In which Friedo rants about the difficulty of finding an apartment in New York City

What the fuck?

Wasn’t this supposed to be challenging? Where are the huddling masses yearning to bid-war over the rent? Where were the crooked realtors and shady landlords? I don’t get it. You won’t fuckin believe how little I had to go through to find an apartment in New York City.

  1. I look in the newspaper.
    What the fuck is the matter with these people? They actually print real estate listings in order by neighborhood? How the fuck is this supposed to be challenging?
  2. I write down the phone number of one that sounds good.
  3. This morning, I call them.
    Ah-ha! Finally, this is where the hard part comes, I say, an answering machine. I leave my name and number, confident of the fact that I will never receive a return call and will have to hound these people for hours and hours just to get a straight answer. I am so confident of this, you see, that I was sitting in this very chair revelling in the thought when…

Ring ring ring…is that my telephone?
4. I answer the phone.
Evil Bastard Who Is Not Making Things Difficult: “Mr. Friedo? Yes, you called about the one bedroom studio?”
Me: “Yep. Can I come down there and see it?”
EBWINMTD: “Sure! When can you come down?”
Me: “Uhhh, how about lunch time?”
EBWINMTD: “Do you know how to get here?”
Me: “Not really.”
EBWINMTD: “OK, here are several different ways to get here from midtown Manhattan.”

Jesus H Christ on a candy cross with chocolate on top! That was rather easy. So, I get off the #7 train, expecting to be lost, and, the fucker, the building was right where he said it would be!


So I meet the landlord, and he turns out to be a nice motherfucking guy!

OK, Friedo, calm down here. Obviously, the place will be a disgusting wreck filled with termites and goblins. Let’s just wait until we see the apartment. Something has to go wrong somewhere.

So I get to the fifth floor with the landlord. What a nice, beautiful place. Carpets. Walls in once piece. Terrace. Simple, Spartan, Pure. I could live here. I could live here very well.

OK, Friedo, we’ll move in. Obviously, he’ll stiff us on the lease or something, and declare bankruptcy as soon as I fork over the check.

Well, I decided if these bastards weren’t gonna make everything as difficult as it’s supposed to be, I would play along with their sick little game. “OK,” says I, “I’ll take it.”

So I fill out some forms, hand the guy an application fee, and wait to find out that I won’t be able to move in until February.

“You can get in here probably around July 7th once we get the security deposit taken care of.”

You evil fucking bastard! How DARE you offer me such courtesy!? How DARE you actually work a little hard to ensure my happiness?! This is New York City, you dickburger!

So, I go back to work, waiting to hear from this bastard two weeks down the line that my credit was rejected because of that late $18.56 payment. But after the usual Wednesday development meeting, I come back to my desk to find my voice mail light is on.

Intriques, I press the Voice Mail Button.

“Oh, hi Mike. This is EBWINMTD. Just wanted to let you know that your credit was approved. Let me know when you can bring me your security deposit and first month’s rent, and we’ll sign the lease. Any time would be fine.”

Well, thank you very much, EBWINMTD. Thank you for not being a felon or money-launderer. Thank you for not fucking me over, or at least making my apartment search a grueling and frustrating exercise in futility, you son of a bitch.

Now I have no horror stories to tell. No I-can-bitch-about-my-evil-landlord-too status. No reason to be homeless and blame The Gummint for some reason.



Just wait. The second night after you move in, you’ll awake to cockroaches gnawing your left foot off.

That’s the place directly under “Harry’s All-Nite Tap Dancing School” isn’t it?


Oh, and congratulations!

[W.C. Fields voice]:

So, you’ve come to the Big City, eh? My uncle Ichabod said, speakin’ of the city, “it ain’t no place for women, gal, but perty men go thar.” Always said somethin’ that would split your sides a-laughin’. Comical old gentleman, he was.

I wouldn’t move in there. This is obviously too good to be true. I’ll bet the previous tenant is, like, sealed up in the wall or something. Yeah, that landlord is clearly a serial killer.

Paranoid? Me? Who told you to say that?

Either that, or the previous tenant is still in there somewhere, alive… waiting… listening…


— G. Raven

Has he told you yet that since the elevator’s busted, you’re going to be living in a 17th floor walk-up?