Siddity in the City

I could have heeded any of a number of signs, beginning with the phonecall to the monosyllabic, depressive landlord:

“Hello? Mr. Mal?”

*Sigh* “Yes.”

“I’m calling about the $850 Queens studio. Is that still available?”

*Groan, sigh* “Yes.”

“Can I come see it tomorrow?”

*Pause. Heaving sigh.* “Yes.”

I wakened to dark skies, downpours, and sodden earth. I got a solo seat on the commuter rail (no doubt exhausting all my real estate luck for the day). It took three phonecalls to the management office for directions to get me to the building. Bad signs.

The apartment itself was relatively secure…with a nice lady super…who was actually present, as promised, when I buzzed. (With one other exception, every apartment in the last two months I have attempted to view that required I be let in by a superintendent involved multiple phonecalls to management companies to track said supers down. And I have seen MANY, MANY apartments.) It was ugly, but relatively spacious, had an actual bathtub and a full recessed kitchen. The kitchen only had about six inches of floor space, but all the important appliances were there. I actually wanted it, enough to call the management office a fourth time for the day to make arrangements to come in and apply. That alone should have alerted me to the ever shrinking likelihood things would end well.

But I pressed on, deeper into the treacherous heart of the Queens, to find the elusive management office. I got lost again, in Elmhurst this time, before finding a dingy apartment complex that contained dozens of buzzers with NO LABELS. NO LABELS means no way of determining which goes to the alleged “office.” And frankly, looking at the building, I wanted as little as possible to do with any business run out of it.

And yet, I called again, to figure out how to get in. When I finally puzzled it all out, I climbed the stairs and presented myself to the woman behind the desk, W-2’s, pay stubs and proof of citizenship in hand.

“I’m here to apply for the studio!” I beamed, proud of myself for being first, decisive and prepared for once.

“The thing about that studio is-” began Desk Woman, “I don’t know how much it’s gonna cost yet.”

“Wha-huh? But, isn’t it $850? It’s listed online as being $850!”

“Oh, no, that’s for another studio we had that we rented two days ago. This one is gonna be closer to $1000″

“What? Why? What is the difference between this and the cheaper one?!”

“Well, this one has a dishwasher, and, um, stuff.”

You read it right. A tiny, compact, $200 dishwasher is what the landlord is using to justify and additional $1500 per year in rent.

After much of my griping about having spent three hours on inter- and intrastate travel to view the place, Desk Woman agreed to call her superior to at least try to pin down what the rent would likely be. (During this conversation, she made no attempt to even lower her voice so I wouldn’t overhear that the prior tenant was paying just over $800, and the one before that just over $750.) The landlord’s comeback?

“Well, what’s the maximum you’re willing to pay?”

*headdesk*

They rejected my offer of $900, but did offer me another apartment in the twice-as-far-from-Manhattan, dirty-dingy-dodgy complex in Elmhurst.

Classic bait and switch.

Ugh. The sad thing is, I’m thinking about calling tomorrow to offer $925 for the one I wanted.