There is a house on Washington Square North that went on the market this week for twenty-three and a half million dollars. I will give you a moment with that number. Twenty-three and a half million. For one house. In Manhattan. Which, okay, Manhattan, fine, but still — twenty-three and a half million dollars could buy you roughly the entire eastern side of my block in Greenpoint and you would still have change left for a very good used truck, which I happen to know because I just priced one.
The listing, per Curbed, is an 1830s Greek Revival townhouse — that means columns, high ceilings, the kind of crown molding that makes a normal person feel like they wandered into a museum and touched something. The house sits right on the north side of the park, which is what the brokers call a “tricky location” on account of the park itself: the noise, the foot traffic, the general Greenwich Village atmosphere of people doing things outdoors at all hours. Tricky. I love that word. When I was growing up, “tricky location” meant you were next to the bus depot. Here it means your backyard is one of the most famous public squares in the country. Terrible. Just terrible.
Now, here is where I have to be straight with you. My cousin Paulie has a contact — don't ask — who says there is a motivated seller situation here, and Paulie's theory is that if we show up with a truck, present ourselves as estate liquidators, and make a very fast, very confident offer on the furniture alone before any serious buyer gets in there, we walk out with something. The truck is borrowed from Sal at the depot on McGuinness. Paulie already printed business cards. “Gleason & Sorrentino Estate Transitions.” Beautiful cards. Heavy stock.
The listing agent, for the record, told a reporter the agency is looking for “someone who wants a house on Washington Square North,” which is the most Greenwich Village thing anyone has ever said about twenty-three million dollars. They mean someone who already has twenty-three million dollars and wants the specific, irreplaceable, column-fronted experience of living above that park. They do not mean Paulie and me in Sal's truck at seven in the morning with laminated cards and a pitch about transitional estate services.
The truck got a flat on the BQE. Paulie is still out there. The cards are in my glove compartment. The house remains, as of press time, available at twenty-three and a half million dollars, unfurnished, tricky location and all.