Enlightening Nonsense

I was to meet a broker at 9:00 a.m. I probably showed up 10-minutes late due to getting up a little later than planned, taking Abandon out for a quick lame walk around the block and waiting for train connections to get downtown. My slight tardiness went unnoticed as the broker didn’t show.

He didn’t just not show up at 9:00, or 9:10 when I arrived—he didn’t show up at all. I left at 9:30 pissed off. I called Abandon and told her the story and she was pissed off that she was only allowed a quick piss and off I went. Later when I called the broker, his phone was not accepting calls. I thought about calling a couple of hard, pipe-hitting niggers to go to work on the homes that realty firm was showing with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. But I was too busy running to other appointments and making calls to try and squeeze in more into my day.

I met another broker across town. His name was Kyle and he seemed like a young plastic business-type with drive. What I mean by this is that he appeared act as if he just graduated from the Emily Post Insitute of Etiquette. He wore a suit that made him look like a 7-year old at a wedding, somewhat cute but clearly dressed up like a Ken Doll. He was so dry to talk to that even a nun’s vagina would appear an lush oasis compared to his lack of humor or behaving in anyway remotely amusing. The only breath of life I saw in him at the office was when some hottie walked by and he followed her with his eyes, becoming totally distracted to the task at hand, which was apparently providing me with inspiration to go on a mass shooting spree.

There was a longhair behind us who chimed in and we had a few laughs while Kyle was searching for places within my price range, which essentially meant a sidewalk box near a subway grating as my bathroom. I finally asked the longhair, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This place is full of nothing but dead wannabe shakers and movers, like Kyle. You clearly seem like a creative. Are you a musician?”

I found out that he was a musician and he only started at this pulse-less place of business because he was in some paint business with his father and due to the economy and competition, after a couple of decades his father’s mom and pop store—or rather father & son store—had to close shop. I’d prefer to suck dick off the West Side Highway than have to work in that suited realty zombie shop, more because it seemed like the set of Dawn Of The Dead and less because I was fired from a yoga studio in the same building. After finding a few places in the Bumfuck region of Manhattan, Kyle and I left.

We took the subway to 145^th Street, an area I’ve never actually been to, as it requires passing through a 22-block wall of Negroes. I had been living in an area for the past 14 years where everything I needed was in either walking or rolling distance; now I was taking a subway for 45-minutes to a place where if you asked the landlord if there was running water he would direct you to the Hudson River.

But on the subway I found the key to unlock the human inside of the pressed suit of Kyle. I asked him if he had a girlfriend and he just cracked like Humpty Dumpty, only unlike the huge egg man, coo-coo-kachoo, I didn’t want to put boring Kyle back together again. He became totally animated and it was nice to talk about something besides my future life living in the projects.

He told me about this hot Asian chick that he was seeing and how she was mad sexy. He was totally into her and even told me, “Tonight she’s cooking dinner for me!” The one small catch I found out was that she lived with her boyfriend. Yikes!

Kyle The Delusional was totally into this girl. He even used the “L” word, which caused a bunch of heads to towards us as, apparently, shouting “Lesbian” at the top of your lungs is still frowned upon in the New York City subway system. It actually was originally part of the 1^st Amendment exception of shouting “Fire!” in a movie theater but after the Showtime series called The L Word it became an enforcement nightmare and was soon dropped by Constitution apologizers.

We basically talked about his two-timing Asian whore for the rest of our time together. “So this is the next place. Ready to go? I mean, I really love her!” We saw three apartments. The first couple of places were in the same building and while they were decent, I found it very depressing that the only window in the apartment had a view of a brick wall about ten feet away. I didn’t think a “view” was a real deal-maker, but for God’s sake, can I at least see something green—even if it is the phrase, “GO BACK TO MIDTOWN, WHITEY!” spray-painted in green? I’d even settle for the Jolly Green Giant wacking-off!

I talked to Kyle The Delusional, giving him advice from a guy who’s been there/done that and whose moral compass has pointed everywhere but North, and also utilizing my expanded psychic awareness. I told him that I saw a likely future where he would want to step up the commitment factor and she would be like, “Why can’t we just keep you as my guy Friday?” and he would get really frustrated and upset. I also suggested that he ask her what she would need to take that next step of commitment with him.

When I called Kyle The Delusional the next day to tell him that I didn’t need his zombie realty service anymore, I asked if he gave any thought to his Chinky slut situation. He told me that she told him that she wanted him to meet with her boyfriend. I was polite and got off the phone in a rush. From my experience, when a girl you are fucking wants you to meet her boyfriend, it means that she is never going to dump him for you and at best you are going to get a threesome out of the meet and then be all grossed out because you crossed swords and could swear you got his cum in your hair but are too spooked to check. Poor Kyle was living in a crack fantasy, staying high from home-cooked meals and horizontal pussy, and the crash back to reality was probably going to be a hard one.

