The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part V: No Subject

August 26, 2008 9:44 PM

Recently I was apartment hunting, and anyone in New York City knows what a painful process this can be. In fact I believe there's a rare edition of Chicken Soup for the Renter's Soul out there somewhere. Many stories can move the average person to tears. My particular experience certainly led me close to tears, not for myself, but for my broker in this rare instance. Shocking but true.

My future roommate and I had an appointment at 11 am to see a listing from Craigslist. The broker, we'll call her Pam, called to say that she was running late because she hadn't been feeling well (sore throat)and that she had to pick up a prescription on her way. We shifted the meeting to 11:15 am. At 11:30 am, she called to say that it had taken her longer than expected and she would be a little later. We ended up seeing Pam waddling up to us in an ill-fitting sundress and lavender flip flops, dry, frizzy hair haphazardly caught in a plastic clip, sporting a not-so-thin layer of sweat on the bridge of her thick nose. It was 11:45 am. And not only did she lack a key for the apartment, but it turned out that it already had applicants.

Despite our rather lackluster first impression of Pam, my roommate and I exchanged glances of sympathy and decided to give her a chance. She claimed she had a lot of great listings that we had to see, and that she wouldn't give up until we filled out an application with her. Ok, she seemed slightly desperate, a little disorganized, but she looked determined.

After spending the majority of the afternoon walking from the East Village to Chinatown and back, making a couple of stops because Pam was thirsty then later hungry, we decided to walk back to her office, check for more listings and regroup. On our way back, my roommate ran into a friend from school.

"Hey, Dimitri! What's going on?"

"Hey! Wow, haven't seen you in a while. What're you up to?"

"Oh my roommate and I are spending the day apartment hunting..." My roommate nodded in our direction.

"Oh, cool." Dimitri nodded his acknowledgement towards me and Pam. "Is she your mom?"

"Oh, haha." My roommate laughed (or more so released air from her mouth uncomfortably). "Uh, no, that's our broker."

"Oh, my bad." (Insert awkward silence here.) "Cool. I gotta run, later."

We both looked at Pam, hoping she hadn't heard. Plastered on her face was a stiff smile, but you sensed it masked far more complicated emotions. We continued in our direction in silence when:

"Do I really look that old?"

"No, Pam," we exclaimed. "No, of course not."

But she wasn't really hearing us. She was too lost in her own thoughts. Her smile (and her makeup) had melted as soon as we had started walking again, and I knew something had died. The worst part was, in that 20 second exchange, I had a snapshot of her life that I didn't want to see. I knew she would go home after work to a messy empty studio, her thick legs veiny and tired from walking all over manhattan that day. She would probably order take out from the Chinese joint next door and settle for some crappy reality tv show in her bathrobe and frizzy hair. And she wouldn't be paying attention to the show because in her head, Dimitri's voice asked "Is she your mom?" over and over again. She would probably pad over to the bathroom through the course of the show to stare in the mirror and trace the bags under her eyes.

My roommate and I left her, claiming that we needed a break from trekking around the city. We promised we'd call her in the evening. She begged us not to work with another broker.

"You guys aren't going to another broker, are you?"

"No, no, Pam, of course not."

We had to leave her. She was too desperate, too needy, and if we spent more time with her, it would rub off on us. And it was depressing as hell.