In July. I was looking for an apartment in the solid New York tradition: partly to find housing, and partly to get a good nosey at apartments I'd never get into otherwise, get the dirt from supers, figure out what's happening in the secretive world of rent-regulated landlords. Not surprisingly, I found the deliberate, grinding machinery of gentrification in full screech, and I was going to post some notes about it here...
Meanwhile, I'd applied for an apartment in a lovely old family-owned building just below Mosholu, where a friend of a friend lives. She put in a word with the landlord. He called her back -- having googled me, I guess -- to say "this person you're recommending... you know she's an activist." He said (reportedly) "you know, sometimes we get an applicant and, ah, we recommend them to a building that might be better suited to them."
I was already in contortions to get the apartment. I was begging my girlfriend to let me get the lease without her name on it, to avoid credit drama. I was offering my richest, most prestigious relative as my guarantor. I was calling the landlord and being so nice and flexible. I hand delivered the application fee to Westchester with the swiftness of silver-heeled mercury, outfitted in my best smart, going-places white lady drag. Also, I #$%^& needed that apartment. So I did one more contortion: I didn't post those notes. For 3 months! And that's what you have to do to get an apartment. In the Bronx.
