Just when you start to feel cocky -- you have a great internship, a great relationship, you're finally getting to live in Manhattan and life is pretty much starting to look like a 1960s sitcom -- Craigslist is there to bitch-slap you back into your place. Or at least this is what happened to me. This, dear reader, is the story of my struggle to find an apartment in the world of cyber-freaks and virtual sketchiness that is Craigslist.
After deciding upon all of the basics with my boyfriend (price, location etc.), I started making lists and writing emails to potential landlords. Then I realized the singular most important truth that any Craigslist user would (albeit reluctantly) admit to be true. Craigslist is like crack. You start off one day, innocently enough, you're just going to "try it out," you know, "see what it's like." But let's face it, after that first post-reply, you're a goner. You've been sucked into the vortex and there's nothing you can do about it. You must obsessively check for new postings, haunted by the fear that you might miss your perfect apartment. Friends, classes and extracurriculars fall through the cracks, because there just isn't time, and after all, you've got your priorities straight. Before you know it, you can no longer sleep through the night, and your roommates find you wandering around the apartment, whimpering that someone stole your computer and swearing that you just need it for a little while.
This was certainly the case with me.
Right off the bat, I realized that you don't want to deal with brokers. Not that laymen can't be freaks too (they can), but with a broker it's pretty much guaranteed. The problem is, as a Craigslist virgin, I originally had a lot of trouble sorting out the brokers from the non-brokers. There was this one guy I talked to who kept saying that he was going to "treat me so good" and drive me around in his limo. I asked him why transportation even needed to be involved at all, and then I realized that he was trying to rent multiple apartments. I told him that I wasn't interested in working with a broker and he started violently cursing at me (at this point we were on the phone, whoops, mistake #2!) telling me how the "fcking best doesn't come for fcking free."
Then there's the broker Victor, who has called me once a week ever since I told him that I wasn't interested (I guess it's true that you always want what you can't have). I quickly learned two things: 1) that brokers are often slimier and more insistent than local men on the streets of Rome (ciao bella!) and 2) never give your number out. Just seriously, don't do it.
So after I talked to a few (for all appearances) normal people, and set up some apartment-viewing appointments, I hauled my sorry self down to New York for a weekend, in the hopes of finding an apartment and being done with the whole thing.
I had a full day of viewings set up for Saturday. I was bound to find something. Or so I thought. Through complete coincidence, and after sending my personal blurb to a potential landlord, I received the answer "I'm a Dartmouth alum myself, an '05, you should definitely come by and see the place." I thought that surely this was a sign from the Craigslist gods, this apartment was meant for me.
Little did I know that because Craigslist is hell, there are no gods. Only horny little devils.
Saturday morning, I showed up at the given address, full of naivete and hope. This Dartmouth alum (who shall remain nameless because the world and editors are cruel) wasn't there. I rang the bell, no answer. I called his phone, no answer. Long story short -- 45 minutes, 10 loops around the same block, four voicemails, two cafe lattes and a partridge and a pear tree later, I realized that this "alumnus" was not showing up. So much for school spirit.
Disillusioned and a little sore from all the walking (hey those are long city blocks!) I headed to my next viewing. I arrived, on time but before the subletter (I'm beginning to sense a pattern here). He did eventually show up, and without apologizing for being late, started eyeing me from head to toe.
And then he licked his lips. For really doh.
He then asked me if I "want to come up," as though I might like to see his third-floor apartment from the street. He mentioned to me that he noticed I would be investment banking this summer, and asked me where I'm working because that's his "line of work." All of a sudden, it started to come together: the cockiness, coupled with his Napoleonic stature, and the way he made me feel like I was leaning against a streetlamp with a variety of colorful condoms tucked into my garter belt (a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman).
At this point, I started to get really excited about my summer job. He continued talking about how great he was until we entered his apartment. He might have an eye for high-yield investments, but he certainly did not have one for decorating -- the place was a shithole. After he verbally abused the current tenants to their faces (he seemed to be under the impression that because they were Italian, they were deaf), he took me onto the "balcony," which was actually a mess of tangled cable wires and looked most unsafe (I also have a thing about balcony safety).
He then told me that he had raised the rent by $500 a month.
I turned to the Italian tenant and said to her (in Italian), "He's a real prick isn't he?" to which she replied, "Yeah he is, and this apartment isn't worth what he's charging for it." He stood by, oblivious, like a proud little rooster. Priceless. And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, he asked me if I wanted to "grab a drink" later that night "no matter what happens with the apartment. Then he winked. Despite the fact that I had told him that I was moving in with my boyfriend, and he was subletting because he was moving in with his girlfriend. When I arrived back at Dartmouth, I had an e-mail waiting in my inbox saying that if I ever needed "help in the business" I should "give him a call."
I don't know what business he was talking about, but I certainly didn't care to find out.
My next appointment decided to inform me, after I had cabbed across Manhattan to get there, that the apartment was rented. And the best part is, this guy's name was Fergal. Let that sink in for a minute. I got f*cked over by Fergal. Enough said.
At the end of the day, after losing my way, my temper, my courage and my dignity, I still had not gained an apartment. So I did the only logical thing -- I drowned my sorrows in tequila. With every shot I toasted: "This one's for you, Fergal".
Upon my return to Dartmouth, I set my suitcase down in my room, gave my roommates a hug and a knowing sad smile, and immediately turned on my computer and went back on Craigslist. I was that pathetic. I am happy to say though, that after several false starts, many other dead ends and endless hours lost in cyberspace, I finally found an apartment. My landlord is nice, and even though he too is in investment banking, he has never tried to hit on me. And for all of you kids who will have to go through Craigslist in the future? Sucks to be you. However, if you need any "help in the business" or want to rent an apartment from a "reliable" alum, just email kgor@dartmouth.edu. I promise I'll "treat you so good."
