The Long and the Short of It

My buyer and I approached a building near the Bowery.

“We’re early,” she said.

“Only by a few minutes,” I said.

“A lot can happen in a few minutes,” she said.

“It sure can,” I agreed.

“Anything, really,” she said.

We were buzzed in. The freight elevator took us directly to the third floor loft, a wide, open space with large windows overlooking the street.

A man was seated on a stool at a long wooden table, his back to us as we entered the loft. His long hair was being trimmed by man with a pink-streaked blond ponytail. Snip, snip. Dark strands floated to the floor.

“That you, Liz? I can’t turn around, but make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks,” said my customer. She walked over to the Traulsen refrigerator, opened it and looked inside. I walked over and closed it.

“What, he told us to make ourselves at home,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll buy you a hamburger,” I said.

“I’m cutting down on my meat intake,” she said.

“Then I’ll buy you a bagel,” I said.

“Hey,” called a woman from the opposite end of the loft. She was on the large bed, propped up by pillows and holding a magazine. “I’m hungry too.”

She swung her legs gracefully over the side of the bed and glided toward us. She had short, spiked black hair and was one of those fragile, fine boned women who also manage to be curvy. Her pale pink tank top and black pants looked like the size I might have worn when I was an embryo.

She shook our hands, glittery rings on most of her fingers. Then she walked over to the owner and looked at his head, front and back. “Don’t cut off any more,” she told the haircutter. “He’s good now.”

The haircutter started to clean up. “Anyone else want a haircut? Sixty bucks,” he said.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m working.”

“What about you?” he asked my customer.

“I’m letting it grow,” she said. “But you’re good. Do you have a card?” He did, and he gave her one. He gave me one, too.

“So, anyone for an omelet?” the owner asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He got up, paid the haircutter and went to the fridge. Took out some ham. Diced it with some onion and red pepper faster than I could sneeze, if I had been so inclined. Broke seven eggs with one hand. Whisked, briskly.

The woman set the table with plates of fine china, white with birds on them. Linen napkins. She poured cider into champagne flutes because she said they were, unfortunately, out of champagne.

The haircutter didn’t stay. “I don’t eat eggs,” he said.

We ate the fluffy omelet. It was delicious. The woman cleared the table and then the four of us played Scrabble.

Sometimes that’s how it went, selling real estate in the city.

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Here Today Gone Tomorrow

In the mid 1990’s I showed a buyer an apartment in a small, unattractive building.

We met in front, near the almost overflowing garbage cans. I unlocked the front door and we climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The door opened directly into the kitchen, a medium sized room with a worn armchair by the window, white appliances, linoleum floors and a wooden table that was painted yellow. It reminded me of the table in the kitchen of  Frieda Kahlo’s blue house. I had gone to Mexico many years ago, to see her Casa Azul. I can still see the easels, the painted body cast, her bed, her long yellow kitchen table. And now here was another kitchen table painted the same happy color, in Spanish Harlem.

“Good vibes here,” my buyer said.

“Yes,” I said.

The bedroom and bathroom were opposite each other down a short hallway to the left of the kitchen. Nothing wrong with either room.

The living room was to the right of the kitchen, and like the other rooms, its large single window overlooked the street. Low buildings, a few skinny trees. 

At the far end of the living room an open arch led to a windowless alcove, maybe seven feet by nine feet. A sweet, sweet space. Filled bookcases lined walls on three sides, embraced a twin bed. The book that lay open on the brightly colored bedspread had a cracked spine, and some lines were highlighted in orange.

A room for a lover of books.

My buyer spent about three seconds peering into the alcove. “Huh,” she said, and nodded. She wandered back into the living room and sat on the black leather couch. “Do you think we can stay for a bit?” she asked. “I’m feeling good here.”

“No problem,” I said, and left her to relax into the space. I went back to the books. On some shelves they were alphabetized. On others, they seemed randomly placed.

It has always interested me to see how people arrange their books. I so admire those who alphabetize. I did it once and partially succeeded. But it began to bother me that Joseph Conrad shared a shelf with Lee Child. And what to do with Joan Didion? Mix her novels with the memoirs, or alphabetize her fiction and the non-fiction separately?

