A WEST SIDE STORY

A man walked into the real estate office to speak to a broker. I was available.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Liz.”

“And I’m looking for an apartment,” he said. “I require outdoor space and exceptional views.” He was terse, unfriendly, and not quite handsome.

“Okay, then,” I said.

“I’m a doctor,” he said. “Very busy. Do not even think of wasting my time.”

I was intimidated, for about a minute. “Would you care to have a seat so that we can discuss…”

“No. Thank you,” he said. 

“When are you free to look?” I asked.

“Sundays. I only have Sundays. And don’t bother to show me anything west of Fifth Avenue,” he said. Before he left the office he gave me his price range and phone number and not so much as a good day or see you around or thanks.

Sunday arrived. I met him at mid-day and showed him five properties. He disliked each one and made it clear.

The next time we met I showed him a perfectly fine place with a large terrace and views that overlooked the East River and the blocks in between.

“This is not what I want,” he said.

“I have one more property to show you today,” I said. “It’s in Chelsea.”

“I believe that I told you I’m not interested in anything west of Fifth.” he said.

“You did. Humor me,” I said. “Just this once.”

He glowered at me. “Fine,” he said. “Just this once, since I’m certain we won’t be seeing each other after today.”

I didn’t care, because I knew that the Chelsea apartment was the right one for him, even though it was in a nondescript building on his wrong side of town. And when our cab pulled up in front, a barefoot homeless man with open sores on his legs was sleeping against it.

“Are you out of your mind?” my buyer asked me.

“Come on,” I said. We entered the building. Rode the elevator to the top floor.

The owner was waiting for us. He welcomed us into his living room, reached for a book on the coffee table, sat on the sofa and left us alone.

We were assaulted by sunlight and panoramic views. Vast views to the north and east, as lovely as could be. A soft breeze from the open terrace door. Several barking chihuahuas jumped about as though firecrackers had been lit beneath them. The cacophony of their barking continued for several minutes. Yapyapyapyapyap.

The living room was large, the kitchen small, and the bedroom, reached by a few shallow stairs, was the best room of all. Enormous views south, west, north. My buyer stood by the oversized window, looked south across the roofs of Chelsea down to the Village. Looked north and west, as the sun began its descent across the Hudson River. He turned to me with a warm, wide, boyish smile. It so happened that he was a nice guy, once he knew he was home.

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