So, a couple of weeks ago, the roomie and I, on our first apartment-hunting excursion in the wilds of Astoria (no, not Dark Astoria), meandered into the courtyard of a building on the street we liked, and had an older guy lean out a window above us and ask if he could help us. I went into my whole "We're looking for a 2-bedroom apartment and love this neighborhood, and would love to live here, and do you have anything available?" He peered at the two of us, accompanied by our famous author friend, and replied, "No pets."
No, we assured him. We were petless. "Two people only!" he barked back at us. Of course, we promised. Famous Author Friend was only helping us look.
"I have something. Come inside." We gleefully followed and he showed us (though up a few flights of stairs), what may be the apartment of our dreams. Exactly in our price range, with all the amenities we wanted, it was even being renovated, so as to have a brand spanking new kitchen and bathroom. Did we want it? Oh yes, precious, we did!
But it was our first apartment hunting excursion, and we didn't have cash with us. Besides, it wasn't ready, wasn't going to be ready for a while, and we didn't know how that would work with when we wanted/needed to move. I gave the super (let's call him Costas, shall we?) my business card with my cell phone number on it, took down his number, and even copied down the building owner's phone number from the plaque near the mailboxes on our way out.
Foolishly, I told a few folks we might have found the apartment of our dreams. And then, I tried to follow up. And none of the phone numbers I had worked. Had I written them down wrong? Been deliberately given a bad number? Perish the thought!
I sent Famous Author Friend back to the building (she lived nearby, after all), to check that I'd written things down correctly, or try to get more information. She came back with the super's apartment number, so I dashed off a letter on fancy office letterhead reiterating our interest, offering to fill out paperwork, sacrifice a goat, ANYTHING!
No response. Sigh.
Last weekend, as noted
, Keeley and I returned to the hunt, and found a note on the door of the building that our fickle friend Costas was on vacation, leaving the number of an alternate super. The wheels in my mind turned. I took the number down, and called, getting through today.
"Hi, yes, I understand you're filling it for Costas? I was just wondering when he's back from vacation."
Next week, I was told. "And can you just confirm for me his number? I have..." I rattled it off, but the line was silent.
"Oh, ah, this is ktbuffy (no, not really, I gave him my real name). I spoke to Costas a couple of weeks ago about an apartment, and I just want to check the number."
"If you're not a tenant, I can't help you. You need to talk to Costas."
Yes, I emphasized. I knew that. Which is why I needed the number.
No such luck. Click.
Rats! They're on to me.
Now what? Go to a real estate broker? How plebian!!