The LifeSavers thrilled me. A gifty, a perky pie. Indeed, I proceeded to wave this tiny treasure about at other buildings, pimping it for all it was worth. “I feel like I’m eating the brochure—I love it,” I told a vivacious broker in stiletto-heel boots at the Atlas on 38th Street and Sixth Avenue; surveying the wrapper, she sang out, “That is so cute! The amenities are all there!” Another agent, putting some floor plans into a plastic bag bearing the name and likeness of her building, said, “They have the candy. But we have the bag.”

Over the next few days, brokers and agents with whom I’d looked at apartments called me back to assess my interest, and I tried to induce heightened generosity. I told the Magellan agent, “I’m all about the booty. I’m a swagster, a plunder pig,” a statement that engendered only nervous laughter from him. I asked one agent, “Can you up your free months?” and another, “Can you sweeten your pot?” Alas, my appeals went unheeded.

My favorite agent was a deadpan Rosalind Russell type at the Metropolis on East 44th, who, having heard my gambits during our tour, said, “We’re not giving you LifeSavers today. We’re not giving bikes.” Just before I left her, she summed up, emphasizing, “We’re not doing bikes. We’re not doing LifeSavers. And I am not going to be a yoga clown at your niece’s birthday.”

I told the concierge I wanted to throw a birthday party for my niece: “Do you know a good yoga clown?” She sang out, “That is a great idea!”

There was more, I knew, to be made of the LifeSavers; the smallish, balding Broadway director inside my head was encouraging me to work them. And so, during my viewing of a 543-square-foot one-bedroom in the Anthem on East 34th Street, I decided to “accidentally” drop the candies on the floor. The agent retrieved them; I noted their provenance. “I can’t believe they’re giving out candy!” he said. Alas, he offered me only the usual free month’s rent on a one-year lease, or two free months’ on a two-year lease.

Undaunted, I called Araceli from Dwelling Quest and told her about the LifeSavers, hoping to parlay their fabulousness into the DVD player she’d said she might have. “Somehow, I feel like that building is inside me now,” I said of the Nicole LifeSaver experience. “I’m not only emotionally involved—I’m gastroenterologically involved.” Araceli reported that there was still no broker’s fee, and that a JVC DVD player could be mine.

I contemplated my options. the best seemed to be Dwelling Quest’s offer of no fee and a DVD player, the Nicole’s $1,000 rebate (and, presumably, more lozengelike perks), or Select’s Huffy. I still hadn’t firmed up Citi Habitats’ concierge service; additionally, having read online that Coldwell Banker Hunt Kennedy offers unlimited concierge service compared with Citi Habitats’ two months, I left a message for a Coldwell broker, but he did not call me back. I called Shira at Citi Habitats and dropped lots of hints about my swag. She said I would be eligible for two months’ free concierge service. I asked if I could talk to the concierge; Shira said yes.

A delightfully enthusiastic Austrian woman named Nina called me a few hours later and told me about the help with tickets and reservations she could offer. I said I had two unusual “situations” I needed help with. “One of my clients has a chinchilla,” I told her, “and some nights I come home covered with hair. So I’d like to have someone come over with a lint wand and ‘de-chinch’ me. I could do it myself, of course, but I can’t reach certain . . . areas.” Nina sallied forth with “That’s very unusual, but I’m sure I can find someone.” She asked if it wasn’t a job for a cleaning lady; I said, “I think it’s more personal assistant.” She concluded, “I’d love to find that person.”

Next, I told her that I wanted to throw a birthday party for my niece. “We did face-painting booths last year, but now I’m looking for something more chic. Do you know a good yoga clown?” Nina instantly sang out, “That is a great idea!” She’d never heard of a yoga clown before, but said, “I am a yoga instructor, so I know a lot of people who could do that.” I expressed excitement. She asked how old my niece is; I said, “Thirty.”

The next morning—even though I hadn’t even made an offer on a Citi Habitats apartment—Nina called back and said, “I found someone for the chinchilla. He’ll call you.” Twenty-three hours later, I picked up my phone and heard the raspy, New Yawky tones of a person identifying himself as “Sal from Paramount American Cleaning.”

Citi Habitats, take me away.

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• Archive: “Features”
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