It was overwhelming. Now my fiction is a mess of confusion when I look for a particular title. But I do categorize my non-fiction: Anything New York; Autobiography; Biography; Horrible Things That Happen To Some African and Middle Eastern Women Including Princesses; Manmade Disasters With Terrible Consequences; Memoirs; Memoirs of People and their Food; Natural Disasters; Travel Adventure (Especially in Extreme Climates).

I cannot express the pleasure it gives me to know that approximately a third of my shelves have order to them, not so unlike those in the apartment in East Harlem. Every now and again I think of that book-lined alcove in the apartment my buyer purchased. Several weeks after she closed, we met at a pastry shop. She had coffee, I had tea, and to celebrate, each of us ordered a slice of chocolate cake with white icing and a cherry on top. 

“You won’t believe how great the place looks,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” I said. And just before I took my first bite of cake, she said:

“I ripped out those hideous old bookcases and put my StairMaster in the alcove. Brilliant, huh?”

“And the books?” I asked.

“Oh, I paid some local kids to take them to the library,” she said.

“That was thoughtful,” I said.

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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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That is Very Fine Luck You Know of Course

A man called me. He was interested in purchasing a loft in Hell’s Kitchen. I had viewed one a week earlier that seemed to meet both his requirements and price range, so we arranged to see it the following day.

I called to notify the seller. “Sure, come on by. I’ll be home all day,” he said.

The following day was warm and sunny. I walked up Tenth Avenue to the address in the West 30s. I arrived early and decided to wait across the street, out of the way of the steady stream of tenants and messengers going into and out of the mixed use building.

I leaned against a brick wall that abutted a garage. A few minutes later a man walked down the street from Ninth Avenue. He was in his late twenties or early thirties and wore jeans, a thin black leather jacket over a grey T-shirt, and a pale blue paisley bandanna around his neck. He smiled as I walked toward him. I hadn’t taken half a dozen steps when a pigeon swooped down and pooped on my head.

“Hi,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “I’m Liz.”

“Hi,” he said, staring at my head with a look that said thank God it wasn’t me.

I reached for the small enameled mirror in my bag and looked in it. Gobs of poop in my hair. I recall them as primarily white, with perhaps a tinge of yellow and a dab of chartreuse. “I have to go home,” I said. “Right now.”

“I can’t believe a single pigeon did all that,” he said, and he began to laugh. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s not funny. At least not to you.” It wasn’t, but I started laughing also, because he had a laugh that invited company.

He untied his bandanna and handed it to me. I smoothed it out and spread it over my head, neatly, as I would smooth a linen napkin over my lap.

“Thank you,” I said. I was immensely grateful.

“You don’t have to return it,” he said. “Ever.”

“You know I can’t show you the apartment today,” I said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “How about tomorrow?”

“I’ll check with the seller,” I said. We walked to Ninth Avenue. He headed uptown. I walked a block south before I hailed a cab. I felt conspicuous and a bit sorry for myself.

“Hi,” I said to the driver. “A bird shit on my head.”

“Yes, miss, and that is very fine luck you know of course,” he said as we zipped down Ninth. We made all the lights, and that fast, the cab was in front of my building.

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First Post

Welcome to the first entry in my new blog.

After selling real estate in Manhattan for the last twenty-five years, I took a break. 

I started to write stories related to real estate, not about specific buyers or sellers or other brokers, but incidents, properties, and friendship. Because real estate, at least in this city, grabs hold and settles deep. If you love it the way I do, the memories become part of who you are:

That kitchen, those views, this tin ceiling.

The man who opened his door to my sari-clad buyer and me while he was buck naked and at full mast. My buyer said, “Liz, you never told me this apartment came furnished.”

The young woman who threatened to jump out of a window unless I found her an affordable apartment with a view of the East River. I told her I preferred the Hudson.

I was still a fairly inexperienced broker when a young woman with some money asked me to show her loft spaces in the meatpacking district. Back then, there were few lofts for sale and plenty of meatpackers. I remember slippery streets, hoses to wash them down, and butchers wearing blood spattered aprons standing on loading docks. On hot summer days there was a distinctive odor, made stronger with a breeze off the river, as luggers lifted forequarters and hindquarters laden with fat.

I loved that New York.

I miss that New York.

Back then there weren’t many lofts for sale on those few blocks, but there were some. A large hook hung from the ceiling in one of them, and handcuffs were hammered onto a wall. This loft had good light. This loft my buyer could afford.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “It’s perfect.”