THE SMELL OF body odor was thick, relentless and arrogant. Tacking dryer sheets to the walls and offering to buy my college roommate deodorant and cologne were no defense against this embedded enemy. One night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I got out of bed, found a bottle of Febreeze and went directly to the source.
After the ammunition was fired, my sleeping roommate slowly touched his cold, damp face, coughed out the scent of “fresh linen” and looked up to see me standing next to his bed with my hand on the trigger. It was time to move out of the dorms.
A few years later, my new roommate and I walked into a real estate office that looked like a second-rate Apple store. We were called back to the desk of a man who gelled his thinning hair and wore a small, fitted sweater that cast his nipples in starring roles.
Immediately I didn’t trust him. The realtor began our session by asking us about what kind of apartment we wanted. All we knew was that it had to be cheaper than the price of dorms and close to campus.
“Remember guys, you can trust me. So, uh, tell me about your credit,” he said. David and I nodded then smiled and waited for him to clarify because we had no idea how the hell he wanted us to respond. After an uncomfortably long pause, I confidently replied, “Well, you know, I mean, yeah, it’s fine.” The realtor wrote down some notes, probably about our complete lack of financial knowledge, and then decided to have some fun with us by asking us significantly more challenging questions. “Will you be using a guarantor? If you are, where does he or she live?” We smiled politely and decided it was time to leave this enhanced interrogation.We excused ourselves from his “Genius Bar” and continued on our way.
The next week, David and I were carefully walking up an apartment’s rickety staircase behind a broker we found on Craigslist and a hotshot representative from the management company. When we stepped off the staircase, which seemed to have scoliosis, our fearless leader knocked on the door of an apartment. “This is Management.
We’re here to show your apartment.”There was no answer. He opened the door and began telling us about the unit before someone rudely interrupted him by yelling, “Get the fuck out of our apartment!” After being greeted by two very angry shirtless men, we issued a brief apology and decided to look at another unit in the building.
Knocking on another door and not hearing any reply, we optimistically stepped inside. It was a good 30 seconds before we heard a ponderous and slightly worried voice from underneath the bathroom door. “Hello, who’s there?”
“Management, we’re showing your apart-”
“No, the fuck you’re not. I’m in the fucking shower.” The frightened, but mostly angry, woman apparently did not want us waiting until she was out of the shower. She politely asked us to leave. We took her advice and got the fuck out.
After three more weeks of looking at tiny, over-priced, must-act-now apartments, we had found the perfect place. It had it all: space, price and location. David’s skeptical girlfriend wanted to find out if other tenants were as elated with the building as we were. She reported back that the building had even more to offer, including rats, cockroaches and a landlord that was twice referred to as “the biggest dick in New York City.” This is not to mention the hot water pipe that was positioned less than six inches in front of the toilet, rendering the bathroom practically useless.
We finally settled on a one-bedroom convertible apartment, which we were upset to learn did not have a removable ceiling. No, we would have to put a pressurized wall up to turn a one-bedroom into a two-bedroom. I looked for wall companies and settled on the one with the funniest name. I immediately became worried when I realized the main office line was a cell phone. Even worse, every time I called I was greeted with, “Ugh. Hello, what do you want?” My skepticism was justified less than 24 hours before our move-in day when our management company told us there was a cease-and-desist operation on that company effective immediately. Luckily, they were able to find another company, albeit with a much less funny name, to put up a wall.
We are now happily living in our new apartment. It has everything we were originally looking for, not to mention a view of a park that hosts slow-motion races between senior citizens on walkers. Most importantly, it smells clean and does not require a Hazmat suit upon entry. So for now I can put down my weapon and keep the air freshener where it belongs—in the bathroom.
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