Dear co-op board, please reconsider
You know what? I’m glad you rejected me. I not only salute your decision, which was in the best tradition of New York co-op boards, but I rejoice in it, for it affirms the high standards of the building to which I aspire.
Unfortunately, you didn’t have all the facts. For example: Enclosed is a report of my most recent colonoscopy, a set of full-mouth X-rays from one of New York’s most respected dentists and a testimonial from my firstgrade teacher, who now drifts in and out of awareness in a nursing home near Boca Raton.
But I’m willing to go further to get you to revisit your hasty decision. Attached is my written pledge, legally binding, to renounce cable TV and sequester all footwear in the basement storage unit that comes with the apartment. My entertainment, like my footfalls, will be silent. Note especially clause 19, requiring that I submit to surprise urine tests at any time during my occupancy.
Speaking of urine, I gathered from the interview that you were concerned about my cats. The box that accompanies this missive should lay any such concerns to rest. It holds the remains of Titus and Andronicus, who shared my life for the past 12 years, and who sacrificed themselves — with admirable stoicism — to the board’s strong preference for petfree neighbors. A letter from Dr. Rosenzweig, our veterinarian, affirms the humane manner in which they were euthanized.
Also attached is the heartfelt testimony of Amanda, my soonto-be ex-wife, who describes the pain of living with a husband so uncommunicative that the silence of our previous apartment went unbroken night after night, except of course for the sobbing of a lonely woman who can’t possibly trouble you now that our marriage has irrevocably dissolved.
When I move into your building, therefore, I shall do so alone, and will lead a life of monastic contemplation that Thomas Merton might have envied.
I sense there were larger questions on the board, questions that went beyond cats and spouses. No doubt you wondered why I tarried so many years in the sleepy Hudson River community of Ossining.
If you are unfamiliar with its charms, let me assure you they are ample. The people just don’t want you to leave — and remind you of that at every turn. Truth be told, I enjoyed the local equivalent of a rent-controlled apartment, only better: Thanks to the largesse of a benefactor in Albany, I paid nothing. Clothing and food were equally provided by this patron.
A letter from a local official with the charming provincial title of “warden,” no doubt a term with roots in the hamlet’s ecclesiastical past, attests to my constructive membership in that tight-knit community.
By now you have noticed that this gentleman is far from the only eminent figure who recommends me to your good graces. Although I think Ben Bernanke goes too far in crediting me with many of the insights behind the Fed’s innovative toolkit in the face of persistent slow growth, the fact remains that this distinguished individual has taken the time to elaborate on my qualities as a potential neighbor.
Similarly, it was only with the greatest effort that I was able to prevail on Pope Francis to write privately to the board instead of proclaiming my virtues in an encyclical.
I personally vouch for the authenticity of both letters.
Let us now turn to the unfortunate word left unspoken last time around. That word, with its honest Italian roots, is bankruptcy, a state that has befallen me only twice, at least in this country, and which frankly ought to enhance my candidacy in your eyes, since under the law it will be years before any further such filing is possible.
That assures the co-op that any obligations I may incur as part of my residency can’t possibly be discharged in this way. If — that is, when — admitted, I will become the most creditworthy tenant in the building, if only because all the others still enjoy the option of going broke.
In conclusion, let’s discuss a convenient move-in date. I’ve got a lot of packing to do!
Here are my cats, in a box