To Be Young, Nave, and Totally Scammed on an Apartment
"Tragedy is when I cut my finger," Mel Brooks once said. "Comedy is when you fall into an open manhole and die." The two lightbulbs in our kitchen burnt out last night, and it was tragic. This, on the other hand, is comedy gold:
On June 1, my mom drove me to the apartment in her overstuffed Volvo and we found a parking place directly in front of the building. I'm secretly going through a phase where I believe in things like karma and "letting go," so this random piece of luck seemed important. I was concerned about using my new set of keys — Rita totally breezed through the explanation — but I didn't have to worry. A woman I'll call Mary opened the door and told me she lived there. The floor had recently been finished and the room now looked bright, spacious, and wonderfully out of my price range. Mary said I was the 17th person to arrive. Shortly after, a man banged up the stairs, carrying a laundry basket of shoes. He was the 18th. We had identical subleases, which clearly stated how much we had given ($2,850) to Rita — who had never lived in this apartment.
The Voice has 1,500 words on getting royally apartment-fucked. It's better than Cats.