Next I met Mario. After spending every free moment I’ve had the past week making calls and seeing places, when I finally talked to Mario, it was a pleasant surprise to share a few laughs with him. He seemed to sympathize with my struggle, which was a nice change from everyone who just wanted to make money off of me. And I had a good feeling about this one place that he had listed as being 600 square feet.

From my limited understanding of time, space and multiple dimensions, 600 square feet was considered huge. My first apartment was about 11 x 12 feet, which comes to 132 feet; this place was about 4 ½ times as big. My envisioning saw this huge square and I imagined how, “I’ll have the bed in this corner, and a desk over there, and this area will be my exercise area.” Needless to say, my fantasy turned into a nightmare, like that scene in The Shining when the guy was in the bathtub with the nude hot chick who turned into some scary, old, loads-of-folds horror show. The place was really small. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSSISh4cUNo]

Mario had parked his car outside and was sitting in a no parking zone while I went in and checked out the place. I came back and was like, “What the fuck, Mario? Did you eat some of those mushrooms you and your brothers jump when you gave me the measurements of that apartment?” He told me that he was not really good with measurements and that someone from his office gave him the number. 600 square feet was the reason I prioritized meeting with Mario before most of the other realtors this day and I was more than a little pissed off.

He only had two other places in another building that were in the specs that I needed—cheap. He again sat in the car while I checked them out. At first I went into the wrong apartment and it was a friggin’ mansion. I was like, “I have found my home!” When it hit me that you could only get a huge 3-bedroom for $1200 in ImaginationLand, I checked the apartment number and realized my gaffe. The other places were okay but nothing special.

When I got back into the car I was like, “They’re not bad.” Mario told me that I really had to act ASAP, as I had to move in a week and it takes a few days to handle all the paperwork. I told him to relax, to save the Princess, and leave me my homelessness situation to me.

I called Mario the next day at 718-679-0381 and told him that I found a place. He asked me where it was and when I told him, he said, “Oh, I could have showed you some more places in that area. I was trying to keep you in an area I thought you’d feel more comfortable in.”

I nearly lost it. “Listen bitch, I lived in bleached-white Midtown Manhattan for the past 14 years. The only non-white I ever saw was the guys working at the Korean delis. ANYPLACE a hundred blocks uptown is out of my comfort zone! You’re telling me that showing me a place ten blocks uptown of Where-The-Fuck-Am-I somehow crosses the magical line in the pavement of comfort??”

Mario The Grease tried to save his cover story but he was distracted flipping dough for his other job as a pizza man and, frankly, he needed his full attention to save that Titanic load of shit from stuffing up the “trust” toilet bowl.

I told him that while I appreciated him showing me around, this is his business and the 600 square foot “oops” was bullshit. He told me he was the most honest person in the business and that came off a bit facetious, like someone saying he is the most handsome man in the universe when he has never visited planet Kremulon, which is inhabited by the most gorgeous men and women I have ever seen—they actually have a game show where the contestants have to look at a poster of Brad Pitte and Angelina Jolie and see who can last the longest before puking from how hideous they are! They may have better-looking beings than us, but their television shows are just as shitty as those on planet Earth, with the exception of “South Park” and “Family Guy,” of course.

Mario The Grease is another full-of-shitter whose game is the tired, “I’m just a real, down-to-earth guy like you.” Fuck you, Mario. I hope the fire-breathing dragon lights your ass on fire after sodomizing it and then Terrence and Phillip make a movie about it called “Asses of Fire 2”.

Next I met with Zeke. If we were on the Planet of the Apes, Zeke would be one of those dark gorillas. He was not as Ken doll as Kyle and not as slick as Mario, but then again Mario was Italian and all those dagos are greasy.

Zeke had asked me if I would be willing to pay a broker’s fee. I said no. He said, “You don’t think my time is worth anything?” I said that wasn’t it at all but that most brokers today get paid directly by the owners and that I didn’t print money out of thin air like the Federal Reserve and with the first month’s rent and security deposit, another grand would not be forthcoming anytime soon. He spent way too long debating me on this and I felt like a chimpanzee on the Planet of the Apes thinking, “Granted we all feel the humans are inferior to us, but gorillas are basically humans with a little better climbing skills.”

As the one place in that area he was going to show me I had already seen through Mario the Grease, we spent about a half-hour standing on the sidewalk as he made calls, trying to find a crack house for me to live in. During that time, I talked to Ninja’s sister on the phone, as this was during the infamous “Week of Silence” where I hadn’t heard from her. [See “7 Days of Silence” http://rebelyogi.com/7-days-of-silence.html] She was pretty cool and I hated to have to bolt when Zeke The Ape was ready to roll as, inspired by Kyle The Delusional, I thought maybe I could fuck her and have her make me a home-cooked meal when her boyfriend was not around.

