The atmosphere in a typical Boston apartment rental office in peak season is something like a frat party meets a used car sales floor. The cast is usually comprised of one or two veteran rental agents who annually swear off the business only to get lured back in the next season; two to three college-aged dudes, amped up and ready to “crush it, bro!;” and one or two ladies demonstrably struggling to reconcile their own presence in a men’s locker room in which the men are all dressed in suits.

It’s a motley mess of fortune seekers who tumble into that business. In the summer of 2008, with two years of experience under my lady belt, I was neither a bro nor quite yet a veteran but I was savvy enough to know my way gracefully around a showing. It was rare that I’d take out an appointment and come back without a signed application. I knew the market, I knew my target prospect, I’d lost my fear of asking for the sale, and all that running around had given me a nice tan and a thin waist. (It would eventually give me bunions too, but that’s a different story.) I felt smart. I felt successful. I felt powerful. I felt tough because I was outstripping the hyper-masculine dudes I worked alongside every day. I felt like all I had to do was turn a few keys and boom, I’d earned my own rent in the space of two hours.

The money was great and the pace was frenetic, but every showing appointment started to feel like a rerun. Naked guy answering the door? Been there. Kicking two years worth of mostly empty cat food cans out of the way so you can get to the sun-drenched bay window alcove? Done that. I’d fought with landlords and comforted crying apartment seekers. I’d had tenants scream at me and another offer me cookies when her doorknob fell off in in my hand as I was leaving and we were stuck there until we flagged someone down on the street to come up and let me out. I’d seen apartments straight out of Real Simple and I’d seen an apartment which had been painted entirely black and decorated with nothing but cutouts from hardcore porno magazines. There was very little that would have surprised me.

One afternoon in late August, I was prepping for an appointment with two women later on that day.  As I scanned through my listings, called landlords to confirm availability, and called tenants to request a showing, I came across the PERFECT place for these ladies. Hardwood floors, bay window, the T stop right at the end of the street–it was exactly what they wanted, and within their budget despite their pricey choice of neighborhood. (Note: this almost never happened. There was usually at least one major concession: size, location, or price.) I put a few extra places on my list for comparison, but I knew this was the one.

By the time these two young women came in for their appointment I’d already made plans for the commission I was going to make. They were gonna be so psyched and I was gonna feel like a hero. A hero who was definitely going to get a pedicure (more bunion foreboding, sorry). I did my usual consultation spiel, gathered up the keys, piled my ladies in the car, and off we went.

I basked in their “ooohs” and “oh I hope we like this!” as I click clacked my way up the stairs of the building. I paused in front of the apartment door, straightened out my suit, and knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, still no answer. Now–for the record–when you’ve run into a naked guy or two, you develop a certain kind of knock. Not quite a police “WHAT ARE YOU DOING DROP YOUR DRUGS AND GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW” knock, but more of a “Hey I’m Seriously Coming In So Please Don’t Be Naked” knock. It’s hard to miss, is my point.

I unlocked the door lock and the bolt, but the door wasn’t opening. So I tried unlocking and re-locking one and then the other–this isn’t my first time at the apartment door lock Rubik’s cube rodeo. At a certain point, all you can do is take your best guess and bump the door with your hip. (I have magical lock-reading hips you guys. I can tell you which one is locked and which one isn’t from just one firm booty bump on a door.)  It was magical hip bump time. Lo and behold, the door opened, but two things happened:

1. I saw a glint of something shiny and heard something like metal hit the floor somewhere.
2. I didn’t see what it was, because my eyes locked onto an elderly Asian woman laying on the couch.

I immediately started apologizing–“oh gosh I’m so sorry, didn’t realize anyone was home, did you hear me knocking? I called ahead…” but Asian lady just laid there and said nothing. I looked back at my two tiny hippie girls, thought about that pedicure again, decided that no response was an affirmative response, and headed inside.

Welp, like a kiss from a prince, that third woman entering her apartment was the key to waking Sleeping Cray Cray. Asian lady leaped up, started yelling in a language that was not English, and started making shooing motions with her hands. Pffft. Still, no problem. I slowly and calmly explained to her that I was there to show the apartment and showed her the number I’d called the day before. Recognition crossed her face, and she exclaimed in the only English I’d heard thus far, “I’ll call my husband!” She picked up her phone and started speaking while I stood there in her foyer making faces as my clients that I hope read as “hey, it’s cool, I get yelled at by old women all the time. Thank you for your patience.”

I feel weird referring to her as “Asian lady” or “Asian woman.” I’m going to refer to her as Mrs. Cray Cray from here on out.

So Mrs. Cray Cray handed me her phone, I talked to her husband, he said to me “yes, it’s fine, show the apartment, let me talk to my wife again.” I handed the phone back to her, waited for what I thought was a reasonable amount of time, asked her if it was ok now–no response again. She’d just hung up the phone and wasn’t looking at me or talking to me. I asked her again, “can I show the apartment now?” and she just wandered back toward the couch.

I decided that was good enough, and gesture for the girls to follow me toward the other side of the apartment. Which, apparently, was NOT what Mrs. Cray Cray had in mind. She whooshed back in, yelling even louder, picked up shiny thing that had gone flying when I opened the door, and started brandishing it in my face.

It was a nail. Mrs. Cray Cray had nailed the door shut, and my magical hip bump had foiled her plot to keep the real estate lady out.

At that point I realized we were not gonna get this train back to saneville, and just told the girls we’d have to try again another time. But here’s the thing. The girls were in front of the door and Mrs. Cray Cray was between me and the girls. Just as I was trying to think up a way to salvage this appointment, Mrs. Cray Cray shooed the girls out the door, looked at me–still in her foyer–closed the door, and locked it.

–to be continued

–because I am too tired to finish this tonight.