a couple thoughts on apartment hunting

I'm sure most Bostonians and most everyone, flung out in post-collegiate diaspora, have dealt with apartment hunting. Sure enough, this process centers around the suspiciously indespensible website Craigslist, which offers, in plain text: jobs, apartments, gigs, dating, rants and raves, and almost every city worth living (and many that are not) in America and the world.

Now, in my opinion, Craigslist apartment hunting is a bit like dating. You go to CL, fire up the search engine, put in your key terms ("tall," "brunette," "loves to laugh") and hit go. You then are presented with a list of places with descriptions.

"Gorgeous model-quality 25 year old with expensive habits, collects men who collect post-impressionist art."

Yep, like you'll be able to rent that place. That's first, last, security and fee!

So, you email the people via the anonymous contact email:

"Hi, I'm a 27 year old financial consultant with a coke habit. I'd love to live in your place because I owe $274,357 in back taxes to the IRS and $26,457 a month in child support to three or four women, I forget how many, and I drive a bimmer, so my car payment is killing me. So, moving in with you schlubs will help me cut costs, and goddamn, you know I need to do that. My ex is killing me slowly, and I'd love to have a shorter commute. I don't smoke and I hate pets."

You hear back:

"Hi, this is John, I've been living here for 2 years, and all my roomates are moving out, so I'm scoping out some new people for 3 ratty water stained bedrooms that look like they were used to film scenes from a zombie movie. You can come by between 745-845 on Tuesday, and wipe your feet, because we have snakes. You aren't allergic, right? Oh, my cell phone number is 555-423-7887, call me if you have problems."

So you traipse over there. Sure enough, "about 10 minutes" from the T means "Carl Lewis could sprint there in 10 minutes, maybe, with a tailwind." You wander around a little. Boy, this neighborhood seems run down. No wonder it is 475 a month. And then you ring the doorbell and meet the folks. Your host is usually wearing socks:

"Hi, John?"

"Hi, Carl?"

"Hey, nice to meet you, c'mon in."

"Is this the bedroom?" you innocently inquire, looking at what seems to be a laundry hamper mating with a closet. "Yes, this would be the 475, it has a window," your John replies.

"And here's the kitchen. We don't really cook much, but it has a range." "Gas?" "Electric."

"Here's the door to the roof deck, but we don't go up there much."

"The TV is staying, but Alan, he's moving out, well, he's taking the x-box. Hey, say hi to Brian."

And because Boston apartments are tiny, generally, it doesn't take much tramping to see a couple bedrooms, the inveterate mess of slobby men, and the fact that 600 a month isn't going to get you corian countertops, let alone faux marble. But that's fine, we can't all afford to live in Swellesley right out of college, anyway.

Here's the kicker though: everyone in Boston is doing the exact same thing you are, at the same time, with the same places, the same listings, the same people. Except, most places would rather have a girl, not a scruffy guy, or even a clean-shaven "professional" with a steady job. And that's the battle you're fighting, over and over again: there are 5 people looking at every listing, and you're always in competition.

"Who else is looking, (if I may ask)" you'll inquire.

"Oh, we've got a couple more tomorrow, and then we'll pow-wow with the roomates. I didn't really like one of the guys, so there's only really 3 or 4."

"Oh yeah? And then what's the timeframe?"

"Well, we'd need first and last, and then you could start moving in whenever."

"So when will you let me know?"

Tomorrow, or Thursday, or maybe early next week, see, we're looking at a couple more people, and one of our deadbeat buddies might finally move out of the Parental Manse up near Andover and join the fun in the big city, and really, we're hoping for a cute girl so we can oggle her in the morning when she's making pancakes, but seriously, we are kinda needing someone, and you look reliable...so we'll call you, don't call us.

But we're all doing it, because what's the alternative? Calling a relator and getting led around by a Rico Suave type who has simultaneously cornered the market on (hair) product, Davidoff's Cool Water pour Homme, and is sporting some gold chain ala boyhood hero Curt Schilling (or was that Gary Sheffield?) and who will be taking 10% for a finder's fee even though he just fucking looked the place up on Craigslist like you did?

Yeah.

Enjoy the rat race, that's what I say. At least you get to meet new people. I looked at a palace last night, hardwood floors, good looking roomates, nice room, solidly middle-class clapboard in Davis, near Tufts, replete with an American flag and potted roses on the porch. And I knew that there was no way I was going to live there, with the gold-plated toilet bowl and the leather couches and the faintly monied roomates who were upper-crustier with a hardly detectable hauteur ameliorated by the potpourri of their noblesse oblige and I was standing outside, afterwards, talking to another petitioner, and we shook hands, and he got in his Blazer, forest green, and he's half in his seat, leg dangling in the road, and we exchange stories, job boilerplate: "I work in cancer research" and he shoots back with "I'm a social worker for disabled kids" and the consensus is clear though I say it anyway, "keep up the good work" and he concurs, and at that moment, us do-gooders, standing in the street in front of that palace, we realized that we weren't going to live there, that we weren't female enough, or endowed with wildly renumerative positions, and that we were going to keep searching and find something, but not this nice. He drove off, and I walked to my car, and what more to say?


Good luck, and keep hunting!