Love and Real Estate

There's no better way to ensure that something will fail than to put a permanent stake in it. Like tattooing your lover's name on you ass. Or moving in with her.

A little less than a year ago, my girlfriend sat me down and explained that since I spent every night at her house it was time we thought about moving in together. I thought that since I only ever went to my Washington Heights address (in the shadow of the Cloisters) for my mail and clothes, we had already moved in together. I had no problem giving up my other rent if she really didn't mind officially sharing such a tight space with me. And I was so impressed that the other roommate still paid her whole half of the rent, since the two of us stayed in one room. I mean, it was nice she let her ex's new girl sleep over?but move in? Though I was assured many times, by both of them, that it was an amicable breakup, I couldn't help feeling like sometimes the ex wanted to off me in my sleep.

In hindsight, if I'd been a bit less oblivious (or a little less in love), I would have seen the ex for what she was: a key piece of evidence in the case of living apart vs. living together. But I was young and in love. And what it really came down to, though neither one of us would ever have admitted it, was that this was New York, and unless you've been left a vast fortune it's rather impractical to maintain separate residences and spend all your time in just one of them.

Eventually, the ex down the hall, still single, seemed less tolerant of our incessant displays of affection, a little less thrilled about "family" dinner every night. The fear of being killed in my sleep grew so large I didn't want to sleep. So, behind a smokescreen of undying devotion and the irrepressible desire to share every aspect of our lives, I asked my girlfriend to give up the place where she'd spent the last three years. An hour later, we walked into a broker's office on Manhattan Ave. in Greenpoint.

In the beginning, we were reasonable. We asked to be notified if there was a vacancy somewhere near the train, a loft or one-bedroom for up to $1000 a month. There was no rush, and we were under some budget restraints. But our patience grew thin, and after waiting an excruciating two days we called up and said we didn't need to be all that close to the train. And when there were still no results after another day, we folded and upped our minimum to $1200. After all, we were losing one whole rent between the two of us; certainly we could afford to be a tad extravagant. Finally, after a hot, fruitless day of viewings, we were coming to the devastating conclusion that there was nothing for us, and we would simply have to grin and bear it, and hope the ex found a girlfriend soon.

Then it happened. Slumped down in the back of our posh realtor's Mercedes, we fell prey to what a savvier New York couple never would have blinked at. The realtor had nothing else to show us, but would we mind going to one more place? She had to open it up for her partner, who would be showing it to another couple later in the afternoon. It was out of our price range, she told us, but we were welcome to "snoop around" while she got things ready.

Happy to break the monotony, we agreed. The realtor nodded and headed the car toward the East River. My girlfriend looked at me and sighed.

"I always wanted to live by the river, you know."

Of course I knew. We were in love, weren't we?

On and on we drove. The woman in the front seat looked at us through the rearview mirror and smiled to herself, but I thought about nothing but whether we'd ever find a place to live. And then there it was...less than 100 yards from the water, the smart, sassy brownstone of our dreams.

I grabbed my girl's arm and looked at her. She nodded. My look meant, "This is the house we'll have someday, when we're both out of school and making $50,000 each." Her look meant, "This is the place we need now, today, and I will not rest until I have it."

The realtor apologized again for inconveniencing us as she unlocked the front door, and we followed her upstairs. "Look how wonderful and airy it is!" she exclaimed, walking from room to wide open room. "Oh!" she cried again. "All those closets!"

She clapped her hands to her chest, as though she'd never seen the place before, and went about checking the lights, the windows and the gas on the stove. "Well, everything works. I guess we can go now." And then she paused. For about three seconds she hovered in the door, as though lost in thought. After about five seconds of eye contact and a sharp jab in the ribs, I spoke up.

"Exactly how out of our price range is this?" I gulped, feeling sick and confused as I spoke the words.

"Oh, well..." At this point I must say I was very impressed by how caught-off-guard she pretended to be. "Well, let me think. This place is about, um, $1500 a month." She forced herself to be flustered. "But someone else is coming to look at it."

But I was in love. I took all the money I had in my wallet, a whopping $200 (I worked in a trendy bookstore back then), and asked if she could hold it for us while we got the rest of the money together. She asked us if we were sure. I turned to my girlfriend, who was lost in the view (then) of the World Trade Center, watched her get all misty-eyed, and told the woman I was sure.

Sure.

Fast-forward four months and watch how quickly bliss grows old. How hungrily we watched television, our stomachs growling over two-dimensional food that we couldn't even really see, not since we'd had to give up cable. And the hungrier we got, the more we realized we hated each other. We'd shelled out almost $5000 to begin our lives in this riverfront, 900-square-foot, multi-closeted, parquet-floored, newly remodeled kitchen and bathroom, and not six months later we were scheduling who could be at home when, and which friends were allowed through the door and which weren't. It got to the point where we were vying for custody of closet space, seven months before we could even think of legally leaving.

But then she got the credit limit on her MasterCard raised and I got a new job, earning twice what my trendy bookstore was paying me. Somehow, we managed to maintain a delicate balance. I should have known, though.

Did I mention that a week after we signed our lease, the storefront we'd walked into to help us secure our dream home had become a recycled-jewelry shop?