I arrived at the apartment 10 minutes early. I had an appointment with the guy with a big smile on the real estate website. I tapped my phone and pinched at his face to make it bigger. He wasn’t completely bad looking, either.
I’d been feeling lonely ever since my long-term boyfriend passed away in our local Vietnam War re-enactment. It was something we did for fun in my hometown of Mendota Heights, Minnesota. He died a heroic death: he got his leg blasted off by a grenade that everyone thought had been a costume prop, but they really do sell functional hand grenades on functionalhandgrenades.com. Geoffrey had started to bleed out of his stump, perhaps fatally. So I asked the doctor if he was going to make and she said, “yeah, almost definitely.” But then I remembered that Geoffrey always told me—”if there’s a day in this life that I’m hooked up to some machine, take me out back and shoot me in the back of the head.” So that’s what I did. And it was really hard, because he had definitely put on a few pounds during the winter.
Anyway, you might say that my move to New York City was to forget Geoffrey and our life together, our duplex, our board game nights. I craved the city. Night after night, the suburbs felt like death to me, or being taken out the back of Regions Hospital in an Ikea duffel bag and shot in the back of the head.
As a young and beautiful woman, I was hopeful for a new beginning.
“Hi, you’re Liz, right?” a voice said behind me.
He was also early. I wasn’t expecting him to be so handsome. Over six feet and flecks of silver in his hair. He had to be my real estate broker—my gateway to my New York City apartment.
I tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah.”
“Am I pronouncing that right? Liz?”
I blushed. Was he flirting with me? “Yes.” I remembered my manners. “Sir.”
“Okay, just checking because you appear to be a melenated POC.”
He took the stairs three at a time, showing off his impressive gait. I followed close behind, looking at his buttocks firmly grab his standard real estate khakis.
“Nice,” I said about his ass.
He opened the door to the apartment, revealing a beautiful three bedroom with an in-unit dishwashing machine.
“Nice,” I said about the apartment.
He leaned back, propping up his body with his foot against the wall like a Hollister model. “You’re here alone, without your roommates?”
“Yeah, it’s just me.” I looked up at the lofted ceilings, the sconced lighting. “Just me.”
“Yeah, it’s nice, right? Me and my wife used to dream about a spot like this.”
“Used to?” I noticed the past tense as I toggled with the gas stove and rapped my fist against the drywell to test for sound insulation.
“Yeah, she died during a revolutionary war reenactment at Fort Greene.” A single tear fell down his cheek.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I crossed the 1100 square foot apartment with south facing windows to put my arm around him, breathing in his woody musk. I wiped the tear off his face, which sparkled on my thumb.
“Thank you—I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m responding this way. I just—I have a way of opening up to you.”
I rubbed his back. “My boyfriend died in a Vietnam War re-enactment.”
“That’s really weird. Who would have a Vietnam War re-enactment?”
“A bright and vibrant suburb in Minnesota,” I retorted.
“You’re Minnesotan?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Canadian!”
“Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Do you—do you love ice hockey?”
“Yeah, I miss it all the time.”
He laughed and I felt like I’d known him a million years. I leaned in close and his fingers brushed across my face, electricity pulsating through my velvet underground.
“Do you want to show me the biggest bedroom?” I asked, with sultry inflection.
He smiled. Not with his eyes, but with his face. “If you’re interested in the apartment, there’s a $750 in good faith deposit—and maybe we should get drinks around the corner first?”
“What?!” I exclaimed. I slapped him.
“Ouch, what? I’m trying to get to know you first?”
I slapped him again.
“No! I’m upset about this bogus good faith deposit thing!”
“Ow!”
Then I slapped him a third time, which might’ve been unnecessary.
“You stupid Canadian.” Tears of betrayal ran down my face. “Don’t you know that under the Housing Stability and Tenant Protection Act passed in 2019, New York City law prevents brokers from collecting anything higher than a $20 application fee for background and credit checks?”
KNOW YOUR RIGHTS, NEW YORK TRANSPLANTS.
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K. G. Kirkland is a writer based in Queens. She writes about urban mythologies, Catholic guilt, and the bureaucratic surreal. She is hard at work on her debut novel. You can keep up with her life as it’s currently happening (the asinine and delightful) on her substack, YoungDumbAndKierkegaardian.Substack.com.