time for comic relief

First of all, you must understand this really happened to me. This is not an urban folk legend, and I am not witty enough to make something like this up.

Three years ago I was living in a studio in east midtown. It was very small and very overpriced. The apartment consisted of my desk, a dresser with a TV on top, and my futon in the middle of the room. The kitchen was literally in a closet, with a hotplate for a stove and a dorm room sized refrigerator. There was also a murphy bed that I never used, as it was easier to unfold the futon then it would be to push it out of the way of the bed.

My lease was finally up and I was looking forward to moving to a much more reasonably priced place. The apartment was on the market, and realtors had been showing it all week.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon; I had done pretty much nothing all day. I was getting ready to work that night at my second job waiting tables. As I started to iron my work shirt the intercom rang. It was a broker with a client who wanted to view the apartment, could they come up? Of course.

I scan the apartment to make sure it is presentable. It is neat, everything is in place. They knock at the door. I let them in.

It is a female broker and a female client. They walk in and stop about halfway into the apartment. I was just going to stand by out of the way in order to let them peruse, but they seemed uncomfortable, so I decided to facilitate. I point out the kitchen-closet. I point out the murphy bed. I point out the bathroom. I try to bring up any points that could seem to be of importance. They seem rather uncomfortable, not saying much, not moving at all.

They awkwardly stay for a couple minutes more, then leave. As I close the door I can't help thinking to myself that they were rather strange, and wondered why they were so weird.

And then I turned around and saw it.

My vibrator laying in the dead center of the futon. You know, the lone piece of furniture in the studio.

Great.

At least it wasn't on.