You haven't been where I've been, Mike Rowe.
The excuse for subjecting one's self to such misery? Apartment hunting. And it is as terrifying as it sounds, especially when you're looking to rent out a room, which means meeting your potential roommate every time you check out a room. Let me put it this way. Imagine every weird subway freak you've met in a city. Well... they've gotta live somewhere. And I'm finding it out more and more.
Nope... not that subway freak
The hunt began with a guy named Lee. Began innocently enough. Beautiful location. Basketball courts. Fantastic new building. Immaculate elevators. I was ready to accept anything short of a peg-legged drunk who raped children with his peg in hourly shifts throughout twilight hours. I got... something not very short. As it turns out, Lee is a man in his 60s, renting out a room of his apartment for extra money now that he's retired and never leaving the apartment. The room is completely furnished -- with a rocking chair, knick-knacks coating the walls, and and an old-people smelling comforter. Oh, and he doesn't need his own room. He'll be living in the living room, stationed immediately outside said bedroom. That doesn't sound horrible enough. How about this. Thousands more knick-knacks pouring out of every orifice of the bathroom and kitchen, including a Jesus nighlight and a Nazi swastika magnet on the refrigerator. Should I even bother to ask if it's okay if I bang gypsys here, or... ?
My next stop was at a 40 year old East Village apartment. This apartment had it all. Sixth floor walk-up? Check. The bathtub in the kitchen? Would I be pushing it to ask for the toilet to be in a closet? Done. Unfortunately, the owner doesn't want to share the one bedroom. He's got a sleeping bag and is sleeping in the hallway of the apartment. That shouldn't be inconvenient. And don't be weirded out by that quiet, intense stare coming from him, either. It's a sign of interest. He probably wants to decapitate you and fuck your neck cavity on move-in day. Touching.
The hunt continued with the viewing of the tiny apartment shared with a half-interested fat woman with walls painted a color exactly like the DVD cover above. She had a cat too, who from the looks of it was sharing a spot at the dinner table. By half-interested, I am being generous. The woman had her eyes glued to the opening ceremonies of a baseball game the whole time I was in her apartment and literally pointed me in the direction of the room without even looking up. Place smelled like baby corn juice.
And I can't forget to mention shady, blazed apartment owner. He's got a non-air conditioned room in Chelsea all right. He's also got a questionable accent and drops suspiciously homosexual advances. Oh and don't try to get ahold of him when he's not busy. Cuz he's busy then.
Yup, folks. That's New York.
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