Zeke The Ape showed me a place that was still being worked on and was going to be ready in a week or so. He boasted that the owners of this place where the same as the two that Mario The Grease showed me but because it is not listed yet, a crappy broker like Mario The Grease wouldn’t know this because he was too Dago to make a single call. I made sure to tell Mario The Grease this on our after-party call, not just that he was a shitty broker but that Zeke The Ape called him a Wop.

I called Zeke The Ape the next day to thank him for his time and to let him know that I had found a place. I kind of appreciated that he was a bit of an Ape, as we didn’t have to bullshit that we really cared about the other and so the hang up following the “Hello” lasted about as long as my first sexual experience.

The one bonding moment I felt with Zeke The Ape was when I sought to find empathy with this primate after my annoyance from our 10-minute discussion on why I should pay him a broker’s fee. I connected to something deeply and shared it with him. “Zeke, you and I are very similar—notwithstanding your pea-sized brain compared to my gargantuan one. We both value our time and want to be treated with respect.” It reminded me that while we can look at another based on their education, or how much money they have in their bank account, or the color of their skin and see them as somehow different than us, when we dig a little deeper we will always find that we are more alike then we are different. If we don’t dig deeper, we are little better than a KKK klown who judges a person by the amount of melanin in their epidermis.

Another similarity we had was in our distaste for that stupid style where people wear their jeans all sagged out with their asses hanging out. Zeke The Ape told me that he had a couple of boys and he paid a surprise visit to their school and found out that once they got to school they loosened their belts and drag-assed their pants. He told me that he drag-assed their butts along hot coals for it.

At this point I was totally burnt out and didn’t really want to see any more places. Isaac The Jew had made me promise to see the two apartments he had to show before signing anything, as he guaranteed me that he knew what was out there and these were really tops. This became a problem for me when the FedEx guy came for a delivery later and I refused to sign for my package.

Isaac The Jew had said that I had to come at 3:30 and no later, that this was the only time he had available to show it. When it was already 3:00 and Zeke The Ape and I were just sitting around eating bananas, I called Isaac and told him that I wasn’t going to make the 3:30. All of a sudden I receive two text messages a half-apart that say the same thing, “Call me when you’re ready to come. I’ll be over there.” It seems that Isaac The Jew was playing the “ticking time bomb” scenario with me to add a sense of urgency, like an old man who desperately needs to move his bowels. I guess this would be expected from a Jew.

So I got on a subway and went to yet another area that I had never been to and didn’t want to go. Isaac The Jew was one of those Orthodox Jews with a long beard and wearing a skullcap. I remember having a clip-art program years ago and under “Jew” there was this totally stereotypical picture of an Orthodox money-grubbing Jew. I found out that Isaac The Jew modeled for this drawing and that while he found the representation degrading, like any Jew, he couldn’t turn down the paycheck.

Both places he showed me were still being worked on. The first place was a tiny place whose kitchen was beautiful, with black marble and wood cabinets, and completely bizarre to me for an apartment that was about as tiny as my first 11 x 12 foot apartment.

I was pretty exhausted at this point and so my fuse was a bit short. “How the fuck could someone live in this tiny place?” I queried.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said.

I said, “No, I want to know. How the hell would someone live in here? There’s one room where only a bed will fit and then there’s nothing but this kitchen. Where would someone put, for instance, a television—or even a desk?”

Isaac didn’t want to play thought games with me, as a Jew only wants money and if an intellectual discussion doesn’t end in with him adding to his bag of gold, it is not worth his energy. “It could be for someone who doesn’t watch television and puts in a small desk.”

I pursued the discussion but Isaac shut me down with his lilting Jew talk, “Look, it’s not for you, then let’s go. We’ll check out the other place,” and we left.

I just found it a bizarre apartment. The kitchen could be a television kitchen for a cooking show. It was totally beautiful. But it was basically not a one-bedroom apartment but a one-kitchen—and nothing else—apartment.

The other apartment was thirteen blocks away. He said it was twelve blocks away and I paused in mental mathematics but was too tired to berate him over a block. I figured it was a better mistake than the one Mario The Grease gave me about the square footage. He was not going to go to this place with me but he gave me the address and said I could take a subway. The few brain cells in my head that hadn’t joined the others in a deep coma considered what it would require to find the subway, slide my MetroCard risking that it wouldn’t take and in my cloudiness I would be groined by the immovable bar, wait for a train, get out, spin around cluelessly and then try to pin the tail on the apartment. It sounded like more work that I had the reserves for and so I walked.

