Real estate wishes and no-fee dreams
This morning, I'm riding the elevator to the lobby and it stops at the 8th floor. A woman gets on and we smile to each other a silent 'good morning'. But then all of sudden, she turns a sharp left to me and says, "Are you still thinking of selling your apartment?"
Wha?
My sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process what she's talking about. Then the elephantine memory kicks in and I remember who she is, as part of one of those wierd twists of living in this city. She's the lady with the note.
Over the summer, I entertained the idea of buying the studio next door, when the owner, Sue, approached me about it. We checked it out and the possibility of knocking down the wall between the two apartments, converting it into a nicely sized 1 bedroom. In the end, we decided not to because it needed a lot of work and had only one window. That window barely just made the NYC Building Code for windows.
And her asking price was funny. Not funny strange, but funny ha ha - in a really hysterical way. Almost to the point of being a bit sad, because I started to wonder what delusions of grandeur brought that figure on. I think she realized it too, because eventually she took it off the market.
But before she did that, right before the wedding, we ran into Sue on the elevator. Some small mundane chit-chat about her apartment and our wedding was traded. Thrown in there was a vague statement about how we were now considering a move to Brooklyn in about a year, the thought of which only began to crystallize around that time. Then we went off on our respective paths and I barely noticed the other person in the elevator, who also congratulated us on the impending nuptials.
That night, I come home from work to a note under the door. It was the other lady from the elevator, congratulating us again on the wedding. Then she wrote we should call her straightaway not if, but when we sell the apartment. Like we were hauling ass outta there the following day.
We were so sniffed out, I tell you. Sniffed out like prey with fresh wounds. We weren't even married yet, much less ready to even start looking. Give it to the woman, she was good. As I type, she could already be knitting us a onesie.
Still, that note has been filed away until further notice. Brokers do suck.
Wha?
My sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process what she's talking about. Then the elephantine memory kicks in and I remember who she is, as part of one of those wierd twists of living in this city. She's the lady with the note.
Over the summer, I entertained the idea of buying the studio next door, when the owner, Sue, approached me about it. We checked it out and the possibility of knocking down the wall between the two apartments, converting it into a nicely sized 1 bedroom. In the end, we decided not to because it needed a lot of work and had only one window. That window barely just made the NYC Building Code for windows.
And her asking price was funny. Not funny strange, but funny ha ha - in a really hysterical way. Almost to the point of being a bit sad, because I started to wonder what delusions of grandeur brought that figure on. I think she realized it too, because eventually she took it off the market.
But before she did that, right before the wedding, we ran into Sue on the elevator. Some small mundane chit-chat about her apartment and our wedding was traded. Thrown in there was a vague statement about how we were now considering a move to Brooklyn in about a year, the thought of which only began to crystallize around that time. Then we went off on our respective paths and I barely noticed the other person in the elevator, who also congratulated us on the impending nuptials.
That night, I come home from work to a note under the door. It was the other lady from the elevator, congratulating us again on the wedding. Then she wrote we should call her straightaway not if, but when we sell the apartment. Like we were hauling ass outta there the following day.
We were so sniffed out, I tell you. Sniffed out like prey with fresh wounds. We weren't even married yet, much less ready to even start looking. Give it to the woman, she was good. As I type, she could already be knitting us a onesie.
Still, that note has been filed away until further notice. Brokers do suck.
posted by Currin Girl at 10:31 AM
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