Profit and Loss
November 1990
"HOW MUCH?" I asked. My hearing is razor sharp but New York's noise pollution must have dulled my senses.
"Twenty-two hundred-it's a steal at that price. Utilities are extra, of course, and they require a substantial deposit."
My sweet-faced broker from the "Urban Roost" didn't even crack a smile.
"But it's only one room, it hasn't been painted since the New Deal, and there's a huge water stain on the ceiling."
She put her arm around me in a friendly gesture. "I know, isn't it exciting? This place has tons of potential. You could really put your own stamp on it."
I'd found out what "potential" meant to New York realtors-nothing left to lose. The only stamp I'd put on this dump was a "condemned" sign.
"So, what do you think?" Ida Dorman asked as she led me down the stairs. "You need to act quickly if you want it. Deals like this are snapped right up." She kicked aside some broken crack vials that decorated the stoop. "Everyone dreams of living in the Village, you know."
I'm a raging optimist not a fool. Even seasoned New Yorkers termed the East Village iffy. Call me a snob but I didn't consider the homeless shelter next door a cultural plus. That proved it. I was unfit for urban adventure in New York City.
"Grace, did you hear me?" Ida asked. "I was saying there's a strict no pet clause here."
"What! You know I have two cats, Ida."
She bit her lip. "The owner is very particular."
My well-developed sense of humor started slipping. "I think pets are allowed. I just saw a dead rat big enough to put a leash on."
Ida giggled. "Oh Grace, you're such a card! Now, how much rent do you really think you can afford? What's your yearly salary?"
New Yorkers don't flinch from asking personal questions. They're genuinely interested in swapping stories about great deals, monetary crises, and ways to screw the system. "I just got a raise," I said proudly, flourishing my pay stub. Ida didn't look impressed. "It's the maximum salary allowed by statute," I added. Her big brown eyes widened, her jaw hung open.
"But, but.." she stuttered". I thought you were a Senior Executive with the IRS."
"I am."
She took several deep breaths. "Grace, it's 1990. Subway conductors make more than you do." She shrank back from the curb. "I may not be able to find you anything but I'll try. You had an exceptional sponsor, you know."
"Sponsor? I don't get it."
Ida shook her tousled curls and gave me a pitying look. "This whole city runs on contacts. I don't accept just any client."
I was stumped. "But I don't know anyone here."
Ida turned away and made a vague hand gesture. "It was probably someone like your boss. Don't worry about it."
As I walked back to my hotel reality hit me. I was officially a big deal-right? At the rate I was going I couldn't afford another promotion or any more success unless I planned to sleep on a steam grate.
