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May 30, 2004 The unctuous message on her answering service should have been our first clue what a bullshitter this New York City real estate woman was. We were about to become the next prey of this exquisite lady whose privileged hunting grounds were the tall forest of condos lining Central Park. She farmed them resplendently in her wide-brimmed hats and flowery speech. “This is Rosetta Williams. I’m so happy that you called. Please! Kindly leave me a message and I will return your call instantly. Thank you so very much!” When we finally connected with Rosetta a day and a half later, we told her on the phone from Florida that we wanted to see the condo with park views that we had seen advertised in The New York Times. “Bravo. That one is sold, my dear. But I have another magnificent apartment to show you facing the park. You will be a king. Would you like to see it this Friday or would you prefer Monday or Tuesday?” I told her that we needed to book a flight and make a hotel reservation, so I wasn’t sure how soon we could be there, but I would let her know as close to instantly as possible. “Oh dear heart, I wouldn’t take too long. The market here is so intense and this is a brand new listing that most certainly will not last very long. I strongly suggest, pumpkin, that you see it instantly.” “We’ll let you know,” I told her, feeling a little like I had just been demoted from a king to a pumpkin. “Excellent. I must go now. Please let me know when you’re coming, pumpkin. Goodbye my dear. Goodbye . . . ” Her lilting voice trailed off like sheets of divine music floating in the gentle springtime breezes caressing Central Park. She hung up before I could join in a telephonic duet singing my version of farewell and instantly I began to feel that if we didn’t act fast, we were about to miss out on a golden opportunity . . . to live like a king on Central Park. So half an hour later, I left Rosetta a bright, allegro messagio saying that we would definitely be there on Friday, so could she please make an appointment for us to see that royal one-bedroom, 826 square-foot palazzo for sale for a mere $999,000 US. “Imagine finding a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan for under a million,” I joked with Angela. But my native Italian wife didn’t think it was very amusing. All Angela cared about was living closer to a our children and grandchildren, whom we had abandoned 15 years ago to go live in Florida and run our growing public relations firm out of Boca Raton. Now we wanted especially to be near our youngest daughter whose husband was battling advanced cancer. Angela didn’t care if it cost us a million or ten million to have a place in New York. She would hock her diamonds if need be. Only two things mattered to Angela—God and her children. Of course I ran third, but being God fearing myself, I’d never complain about such a hierarchy. In less than two minutes, Rosetta returned the call and extolled she would be delighted to make an appointment for us to see it. “How wonderful that you are coming, pumpkin.” I felt a little easier about being called “pumpkin” this time as obviously it was a term of endearment and here was a classy, operatic lady who knew a king when she met one. I recall looking at the glistening ocean from our Palm Beach condo and feeling how blessed we were on that bright and sunny April morning. I thought of how—after selling our business--we could now afford to join that privileged flock of snowbirds who have a residence in the Northeast and an oceanfront condo in Florida, to where they could escape the winter chill . . . how we would be exchanging an ocean view for an equally superb view of Central Park. What a great and wonderful country is this. God bless America. If only Iraqi insurgents could experience this bliss. They would certainly follow Rosetta and lay down their arms in the nearest pumpkin patch. So we boarded our no-frills Delta SONG flight and we were herded to our uncomfortable seats in the rear of the plane. The cash-strapped airline had eliminated all First Class from Palm Beach to LaGuardia, rendering our hundreds of thousands of frequent-flyer points practically worthless. We chomped on crisp Asian salads and I drank several wines and Angela apple juice that we bought off the stewardesses cart as the 727 lifted us to our cruising altitude and onward to a brave new adventure in luxury living in Manhattan. We met under the portrait of the lady in the lobby of the Essex House. Rosetta wore a wide brimmed hat, a pink jacket and powder blue slacks and she greeted us as if we were long-lost relatives who had been rescued from a deserted island. “My dears, it is so good to finally meet you in person. We will wait here until the other agent arrives. He is one of the top agents in town who handles the most exclusive properties.” After such buildup, we were a little taken aback when Billie White, not his real name, breezed into the lobby after arriving on a bicycle. He wore wrinkled pants and a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his hair all tussled. His manner was friendly, but brisk. Intense. He seemed in a great hurry. Here’s a man who had keys to so many palaces. To so many of New York’s most expensive apartments. He had no time to wait for cabs. He would hop on his bike and show one after the other to the world’s wealthiest buyers. So after shaking hands and brief pleasantries we headed straight for the elevators and up to the condo of our dreams that had just come on a market still sizzling amid fears the FED was about to raise interest rates. When I mentioned the B word, he just smiled and said people have been talking about a real estate bubble for the last 10 years, but prices just keep rising as everyone who is anyone in this world longs for a Manhattan apartment and apparently will pay just about anything for it. Upon entering the apartment we had come to see, we instantly felt drawn toward a huge window that dominated the living room, that defined the property, upstaging everything else. It seemed to pull us like we were so many tiny pieces of metal drawn to a powerful magnet. Through that magnificent window was the most amazing view I had ever seen. There, stretched out before us was Central Park. Not just a section of it. The entire park, all fluffy and green, like a field of broccoli stretching all the way up to 110th St. We could see the stately buildings lining Central Park West and Fifth Avenue. We could see the Dakota, where former 'Beatle' John Lennon once lived with his wife Yoko Ono and the Strawberry Fields Memorial she created after he was shot to death. We could see people in the park playing softball and sunbathing on the grass. It was a sight to behold. “My dear, that is the view of a king.” “We’ll take it! Can I have just this window?” I asked. And everyone laughed. Only I wasn’t kidding. I knew in my heart that we would be buying that window. The rest was ordinary. But that window . . . that view . . . was regal. It was everything one could hope for in a residence. We offered $900,000, but they would have to leave the magnificent drapes and bed. A few days later the seller countered $995,000 and agreed to leave the drapes and the bed. Following Rosetta’s impassioned urging and dire warnings that there were hordes of other buyers who would pounce on this property and scoop it up in a heartbeat, we accepted. And the closing was set for May. Angela I invited our oldest daughter out to dinner to celebrate. We asked the concierge at Essex House to make reservations at our favorite Chinese restaurant, Shun Lee Palace. That night we ordered a meal fit for a king. After all, who else would own such a magnificent window from which to lord over Central Park? ------------ About the author: Thomas J. Madden is chairman of TransMedia Group public relations www.transmediagroup.com and the author of SPIN MAN and KING OF THE CONDO. Email: transmedia@att.net Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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