come too far to sabotage myself now. I can do this. I need to do this.
I grasp the pen and, with a pulsing heartbeat, sign my name.
“Congratulations!” says Sheila. “Now I’ll put you in touch with the super, and you two can figure out a move-in date and time. Her name is Mary, and by the way, I should warn you, she’s, ummm, how do I say this? She’s interesting.”
“What do you mean? ”
“Totally harmless, just talks a lot. You’ll see what I mean.”
I leave the office feeling a little poorer than when I came in. But a little fuller, too, as if I’m not so alone anymore. I have a new man in my life, and his name is Perry. And most of all, for the first time since arriving in New York, I feel a sense of pride. I did it. I actually took that leap of faith. I signed on the dotted line, and in doing so, I didn’t just lease an apartment. I signed a lease on a new life.
air mattresses and fire escapes
I’m on a hot streak. Not only have I nailed down an apartment, but I might have nailed down a new job. The other day, out of the blue, I got a call from a literary agent asking me about working together. Well, I guess it wasn’t completely out of the blue because shortly before I moved to New York, I let Kelly read the journal I kept throughout my breakup. I didn’t really let her, it was more that she insisted I show her what I was writing all the time. And since I was living in her house, I couldn’t exactly say no. Over plenty of wine, she’d laugh aloud as she read my entries, and then one night, somewhere between our second and third bottle of wine, she suggested I turn the journal into a book. I scoffed at the idea, all the while sort of secretly loving it.
Maybe it was the wine or maybe I just had nothing else to do, but for some reason I contacted a literary agent recommended by my cousin, who once worked in journalism. I didn’t think anything would come of it. In fact, I’d kind of forgotten about it until this call.
Anyway, the agent introduces herself, and I tell her how I just moved to New York and all about my breakup and the fact that I journaled about it. There is a distinct pause on the other end of the line.
“Listen, I don’t usually do these types of books, no offense. But I think you might have something here.”
“Thanks. No offense taken. I totally get it.”
“Why don’t you put together a proposal, and I’ll look it over, and we can talk about sending it out to publishers? ”
“Absolutely!”
Later that day, I can’t help but think how the timing of this phone call could be a stroke of luck. Here I am a month into my new life in New York City, and hardly a thing has gone right. From my apartment search to the embarrassment of my first, and I hope last, casting call, this phone call is a ray of sunshine in the midst of my new-life storm.
I search Google for “book proposal template.” I quickly realize that writing a proposal isn’t as easy as writing a book report back in middle school. But at least it’s given me something to do. And most of all, it’s given me a bit of purpose. It probably won’t go anywhere, but I figure, fuck it, what do I have to lose? Plus, I may have landed an apartment, but I still need a job to stay in it.
Speaking of my apartment, today is the day! It’s finally time for me to move in, which means my new man, Mr. Perry, and I are hours away from becoming an official couple. I’ve spoken to the superintendent of my building, Mary, a couple of times over the past week. Sheila was right about her—interesting, to say the least. She’s the talkative type who seems to have a few screws loose up in there, but nevertheless, we managed to schedule a move-in date and time so she can show me around the building and give me my keys. I splurged and hired some last-minute movers to bring my furniture up from Atlanta. In hindsight, it would have been cheaper and more fun to buy new furniture, but I justified the shipping cost by telling myself having my old furniture will make me feel more at home.
Ecstatic to finally have my own place, I arrive at the Perry Street apartment at exactly nine in the morning, as scheduled, with my two suitcases in tow. I enter the first set of doors into the small foyer, which I didn’t notice until now is lined with small silver mailboxes, each labeled with a last name. Next to the mailboxes is a call box, also with a list of last names and corresponding numbers. I find Mary’s name and press 1A.
“Hello!” screams a muffled voice over the intercom.
“Hi, Mary, it’s Andi. I’m here to move in today.”
She lets out an audible sigh. “Fine, be right there.” Her surprised and annoyed tone has me a little baffled.
