Bundle of Joy? (8 page)

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. I was just trying to think of the right things to say.”

“Yeah? What did you come up with?”

“‘Don’t worry, Tiger, you’ll get ’em next time’?” I said.

She looked at me, and for a second I thought she was going to cry. But she started laughing. And it wasn’t one of those
“oh, you don’t understand”
laughs. This was a real laugh, a Jamie laugh.

I
got home late Monday night after three days with the Jacobses. I loved hanging out with them, but after three days of Trivial Pursuit, getting drunk in the sun, and taking hesitant bike rides, I was ready again for my own space and my own schedule. The Jacobses seemed to thrive on pretending they had a dysfunctional family. But they wore their quirks like a badge of honor. However much they labeled Ana as the paranoid one or Mike as the snob, they loved it. They loved being a part of their own little Jacobs group, but although they considered me a part of the family, I wasn’t. It was something I was always conscious of when I was with them.

The music was blaring when I opened the door. In my living room I found a cosmopolitan crew of people who worked at Armando’s restaurant. I winced as I spotted the chef cooking stuff up on our stove. I had spent the weekend trying to avoid being by the barbecue grill. Fires still scared me.

“Voula,” Armando said, getting up and sending Nadia tumbling off his lap. “Howah you,
bella?
”

“Fine,” I said, looking around at the well-dressed group. I
didn’t like feeling out of place in my own apartment. “Looks like you’re having a party.”

“Yes, nothing big, little come-together.”

I smiled. It was always funny hearing Armando use expressions that he hadn’t quite mastered.

“Pino is making some pasta. You must have some wine.”

That was all I had been drinking with Jamie. Once she got her period she started drowning her sorrows in alcohol.

“Actually, I’m kind of tired.”

“Oh. How was de trip?”

“Very nice, thanks.” I smiled at a couple of the other waiters I knew. “Hello, everyone. I think I’m just going to do some work in my room.”

“Okay, Voula,” Armando said, and walked me over to my door.

My office still had the slight stench of smoke and I didn’t want to be in there.

“Is it okay they here?” he asked.

“Sure, Armando, no problem.”

“Well, come eat someding when you finish.”

“Okay, thanks. I will if I don’t fall asleep.”

I went into my room and shut the door behind me. Was it too much to ask for a little downtime? A little quiet? I don’t know that I was meant to live with roommates. Maybe I was meant to live in a cave.

I flopped on my bed and pulled off my sandals. On the top of my bureau I noticed a stack of newspaper. I grabbed it and saw a note on top from Kelly.

Well, that was thoughtful. I felt a pang of guilt about my anti-roommate thoughts. I had to try to stop being such a loner. But, couldn’t I be social and still not have to deal with other
people? Maybe not
not deal
with them, maybe just not have to worry that what they did could affect my home base. I wasn’t blaming Armando (okay maybe I was), but the whole irresponsible candle thing had rubbed me the wrong way. And even though Kelly seemed like a cool woman, how long before I had to go through the whole rigmarole of a roommate search again?

I started looking through the Styles Section of
The New York Times.
After finding no one I knew had gotten married and skimming an unsatisfactory Vows story, I went to pick up the City section, but then I changed my mind.

I never looked at the Real Estate section. Like the Sports and Automobiles sections, I put Real Estate directly in my recycle pile. Maybe I could just take a look, get an idea. Real Estate was a big game in New York—supposedly it was a good investment. I was curious. Was someone my age even equipped to start looking?

Maybe I could get an article out of this. If I didn’t know anything about it, I bet a lot of New Yorkers didn’t. We all just rented less-than-perfect apartments, moving like nomads when some aspect of our lives changed. Maybe instead of giving money to a faceless management company that waited too long to fix the leak in the bathroom, I could give the money back to myself. What was it called? Equity. I wrote the word in my notebook. I wanted to find out more. It was like another language. I didn’t invest, didn’t really know the first thing about stocks, but I had opened a savings account in kindergarten. I always remember my teacher saying responsible people saved thirty percent of their salary, and since then I have.

