Author’s Note: This piece, recounting the travails of finding an apartment in Manhattan, originally was drafted and submitted for the New York Times Magazine Endpaper column in September/October of 1994. It was later submitted to the New York Times’ City section in March and June 1995. For some brief, fleeting moments, it appeared that it might be accepted after a couple of conversations with someone at the Times but, alas, it was not to be. Thirty some odd years later, here it is.

We circle the ad: “LG SUNNY 1BR W/EIK–A STEAL AT $900.” We call the number. “You can see it at any time up until two today,” the broker says. “But first you have to come by and fill out an application.” We jump in a cab.

At the realtor’s, we’re introduced to Thor who, we’re told, will “handle” us. We show Thor the ad and, as we’re filling out an application, he’s on the phone, cajoling, pleading, then mumbling something. He hangs up. “The tenants didn’t go away this weekend like they were supposed to,” he says. “They don’t want to show the apartment.”

Thor scans our application. “Been looking long?” “No, actually. We just moved here from D.C.” “And you’re looking for a one-bedroom around a thousand?” “Right.” “Most of the apartments in that price range have small bedrooms,” he says, paging through his listings. “We have a huge one-bedroom on East 81st, but it’s $1300.” “That’s too much,” we say. Thor scratches his forehead. “You know, the market’s really tight right now. If you had only been here last year. . . .”

We search. Up and down the avenues, back and forth on side streets, east side, west side, uptown, downtown, riding buses, hailing cabs, making phone calls, leaving messages, talking to doormen, bartenders, people we work with, anyone with a piece of advice or a sympathetic ear, every day after work and on weekends. Our life consists of looking.

“Joann’s not in,” says the voice on the phone. “She’s showing a one-bedroom on East 69th. You can go there now, if you want.” We go there. No one answers the buzzer. We call Joann’s office. The same voice from before says that another agent, Victor, is showing the apartment. “He’s upstairs now. If you wait, he’ll be right down.” We get a description of Victor, then wait. And wait. Victor finally appears and shows us the apartment. It’s a studio.

We see “one-bedrooms” where there is no bedroom. “It’s really an alcove studio,” we’re told. We see “two-bedrooms” that have one bedroom and a walk-in closet. These, we learn, are “convertible” two-bedrooms.

We call Dean, as instructed, Sunday morning at ten. He says the tenant’s mad at him for waking him Saturday, he’d like to wait until closer to noon before he calls again. We call back after twelve and ask can we see it now. Dean says he left a message with the tenant, can we call back in an hour. We call back in an hour. “Dean’s not in,” we’re told. “Anyway, that apartment’s already been rented.” “When?” we ask. “Yesterday.”

We see one that slants down and to the right from the bedroom to the living room. At least we’d get a running start each morning. We see another where the shower’s in the kitchen next to the stove. If there was no hot water, we could always reach over and boil some.

“The ad in the paper’s wrong,” Jeremy says over the phone. “I’ll meet you at 240 East 52nd, not 340.” When he arrives, he says to the group of us gathered there, “This isn’t the building, I’ve never been here before. Maybe it is 340.” So we follow Jeremy there, but he says, “No, this isn’t the right block, let’s try 240 East 53rd.” We march behind him, eight of us, including a blind man. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t it either,” he says, when we get there. “It must be 340 East 53rd. Guess I shouldn’t have had that cocktail,” he chuckles.

We see one that’s sunny–strange, since all the windows face brick walls. We see one in the dark–the electricity’s been turned off. “This feels like the refrigerator. Full-size, that’s good. Here’s the stove. I’ll turn on a burner for some light.”

“I have a nice, married couple here,” Vivian says to the landlord on the other end of the phone, then whispers to us, hand cupped over the receiver, “You are married, right?”

We put in an application. We provide references, financial statements, letters of employment, pay stubs. We hand over cash, certified checks. We sign leases. We dance for joy.

We’re rejected. “No pets,” we’re told. “But they’re cats,” we argue. “There’s a cat living there now.” “Sorry, no pets.”

We suspect a conspiracy between brokers and City, mocking us for moving here without jobs or a place to live. “We’re not licked yet, New York,” we shout at the buildings, like Jack Lemmon in “The Out-of-Towners.” “The market’s really tight, the market’s really tight,” they whisper back.

We stand on the corner eyeing the real estate agency sign, debating whether to go in. We do. Eric hands us an address. We go to see it, love it, go back and give Eric his eighteen hundred dollar fee. Well, not exactly. Yes, it’s far and away the nicest apartment we’ve seen and, no, no one else has seen it; still, we’re talking almost two grand. Besides, what did he do to earn it? We negotiate. Eric gets the landlord to lower the rent in exchange for a higher broker’s fee. We agree that, if nothing else, we like Eric. It’s not like we’re giving almost two thousand dollars to someone we don’t like.

Before we can pop the champagne, the landlord needs a guarantor letter. “And it has to be a satisfactory guarantor,” Eric cautions.

We give Eric his letter, and wait. Then, wait some more. At last, the phone rings. “You’re in,” says Eric. “Piece of cake, wasn’t it?”