Rental Dementia: Model Behavior

I’m not exactly the typical “go-go-go” real estate agent. For me, a successful deal means a few days off—not the start of a streak.

But I was having a great month. Deals were popping after only one or two shows. I wasn’t persuading, arguing or arm-twisting. Qualified clients were magically finding my ads among the million or so listed. I opened the door, and they said yes. The pressure was off. I should have felt great.

The problem, as we all know though, is that without a strong and steady stream of income, life in New York can be terrifying, no matter what you have sitting in the bank. Even after an unusually good month, the questions and anxiety surrounding next month, and the month after that or even a slow summer, is enough to keep a liquid agent pacing awake with worry. Neurotic and aggressive agents are often born in exactly this manner. There’s just no telling when the deals will dry up. As it was never my intention to become a real estate agent, let alone a crazy one, I decided to take some time off. I only needed to stop in the office for a minute to clean up some paperwork.

With papers strewn all over my desk, I could see the two of them scanning our window display. Finally and very carefully they took tiny side steps down our short staircase, the way women do when wearing dangerously high heels.

It took them a good two minutes to finish the minimal descent. They entered our little office and said not a single word, accustomed, I suspected, to a greater amount of fan fair. Our receptionist was busy updating her MySpace profile. The other haggard agents were far too pre-occupied with searching listings and embellishing uninteresting apartments to notice the striking new arrivals. I didn’t know who was up next for a client, and I didn’t care. They were both gorgeous, and I took the initiative of introducing myself.

A brief conversation later and we were standing on the street as they pointed out apartments of interest. I inquired to how exactly they would pay for such apartments. Each paused for a second, gave me strange look and then answered as if it weren’t plainly obvious, “We’re models.” I said, “Great, at least we don’t have to worry about the kitchens.” The blonde smiled, mimicked gagging herself and said, “No, only the bathrooms matter.” We were off to a terrific start.

I never really wanted to work with them; I just wanted to talk to them. So I immediately crossed the blonde of the list when she mentioned her price, between $5,000 to $7,000 or $8,000 for something truly magnificent. Nice numbers, but way too flexible. It really meant that she and her I-banker boyfriend had no idea how much they wanted to spend. I said I’d look into, and went to work on “Monica,” the shorter brunette with the piercing blue eyes, faint European accent and everything else one might require if she were going to make a great living relying solely on her looks.

Less than a year into a mortgage with her male-model boyfriend, they were calling off the relationship, but neither wanted to let go of the apartment. He would stay, and she would continue with minimal monthly payments to keep up her end of the investment. It meant she couldn’t spend more than $2,500 on her new rental, which was fine since she was open to a large studio.

I’m not exactly sure what qualifies as a “model’ these days, but I’ve spent enough time in Soho to peg any gangly 20-year-old with a leather book and an oversized bag as working in the industry. Better looking in pictures than in person, I’ve never paid much attention. My first impression though was pretty remarkable, and the more time I spent with her the more attractive she became. Funny and down to earth, she would grab me by the arm to emphasize an important point. She’d clumsily collide with me while walking down a crowded street. More chummy than flirtatious, I pushed aside fears that I was being coaxed into reducing my fee, which may have indeed been the case.

Silly little rental agent, falling all over his model client. I didn’t care one way or the other. I’ve spent months working with people I couldn’t stand. The apartments don’t change, and the landlords are always the same. It’s the clients that make all the difference.

My bad luck was to have walked her directly into an absolutely perfect apartment $300 under her limit: A sunny, lofty studio, bigger than the average one-bedroom in a doorman building and only five blocks above her desired neighborhood. She was inside for less than three minutes before she punched me on the shoulder and told me I was terrific. I thought she should take her time, maybe see a few more places—there was no need to rush. But she was convinced. Damn streak.

I saw her once more in person at the lease signing. I’d see her picture in various magazines for months later.