Entering the lobby of the Parkline, I wondered whether I would enjoy having a doorperson. Meeting the lady working the front desk of the apartment tower, which moved into Flatbush a year after I did, I thought she brought the appropriate amount of skepticism to the role. I had a viewing appointment, she asked? With whom?
I fumbled my words, having thrown the agent's business card in the trash the day before. She frowned, telling me to have a seat. As I waited, a pair of men walked down the driveway that forms the recess that separates the Parkline from Flatbush Avenue, making it feel like a private community. In the nine years of its existence, I'd never set foot on the slate grey pavement of the driveway, even though I pass it almost every day on my way through the neighborhood. I guess it felt like I wasn't allowed. Anyway, the men were wheeling a metal dolly with Ikea furniture in boxes that they said was for apartment 126. "There is no apartment 126," the doorlady replied, whip-quick.