ess than a week ago I was the unexpected house guest of two gay men I’d only met that night. At a bar in the East Village, they told me about the apartment they’d just moved into in Park Slope—affordable, great location, clean, the rental equivalent of a straight single male who really does like you for your personality. When our gainfully employed companions wussed out at 10pm, the couple offered their couch for the night and the three of us took a cab to Brooklyn and cozied up at their neighborhood bar.

“You are so going to love our place!” said Chris.

“You are so going to be my new neighbor!” I told him.

“You are so going to be our new best friend!” said Sam.

“And you are so going to cook me dinner every night!” I told him.

They didn’t fall for that, but whatever. For the first time in New York, I felt like I lived there. And when I got to the apartment, I really did like it. It was more than clean and cheap; it was downright cute, with plenty of window space, a separate kitchen, and some kind of walk-in closet/midget quarters to boot. A few days later, when I made an appointment to see the studio upstairs, I could hardly contain my excitement. If the landlords had asked me to sign a lease that minute, I might have. Fortunately, they didn’t.

How do I describe the terror that was the apartment upstairs? The whole place smelled of piss and death. Dilapidated furniture in the corner. Paint peeling off walls. Bathtub blackened with grime. Cabinets dangling from hinges. Hardwood floor clawed to splinters. “I think that was a cat,” the landlord said.

Or, possibly, a human being trying to escape.

My friend Melissa, who had accompanied me, later declared it “the worst apartment she had ever seen in New York City,” which seemed like high praise for someone who’s lived here six years.

“What renovations, exactly, are you planning on doing?” Melissa asked the landlord.

“Everything!” he barked. “Don’t look at place as is. Look at place how it will be. Will be as good as apartment downstairs. No, better!”

The landlord is an Asian man who owns two buildings in the area and a liquor store down the street. He seems incredibly capable. But unless I rent myself a wheelchair and write a heartwrenching letter to the crew of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, I don’t think this apartment will be livable. Like, ever.

Sure, I was disappointed. After all, I had such high hopes. But in a way, it’s my biggest accomplishment here so far. I’ve only been in town a week, and I’ve already seen the worst apartment in the city. Not bad, huh?