Friday: Awakened at the crack of dawn by a messenger bearing this coming Sunday’s New York Times Real Estate section. First six apartments gone already. Spent a good fifteen minutes dividing the number of New York Times editors into the probable number of people looking for two-bedroom apartments. Spent additional half-hour wondering how anyone who has a paper to get out every day could possibly have time to keep up eleven hundred friendships. Realized this theory not plausible and decided instead that the typesetters all live in co-ops with wood-burning fireplaces. Wondered briefly why listings always specify wood-burning fireplaces. Decided that considering the prices they’re asking, it’s probably just a warning device for those who might otherwise figure what the hell, and just burn money.
Called V.F. and inquired politely whether anyone in his extremely desirable building had died during the night. Reply in the negative. I just don’t get it. It’s quite a large building and no one in it has died for months. In my tiny little building they’re dropping like flies. Made a note to investigate the possibility that high ceilings and decorative moldings prolong life. Momentarily chilled by the thought that someone who lives in a worse building than mine is waiting for me to die. Cheered immeasurably by realization that a) nobody lives in a worse building than mine and b) particularly those who are waiting for me to die.
Saturday: Uptown to look at co-op in venerable midtown building. Met real estate broker in lobby. A Caucasian version of Tokyo Rose. She immediately launched into a description of all the respectably employed people who were waiting in line for this apartment. Showed me living room first. Large, airy, terrific view of well-known discount drugstore. Two bedrooms, sure enough. Kitchen, sort of. When I asked why the present occupant had seen fit to cut three five-foot-high arches out of the inside wall of the master bedroom, she muttered something about cross ventilation. When I pointed out that there were no windows on the opposite wall, she ostentatiously extracted a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and studied them closely. Presumably these contained the names of all the Supreme Court Justices who were waiting for this apartment. Nevertheless I pressed on and asked her what one might do with three five-foot-high arches in one’s bedroom wall. She suggested stained glass. I suggested pews in the living room and services every Sunday. She showed me a room she referred to as the master bath. I asked her where the slaves bathed. She rustled her papers ominously and showed me the living room again. I looked disgruntled. She brightened and showed me something called a fun bathroom. It had been covered in fabric from floor to ceiling by someone who obviously was not afraid to mix patterns. I informed her unceremoniously that I never again wanted to be shown a fun bathroom. I don’t want to have fun in the bathroom; I just want to bathe my slaves.
She showed me the living room again. Either she just couldn’t get enough of that discount drugstore or she was trying to trick me into thinking there were three living rooms. Impudently I asked her where one ate, seeing as I had not been shown a dining room and the kitchen was approximately the size of a brandy snifter.
“Well,” she said, “some people use the second bedroom as a dining room.” I replied that I needed the second bedroom to write in. This was a mistake because it reminded her of all the ambassadors to the U.N. on her list of prospective tenants.
“Well,” she said, “the master bedroom is rather large.”
“Listen,” I said, “I already eat on my bed. In a one-room, rent-controlled slum apartment, I’ll eat on the bed. In an ornately priced, high-maintenance co-op, I want to eat at a table. Call me silly, call me foolish, but that’s the kind of girl I am.” She escorted me out of the apartment and left me standing in the lobby as she hurried off—anxious, no doubt, to call Cardinal Cooke and tell him okay, the apartment was his.
Sunday: Spent the entire day recovering from a telephone call with a real estate broker, who, in response to my having expressed displeasure at having been shown an apartment in which the closest thing to a closet had been the living room, said, “Well, Fran, what do you expect for fourteen hundred a month?” He hung up before I could tell him that actually, to tell you the truth, for fourteen hundred a month I expected the Winter Palace—furnished. Not to mention fully staffed.
Monday: Looked this morning at the top floor of a building which I have privately christened Uncle Tom’s Brown-stone. One end of the floor sloped sufficiently for me to be able to straighten up and ask why the refrigerator was in the living room. I was promptly put in my place by the owner, who looked me straight in the eye and said, “Because it doesn’t fit in the kitchen.”
“True,” I conceded, taking a closer look, “that is a problem. I’ll tell you what, though, and this may not have occurred to you, but that kitchen does fit in the refrigerator. Why don’t you try it?”
I left before he could act on my suggestion and repaired to a phone booth. Mortality rate in V.F.’s building still amazingly low.
Called about apartment listed in today’s paper. Was told fixture fee $100,000. Replied that unless Rembrandt had doodled on the walls, $100,000 wasn’t a fixture fee; it was war reparations.
Tuesday: Let desperation get the best of me and went to see an apartment described as “interesting.” “Interesting” generally means that it has a skylight, no elevator and they’ll throw in the glassine envelopes for free. This one was even more interesting than usual because, the broker informed me, Jack Kerouac had once lived here. Someone’s pulling your leg, I told him; Jack Kerouac’s still living here.
Wednesday: Ran into a casual acquaintance on Seventh Avenue. Turns out he too is looking for a two-bedroom apartment. We compared notes.
“Did you see the one with the refrigerator in the living room?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “today I looked at a dentist’s office in the East Fifties.”
“A dentist’s office,” I said. “Was the chair still there?”
“No,” he replied, “but there was a sink in every room.” It sounded like a deal for someone. I tried to think if I knew of any abortionists looking for a two-bedroom apartment. None sprang to mind.
Called real-estate broker and inquired as to price of newly advertised co-op. Amount in substantial six figures. “What about financing?” I asked.
“Financing?” She shuddered audibly. “This is an all-cash building.”
I told her that to me an all-cash building is what you put on Boardwalk or Park Place. She suggested that I look farther uptown. I replied that if I looked any farther uptown I’d have to take karate lessons. She thought that sounded like a good idea.
Thursday: Was shown co-op apartment of recently deceased actor. By now so seasoned that I didn’t bat an eye at the sink in the master bedroom. Assumed that either he was a dentist on the side or that it didn’t fit in the bathroom. Second assumption proved correct. Couldn’t understand why, though; you’d think that there not being a shower in there would have left plenty of room for a sink. Real-estate broker pointed out recent improvements: tangerine-colored kitchen appliances; bronze-mirrored fireplace; a fun living room. Told the broker that what with the asking price, the maintenance and the cost of unimproving, I couldn’t afford to live there and still wear shoes on a regular basis.
Called V.F. again. First the good news: a woman in his building died. Then the bad news: she decided not to move.