One apartment that Zeke The Ape wanted to show me was a fifth floor walk-up. I was like, “Negatory.” I may be borderline homeless but I’m spoiled homeless. I remember moving my friend Elks into his first apartment, a fifth floor walk-up, and the nightmare of three of us trying to negotiate his couch up the stairs. Not to mention that half the time I leave to walk Abandon, by the time I hit the sidewalk I remember I forgot something in the apartment—like poo bags or my birth control pills—and have to turn around and go back for it. On the second floor that’s a touch more exercise; on the fifth floor it’s a high-intensity Spin class.

This would be the last apartment I was going to see today, as I had been out of the house for about eight hours already and while I had often beaten Abandon with a wire hanger while shouting out her, “Hold your water, Abandon!” my body and mind were already starting to shut down for the day from apartment searching.

The second apartment was a second floor walk-up, which even my lazy ass can handle. When I arrived, there was a woman in there with a paintbrush painting silver paint over the rusty pipes. This was akin to me throwing my blanket over an unmade bed covered with various trinkets and dirty clothes and pretending that if I just covered up the mess, it meant it didn’t exist. Her cute little 1 ½ year old was also there, breathing in paint fumes and eating paint chips, creating a probably future for himself as one who was destined to ride the “short bus.” Her husband, who I found out later was the building’s handyman who they called for all fix-it-ups, came in as well. It reminded me of an Indian household where thirty-two members of the extended family lived in one big room and I was the third cousin once removed who could only use the bathroom after twenty-five people had stunk it to high-Heaven with their hot curry feces.

But the thing that hit me was that as rough as the place was…I could see it as “home.” Granted, it would be a bit annoying when I wanted to take a shower in the morning and the three Spics were sleeping in the bathtub…but something felt different about this place than the others.

First of all, it had a separate kitchen, which I’ve never had. The kitchen had a decent window. The bedroom had a gated window. And the main room had an amazingly huge paneled window that looked out onto the sidewalk where, believe it or not, I could see trees! I knew this window was going to be my favorite part of the place.

I called Isaac and told him, “I have to admit, Jew boy, that I like this place.” I Jewed him down $50 bucks on the rent and told him that there were a few other places I had to see but that this place was on the top of my list. I was lying. I didn’t care if there were any other places that were better, cheaper—even 600 square feet! I was too tired to ever look at another apartment. Isaac The Jew came back again using his default “ticking time bomb” scenario, that is apparently taken straight out of the Israeli Justification for Violating the Rights of Palestinians Handbook, telling me how the place would go if I didn’t immediately sacrifice a Christian child whose blood would be used to make his nightly matzo. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XrRyqses5U]

The one thing Mario The Grease was right about was there are no “handshake and you’re in” deals anymore, except in the Mafia, and if you happen to default on that kind of deal, it is not a lawyer but a Goomba who will come after you. I think there still is Play-Doh’s “Shave and a haircut,” which is not to be confused with playing around like you’re Homer Simpson repeatedly saying, “Doh!” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6b_Ss6YKIs]

Contrary to everyone’s advice, I played the fool and paid my last month’s rent at the last place, figuring that I had lived there for 12 years without a hitch and my radar-jamming lifestyle didn’t need any red flags to make my anonymity less anonymous. Needless to say, they didn’t return a stitch of my security deposit. It’s possible with the hazmat levels of mold and fungus in the refrigerator and the solid brown stovetop that was once white, that this was legit. But when they emailed me that they had to replace the cabinets I wrote in my response email, “It seems that on my dime you guys are happy to do whatever your heart desires on the apartment. Thanks for the lesson on what being upfront gets a renter.”

My parents had to come in and co-sign for me, as I have been under the radar for years, and their NYC visit had its own stress. They paid the first month’s rent and security deposit for me, which I was planning to pay back as soon as Hell freezes over, which according to the conspiracy and New Age circles I frequent should be sometime within the next three years. Isaac The Jew said they had to pay in cash, which made us have to go to a bank and come back. Isaac The Jew had to continue with his bullshit usury and said how he had a couple of more people were planning to see the place later and…He was a one-trick wonder and his trick was the ”ticking time bomb.”

When we came back with the cash, and after some more discussion about how ridiculous it is to require someone to hand over more than $2000 in cash, Isaac The Jew said, “Well, it didn’t all have to be in cash.” Fuck you, Hebe—before you totally said it did!

This week of researching, calling, going, getting lost in places with blacks and Hispanics walking around, and getting little sleep was a bit of a nightmare. When my parents were like, “If you end up hating the place, you can always move in a year,” I was like, “What are you fuckin’ nuts?? I’m never moving again!” The day of the move was a complete clusterfuck as well and a story unto itself.

One thing I did vow, though, besides a vow of celibacy that I broke when I found out that the Catholic priesthood was like Skull & Bones and required gay sex in order to be a member, was that when it comes time for me to move the next time, I will be leaving with only a backpack and Abandon. Either that or I will take up residence six feet under.