The Broker Blues

They sit in rows like cardboard cutouts behind desks in an office building on Broadway.

Many of them are on the phone. A few are talking to nearby coworkers. Two or three stare straight ahead and wear a look of boredom or indifference. A receptionist chews her gum and plays with the nail on her pinkie finger.

They are apartment brokers _ hated by most apartment hunters and many apartment dwellers.

The bilateral hatred is evidenced on Craig's List, which has a filter that allows renters to cut out the middle man and search for apartments that are being listed directly by owners.

I used to think the website created the filter for people who wanted to avoid costly brokers fees, which start at one month's rent but can go much higher. I've come to believe that it is much more than just a cost issue.

The hungry brokers seem to snarl when Mark and I walk into their cage on the Midtown Manhattan building's second floor. They have no windows to the outside and no walls between them.

Most of them are in their late 20s or early 30s. They appear to be measuring our worth as we stand waiting for acknowledgment.

How much does the couple make? What is their credit score? How much will they pay? How far can I get them to go?

Phones ring and announcements are made from some disembodied voice over an intercom system.

"John Young," the invisible announcer says. "Line one."

We laugh at the office stuffiness and the tight-panted girl who just drew a disturbingly lascivious look from a suited broker.

"Fill this out," demands the receptionist, whom I would assume was the disembodied voice.

We fill out our form: name, address, occupation...

Reason for moving?
"Location." (Somewhat of a lie because we have to move for financial reasons.)

What will you do if you don't find an apartment?
"Go homeless." (Also probably not true.)

The man we had talked to over the telephone walks over and introduces himself. His name is Paul. He is a sexually ambiguous man who falls somewhere between a used car salesman and a waiter. When he's not overselling you just want him to shut up.

Finally, he punches some keys into a computer and pulls up a listing of apartments.

About an hour later, we walk out with his coworker (grunt), Lesley, and a list of apartments.

We look in the Midtown Manhattan area on the West Side first. This would be the best place for us to live - closest to work.

They are all tiny.

In one, you can't open the oven without hitting the fridge. In another, Mark would not be able to get in the shower because it's jammed in so close to the toilet. Neither of them has any closet space. Both seem unlikely to fit our bed.

The third is mottled with mold and mildew and stinks like the person who lived there before never cleaned.

"Are they going to be renovating that," we ask the super.

"No renovation," he says. "That's just paint job."

That's just disgusting.

A fourth unit is on the 6th floor of a spiraling walk-up and consists of a kitchen with two small rooms on either side. There would be no place for a couch, kitchen table and bed. One of them _ and possibly our cat Jasmine _ would have to be sacrificed.

We end the day having a Guinness with our heads in our hands. We've felt the despair of apartment hunting before. But this was going to be even more difficult than usual. We want an easier commute and that's going to be hard to find in our price range.

We tell the broker to head North. We won't mind Harlem as long as we're close enough to the subway and near shops and restaurants.

Our second day begins at an apartment rather than in clone-land.

The apartment in the 100's is a huge improvement over the day before. Although, again, our broker's henchwoman doesn't seem to be able to figure out what keys she needs or the agency doesn't have them. Again, we end up having to buzz all the apartments until somebody lets us in.

"Are you a broker?" a woman asks before figuring us out and refusing to buzz us in.

It seems pretty rude but I definitely understand. I wouldn't want these people randomly ringing my bell either.

Finally, the mail lady lets us in.

Again, no closets, too many stairs. But it is much closer to what we want.

Then, we walk into a sub-first floor apartment.

Here, in NYC, they call them garden apartments. They are actually on the same level os the sidewalk. But the home's entrance is about a floor above street-level.

This is going to be like a cave, I thought, ready to call it a day.

When I walked in the door, the first thing I see is the light shooting into the rear of the apartment, brand new hardwood floors, exposed brick and a high ceiling.

The spacious living room gives way to a set of sliding doors that open to a lawn large enough for a picnic table, grill, flower boxes and baby pool if the summer was too hot.

The bedroom is actually large enough for our bed and a dresser. There's ample closet space.

"We'll take it," I declared.

A couple hours later, we were back at the broker's bland office.

There was already a bid on the apartment. Somebody had put an application in, but it hadn't been accepted. Apparently, this person's credit was less than stellar so they had agreed to paying a year of rent up front. (Can you say drug dealer?)

But, wait, there's a chance. If we would fill out the credit apps and get them over to the landlord (cost $100) there might be a chance.

"I can't make you any promise," Paul said, "Let me ask you this, how much is this apartment worth to you?"

Even the suggestion of getting into a bidding war over an apartment is ridiculous. No matter how fiscally irresponsible I can be, I'm not crazy. We reject the idea and return to crossing our fingers.

We left the office at 6 p.m. after two days of apartment hunting. My legs hurt, feet hurt, head hurt and I was generally frustrated. But I had hope.

It is fading...

peace