The Agent stands on the agreed upon corner in the West Village, somehow looking just as stoned in his suit and tie as he sounded over the phone. He greets us with a smile and a weak handshake. After saying goodbye on his cell phone the day before, Eric had turned to me, laughing, “This guy sounds so fucking stoned right now!” – then had glanced down at the screen to realize he had not hung up yet. If the Agent had overheard, he does not indicate it now. Instead, he mumbles to himself and leads us to the entrance.

The four flights of marble stairs are well worn and the steps are not entirely even, the railings featuring decorative wrought iron. There is no doorman or elevator. The apartment consists of four rooms arranged in a circle – one a kitchen, the others to be living areas or bedrooms. The 9 foot ceilings leave space for 6 foot tall windows. The hardwood floors slope toward the middle of the apartment aggressively enough to allow a wading pool several inches deep in the center if I were to try to fill it with water, which sadly I can’t, since they don’t allow waterbeds. The bathroom has a solid 3 square feet of standing room.

It is exactly what we were looking for.

We follow the agent as he bumbles through another neighborhood, eyes glued to iPhone. He gives us some non credible information – that the apartment had an air conditioner, because they are required by law (incorrect, and false); that we will be able to define the terms of our lease (completely incorrect); and that the apartment has been on the market for a Long Time.

“How long?”
“Almost 2 weeks.”

We walk several blocks one way and then turn around completely, the Agent repeating “I am so confused,” and waving his phone around in front of him. He manages to show us another apartment, then sends us on our way to think it over.

“What did you think?” I ask.
“I liked the first one a lot.” Eric responds.
“Yeah, me too.”
“I think we should get it.”

We decide to act fast. Although 2 weeks seems like a long time to the Agent, it seems absurdly fast to us. We walk directly to the main office, texting the Agent on the way. He meets us in the lobby. Here we will spend the next several hours. We each fill out an application for a credit check. We had hoped to leave my name off the lease, but they require me to also apply.

To run the credit check, they require us to pay the application fee. Eric goes to the bank and returns with cash. My credit check runs with no problems, but Eric’s reports a freeze. He admits he froze his credit himself. He spends the next 20 minutes filling out web forms on his iPhone to temporarily unfreeze. They run the credit check again. Pass. Eric negotiates the rate with the Agent. When the Agent said “half of one month’s rent” we assumed that he didn’t mean “half of 15% of the total rent for the year, ” but he did. Eric goes back to the bank. Returns with a small fortune in cashier’s checks for deposit and Agent fee.

Now we sign forms. This pile of forms dwarfs the forms I signed for my mortgage. We sign that we will pay rent; will not put a water bed in the apartment; understand that no window guards exist so children could fall out; will not eat paint chips; etc. Now all we have to do is each email them our 2011 W2 forms, our last two bank statements, a utility bill for homes we own in Washington, our last two pay stubs, and the apartment is ours! – well, sort of, except for the contractor still neck deep in closet construction, his 14 power tools, his Carhartts on the kitchen counter, his ladder, an old door, a couple buckets full of plaster, and 3 garbage bags full of dust and debris. Welcome home to NYC!