Exposed brick walls are ushering in the end times.

I became unemployed on August 3. Since then, with the exception of my week-long trip back to Texas/Kansas, I have been trolling for apartments here in "New City" (coined by my three-year-old niece). I'm tired. I'm discouraged. And my pits are sweaty. I can't handle another complicated train ride out to _____ Heights (fill in the blank with all the options) only to find that the apartment's bedrooms are railroad, something omitted in the ad. Thank you, but I'll pass on roommates sneaking through my bedroom for a midnight bathroom run. Or that as of now there aren't floors or walls. Or that the apartment doesn't have heat, and the current tenants had to deal with leaking holes in the ceiling and no hot water for three months. I've even resorted to walking up and down, around and about neighborhoods we actually like (and just might be able to afford), calling the numbers listed on For Rent signs and stopping at apartment buildings to see if they have availability. My six hour stroll through Woodside and Sunnyside in Queens may have shaped my calves but added nothing productive to the hunt.

See, last year we did a stink job of finding a place. We entered into the apartment search with two non-negotiable criteria: a neighborhood in which Little V felt safe, and three bedrooms roughly the same size.

We failed meeting both. Little V can't make it to our place in Bed Sty without receiving the special attention that only strangers know how to lavish on young women. And Little V beds each night in a storage closet with a window. Funny thing is, it was Little V and I who decided on the place. We saw the exposed brick walls, and our bodies went limp.*

We're really trying to be smarter this time around but know very well that we will not find the ideal. I had to inform my incredulous mother a few times that almost nothing we can afford will have air-conditioning. "Nothing?" "No. Put air-conditioning out of your head. Banish it!" In the end it will come down to what we're willing to give up. Quality neighborhood? Closets? Convenient subway? Late-night chicken joint?

"I've Been in the New City Real Estate Trenches" List

1) Want fictional neighborhoods? Craigslist has them. East Williamsburg - the less threatening name for Bushwick and/or Bed Sty. Upper West Side/Washington Heights. What? Where did Harlem and Morningside Heights disappear to? And Bushiburg?!?

2) Blocks from the train. How about 30. Close to all transportation. Close to nothing. In addition, a 7 minute walk to the subway is never 7 minutes. And that 15 minute commute into Manhattan? Dump that in the same rubbage bin where you abandoned Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the American Dream.

3) Up-and-coming neighborhood. You will be part of the initial wave in the gentrification process, so prepare to deal without a Starbucks until the second round of white settlers move in.

4) Brokers! Brokers! Brokers!

"Look at this view." I'm staring at the back of a warehouse wall. "You can see the Empire State Building from here!" Leaning. Leaning further out. Straining to see around the bulky, elevated subway platform. Leaning. Leaning... "And the garden's right below." The weed patch and chain-link fence.

"The neighborhood has everything." Not true. "Grocery stores." Shady bodegas that only sell Doritos, soda, and liquor. "The most beautiful park." Yes. Half-a-mile away. "Restaurants." Pizza and Chinese you order through a hole in the protective glass window separating the customers from the employees.

"Do you all have jobs? Look at this. Brand new! No one's used this stove top. No one's used the oven. You will be the first. You'll be the first to turn on the gas, place your head into its womb and end it all! Look at these ceilings! You could store a giraffe in here! A giraffe and it's mother! Is everyone employed? Why would you want a living room? You each have beautiful bedrooms. 1, 2, 3 beautiful bedrooms. You just eat in there. Close the door. It's your own. Yes, the bathroom's small, but all you need to do is get in and get out. Do you want a closet? I'll build you a closet. Oh, you want a door? I'll build you a door. I will make it out of dirt and spit. It will be ready by tomorrow. How many of you are there? Does everyone have a job?"

5) A liquor store must always been accompanied by a church and vice versa.

6) And, most importantly, if you're walking down the street on your way to an open house and you think to yourself, "Now, this is a cute block," don't worry - your apartment will not be on this block. It will be on the next block over. The one with the dilapidated row of disgruntled brownstones and apartment complexes with dime bags on the ground in front and entry doors with the street number spray-painted on them. (The same applies for apartment buildings. The cuter the building is, the more likely it will not be the one where your future hovel will be found.)

*Regarding those exposed brick walls, the mortar slowly and continually crumbles off onto our appliances, window sills, and floor. Even after we demanded that a second coat of shiny something be applied, the Great Shedding continues. At night I can listen to the tiny cement bits say goodbye to their loved ones and jump from the brick ledges, fatally landing on boxes and plastic bags far below.