I opened the paper and looked at the highlight section— how much certain key apartments were going for and how long they had been on the marker. A one-bedroom with a doorman and roof rights in Chelsea was going for something absurd like $899,000, a Brooklyn two-bedroom was now $425,000 after starting on the market four weeks ago at $455,000. I had $28,000 in the bank and I knew that somewhere I had about $7,000 in bonds that my extended family
had been giving me since birth. These places were way out of my league, but maybe if I was going to do an article about it, I could get a taste of what these top-notch apartments were really like.

But was it just an article? My interest was piqued. I flipped to the back of the section where the actual listings were. When I had researched renting an apartment, before I moved out of my mother’s place, the one thing I had found was that you needed to isolate a neighborhood. The West Village would have been ideal, that’s where Jamie lived—but it was too pricey. Chelsea was starting to be really popular, but the apartment I found in what was then still midtown and is now obnoxiously Chelsea Heights was cheaper.

I liked the neighborhood and Chelsea. I didn’t want to leave the 212 area code. I liked telling editors I lived right in the city. I thought it gave me some bizarre street cred.

I decided I would look at a bunch of apartments—some would be just to get an idea for an article on buying a place, but others I would actually be looking at. I found one for $250,000. I could get a mortgage, right? Who knows how these things worked? I had missed the open house on Sunday, but there was another one on Thursday night. I was in the game. I was on assignment. (Well, I would be after I pitched the story). I was entering a new world.

I arrived at eight p.m. at the building on West 20th Street. It was just west of 8th Avenue, where the buildings were a lot prettier than those to the east. There were several people marching through the tiny space. It was just a small kitchen with a squat, square living room, and I assumed there was a bedroom behind the door. A classy looking blond woman stood like Art Garfunkel, hands clasped behind her back, in the center of the room. She reached one hand forward and shook mine.

“Daria Hayes-Gelsimino, senior sales agent for Corcoran.”

“I’m Voula Pavlopoulos.”

She blinked and smiled. This was a woman who was “on” for a living. In a minute, she’d forget my name.

“Please sign in.”

I looked over to the coffee table she gestured toward. There was a white sheet of paper that demanded all kinds of info about me and the name of my real estate agent.

“Um, I don’t have a Realtor.”

Daria smiled even more brightly, but I could tell by the looks of some of the other interested parties that I was an amateur.

“Even better for me,” Daria said.

I didn’t quite understand what she meant, but I complied when she said, “Just sign yourself in.”

For about half a minute I considered giving a fake name, but then remembered that I had already introduced myself. Plus, I suspected this was in my price range. Next to the sign-in sheets was a pile of papers that had a floor plan and some figures.

“Could I take one of these?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I wasn’t sure what the protocol was. Did I study it or just refer to it later? No one else seemed to be looking at their sheets. I wasn’t sure what they were looking at.

I walked into the bathroom, where a man and woman were inspecting the inside of a medicine cabinet. There was hardly space for two people, let alone three. I wondered if I should come back.

“The hot and cold water are reversed,” the woman said to me. “Oh.”

Then the man and woman squeezed past me into the main area. I stood dumbly in the small bathroom. Actually, I had to pee, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Then I suspected that maybe the couple really liked the place and was trying to downplay it. I turned on the hot and cold water faucets and after a minute realized they were, in fact, switched.

I went back into the living room. There was the cutout of a fireplace where the owners had stuck a few candles. The ad had mentioned a faux fireplace as if this was a selling point, but I didn’t really get it.

“Is the building pet-friendly?” a woman in a bright yellow jacket asked.

“With board approval,” Garfunkel said.

Does that mean the pet has to meet with someone?
I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to betray myself as a newbie.

What I thought at first was another couple seemed to be a Realtor and her male client. He seemed kind of uptight, but I wondered if this would be a good place to meet men. That could add a whole new dimension to my story—that is, if I was the type to approach random men at open houses.

“It’s a really tiny kitchen,” the guy was saying.

“I know, but you could work with it,” the Realtor said.

I thought I saw her wink at Garfunkel.

“It’s in your price range,” she added.

