Monday, January 10, 2005

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.


At least it wasn't on.

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