n other parts of the world, real estate agents are consumer-friendly beings. They can be greedy, incompetent, Republican, but they are also free. They get commission from property owners, not poor little renters. Not in New York, my friend. In New York, realtors go by the name of “brokers” (presumably, because they make you broke). Upon signing a lease, you owe the broker 12-15% of your yearly rent. The math varies, but this comes out to approximately 12-15% of too-damn-much. Over the years, things like Craigslist have cut out the middleman for a direct, broker fee-less transaction. Most of my friends found their apartments on Craigslist. They made it sound so easy—like commercials wherein people hold up their old giant jeans and proclaim, “I lost 75 in three weeks. If I can do it, so can you!”

From the beginning, there were problems. One open house I’d found on Craigslist turned out to be in a barber shop. (I still don’t understand.) Another property, renting for a plum $1275/month, was in such a ramshackle building that I feared climbing the stairs, never mind dragging up major furniture pieces. Like many people who have searched for true love online, I found that words like “charming” and “adorable” rarely meant what I thought they should. Saying an apartment was “cozy” was like saying a girl had a “good personality.” And since I’m looking for a place in Brooklyn while couch-crashing in far north Manhattan, each of these trips took 2-3 hours roundtrip on the subway. Let’s say I’ve done a lot of reading.

So a few days ago, strolling through Brooklyn’s Cobble Hill neighborhood, I got a broker. This wasn’t any old broker, mind you—he’s a possible lunatic highly recommended by an editor friend who promised he’d be worth every ounce of the grief. In a world of false promises, this was a ringing endorsement.

Him: Ooh, “Hepola,” what kind of name is that?
Me: It’s Finnish.
Him: Ohmigod, I love it! I spent a year in Denmark.
Me: Wow. What did you do?
Him: Can you hold on? I need to answer this.

This man takes more phone calls than Donald Trump. And he says things to people on the other line like, “I always pick up my phone, sweetie, but I’m gonna need to put you through to voicemail.” This impresses me, because at my last job, I never picked up the phone. My outgoing message actually suggested people email me.

Him: Finnish people can be difficult, you know. I lived in Denmark.
Me: I’m part Irish, too.
Him: Oh, now I get it.
Me: [silence]

Later I will talk to another friend who just happened to use the same broker. He arrived with his partner, and the broker proceeded to analyze their relationship throughout the meeting. “He called me the dry white wine of this couple,” my friend said. “But you know what? I kind of *am* the dry white wine of this couple.” What makes the broker great is that he genuinely wants to play match-maker for people. He scribbled down random things about me—that I used to be a music editor, that I’m part Irish, that my father works for the EPA.

Because I work primarily from home, I’m most concerned about neighborhood. I don’t need space so much as friendly surroundings—cafes, parks, tree-lined streets. The broker thinks he might have the ideal spot for me. Good family below, good spot, good space. The rent? $1340 a month.

$1340 a month! Imagine what $1340 a month could get you in Latin America. You’d live like a prince, a druglord, a sorority girl. I start making calculations in my head—two months’ rent plus brokers’ fee totals to a cool $4000+, just to start. What kind of crazy person agrees to this? What kind of madwoman allows this absurdity?

Me: OK. That sounds great!

There is one problem. Amazingly, it’s not the astronomical rent. The problem is that, although I’ve planned to bring my cat up from Dallas, this is a no-pet building. It’s non-negotiable. The family living downstairs has allergies. It’s also non-smoking, but you know, I do need to quit.

Him: Tell me about the cat. How attached are you?
Me: It’s my ex’s cat. But we both know I loved the cat more. We agreed I could have him. I don’t have to move him up.
Him: But you love the cat.
Me: I do.
Him: So don’t look at the apartment.
Me: Don’t look at the apartment?
Him: You won’t be happy there. What’s the point?

God, why don’t I think like this? I do want the cat. The cat makes me smile, and he is cute, and gentle, and I can make up songs about the cat, like “Have I Told You Lately You’re a Kitty?” When I am lying in bed, all I have to do is make a clucking noise and the cat will scurry into the room and curl up on my chest. We can fall asleep this way, happy and warm, until the cat wakes me up by digging his claws into my skin and I flick him off me, and he goes scurrying away until hours later, I search him out and scoop him up in my arms and bury my face in his soft fur. Oh man, he hates that.

Him: Don’t worry. We’ll find a place. But I want it to be a place where you’ll be happy.
Me: Yeah. Me, too.
Him: It’s a lot of money to live in New York.

Thank God. Somebody finally said it.