Once upon a time there was a happy couple looking for a place to live. As Manhattan was out of the question-- the girl had too much crap, mostly old paperbacks, she was not willing to get rid of; the boy owned an impressive record collection -- they agreed to look for a spacious, hopefully affordable apartment in Brooklyn.
This proved extremely difficult.
Everyone and their grandmother was apparently looking for a September 1st start-date, and after a week of several near-misses and tense tours of run down abodes (including that of a socialist couple who never washed a dish and a hip fashion designer with a closet full of beads) the girl was at a loss and close to tears. Seeing this, the fearless boy took matters into his own hands, and stalked a new set of realtors until they showed him something passable... the infamous pink house on Garfield in Park Slope.
Sure, it lacked a kitchen. And sure, the bathroom wasn't actually connected to the rest of the rooms. But it was on the same floor! And big! And the landlord-- a ninety-six year old African American man who couldn't hear very well and needed everything repeated eighteen times-- promised to install a proper kitchen before the move-in date. The rent was cheap for the area, the boyfriend told the girl she could paint the rooms, and it was an apartment. A home to call their own.
A home that needed a lot of work, sure, but a home nonetheless.
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