Suddenly, through the window in the door, I see a small dog sprinting toward me. Behind the dog is a short middle-aged woman wearing an oversized rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt, black track pants, and no shoes. This must be Mary.
She opens the door. “Lucy, stay!” she barks. “Come on in.”
I can immediately tell that not only is this woman not so keen on shoes, but she smells like she’s not so keen on showers either. Her gray hair is short, greasy, and a tangled mess. She’s giving me a cat lady with a smoker’s laugh meets hippie dippy vibe. Her bare face could use some foundation and contouring, but she has good bone structure. Twenty years and a few thousand cigarettes ago, I can see her having been really pretty.
“Lucy, back in the house!”
Poor thing. You know how sometimes dogs resemble their owners? Well, Lucy is undoubtedly related to Mary. She is a small terrier-looking dog who, other than the stray brown hairs around her mouth (which I don’t even want to think about), also has short, greasy gray hair. She’s looking up at me with the saddest little doggy eyes I’ve ever seen, silently screaming, Help me, help me!
“Here, let me help you with your bags,” offers Mary.
“Thanks, but they are very heavy.”
“Well, I’m very strong.” She chuckles creepily as she flexes her right arm.
I’m grateful for her generosity but also not sure about being left in the same room as her. She effortlessly lugs one of my suitcases up the stairs while I not so effortlessly follow her.
She opens the unlocked door to my new apartment and places the suitcase in the middle of the empty living room before digging into her pocket. “Here are your keys, but the lock doesn’t work.”
Confused, I ask what she means.
“Well, something is wrong with the lock, so like I said, it doesn’t work, duhhhhh!” It’s confirmed, Mary has an undeniable case of the crazy eyes. “The locksmith can’t get here for a day or two. But it locks from the inside.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So what do you suggest I do? ”
“Well, I didn’t know you were moving in today.”
What the fuck? How did she not know? We’ve talked about this for an entire week.
She looks around for a second and then points to the back window with a solution. “There’s a fire escape you can go up and down. It leads to the basement where the laundry room is, and this key right here unlocks the main door.”
“Ummm. Okay . . .” I’m trying hard not to ruffle her feathers since it’s my first day here, but inside I’m fuming. Does she seriously expect me to fucking climb up and down the fire escape
? Of course, I say nothing to this effect, and instead, like a coward, I stay silent.
“Also, I live in the apartment below you, so please, no heels in the house. This key is for the mail. Laundry is downstairs. I’ll take you down there now.”
I follow her down two flights of stairs into the basement, where a few washers and dryers are lined up against a blindingly bright yellow-painted cinder-block wall.
“The machines only take quarters. Also, the trash is down here.” She points across the room to a corner, where I see seven or eight trash bins. “You must recycle. We get fined if you don’t. Plastic goes in one bin, paper in another, and then food and any other garbage that can’t be recycled goes in the blue one.”
When the tour of the basement is over, I follow Mary back upstairs. I can hear Lucy barking from inside her apartment. Great, just my fucking luck. I finally find an apartment, and of course, it’s above a super who is a bit crazy (I had quickly upgraded the agent’s “interesting” and secretly nicknamed her “Mad Mary.” She’d probably kill me if she knew.) with a barking dog. No wonder the agent let my dad cosign for me.
Mary goes into her apartment, and I hear her scream at Lucy to “shut the fuck up” just before the door slams shut.
I walk back up the stairs and into my empty apartment, letting the door with no lock close behind me. I stand in the living room for a moment, looking around and thinking how much smaller the place is than I remembered. My visions of a grand foyer, a dining area, and a large bedroom have been instantly squashed. Why did I remember this place being so much bigger? Have I let my infatuation blur my reality yet again?
I’m sitting in my empty apartment, using up my data plan because the internet guy doesn’t come until tomorrow, when I realize it’s noon, which means the movers are an hour late. I call to see what the holdup is. The line is busy. I dial again. Still busy. I wait a few minutes and try again. A woman answers.
“Hi, I’m calling to check on the status of my movers who are scheduled today.”