“I don’t know,” the guy said, shaking his head.

“What I would do with this space,” Garfunkel said, “is turn the fridge.”

“Why, that’s a fabulous and creative option,” the other Realtor said.

“Excuse me. Turn the fridge, I don’t get it,” the uptight guy said.

I was happy he asked, because I didn’t get it either.

“Yes, I’ve seen it done,” his Realtor said. “You could pull it out of the kitchen a little.”

“Right, and face it this way into the living room.”

The Realtors were tag-teaming now. Was it a setup?

“And then you’d have so much more room in the kitchen.”

“Yes,” the uptight man said. “But I’d also have a fridge in my living room.”

He made a good point.

Garfunkel looked crestfallen and his Realtor seemed to know that he wasn’t going to be persuaded. They thanked the host and left.

“Sometimes, you just have to have vision,” Garfunkel said to me.

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure I had vision.

I went into the bedroom. Someone really liked those pho
tos where they dress babies up like flowers or stick them on top of trees. That someone lived here. I smiled at the two women who were already in the room.

“Not much light,” one of them said.

“I know,” her friend replied.

But I didn’t. It was after eight o’clock at night. The sky was dusky. How could they tell how much light it got during the day? I figured I had to learn something from this experience. I didn’t think the apartment was as bad as everyone else did, but maybe I was blinded by the exciting new experience.

“How can you tell?” I asked. They looked confused. “About the light, how can you tell there isn’t much?”

“Oh,” one of them said. “Well, it faces north.”

I nodded, still unsure but not wanting to press it. This is why I could write pieces but didn’t really consider myself a journalist.

“South facing,” said the one whom I suspected wasn’t the buyer. “That’s what you want for light.”

“Oh,” I said, betraying that I really hadn’t had a clue. “I get it.”

We did a little dance and they squeezed around the bed. I stared out the window. I could see the Empire State Building, barely—even though the ad had mentioned Empire State Building view (or had it said vista?). I wasn’t sure then or now what the allure was. It was a cool building, but even if I loved it, I still wouldn’t exactly consider this a view.

I went out to the living room to say goodbye to Garfunkel. What was the thing to say?
I’ll call you.
No, too one-night stand.
Great place, too bad you decorate in weird baby photos.

I decided on “Thanks.”

“Sure, take my card if you are interested.”

“Great, I will,” I said, perhaps too eagerly. But I took it.

Out on the street, I felt overwhelmed. It was only one apartment and yet I had had no clue what to ask or what to look for. It was scary to even think about spending that kind of money when I was so uninformed.

If only Jamie had bought a place. Why couldn’t she have done this first too? She was having a baby—didn’t she think it needed a home of its own?

There was one person I knew who owned her own apartment, and that was the woman who waxed my body, Diane. I decided my eyebrows were getting a little dense and made an appointment for the next week. If anyone could give me the lowdown it would be her.

I also decided to send out a pitch to all of the possible editors that might be interested. I looked at my calendar. Tomorrow I was writing copy for an article on antique lamps for the shopping section of an in-flight magazine. I hated some of the assignments, but it paid really well. And if I wanted to have whatever percentage of the price I was supposed to have for a down payment, I needed to take any assignment I was offered. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and neither could young real estate moguls on the make.

Friday night Jamie invited me over for dinner. Raj was working late, so I knew it was going to be just the two of us. I wouldn’t have to worry about looking good for any random guy she wanted to set me up with. I caught myself thinking that, knowing it was the wrong mentality if I ever wanted to have a date again, if I ever wanted to wax more than my eyebrows.

She greeted me at the door to her apartment with a glass of wine. She was dressed down in jeans with bare feet. No one I knew could put themselves together as well as Jamie, but without makeup she looked five years younger. She was blocking her dog, Sparky, a Westie with a barking problem, from getting out into the hall.

“On the bottle again, are we?” I asked as I kissed her hello. I allowed Sparky to jump all over me.

“Sparky, off!” Jamie screamed, to no avail. “I just finished my period. Raj is doing final casting. I need something. And I’m sure I won’t be having any procreational sex this weekend.”