Another tall double-hung window looked out on the red, rusticated stones of the First Church. I much preferred that to a view of the utilitarian brick police station that was on the other side of the apartment building. (It was an ironic and somewhat unsettling situation, sandwiched between civil authority and spiritual authority).

The bedroom had no closet though we had passed a door in the almost-hallway between the rooms. I could fit my futon and bureau and other few possessions into the bedroom easily enough. I hoped my girlfriend, Marie, would like it. The kitchen would be a challenge -- especially the sink. Then it struck me: the bathroom. Bathrooms were crucial in most women's eyes.

"What about the bathroom?" I asked my placid host. I feared it was down the hall and possibly shared.

The landlord brightened as if this would be the best part. He turned, never having entered the bedroom and opened the closet door with another flourish. I looked into the dark, which was actually a steep flight of stairs leading down to a windowless room on the first floor with the toilet planted baldly at the bottom step. He led the way this time and the bathroom, lit by a single, naked overhead light bulb, was also appointed with a freestanding old-fashioned bathtub on faux feet. But there was no sink, no mirror, and no wasted space. It was painted white.

"That's it," I said? He nodded happily.

"$75," I ventured.

"Done," he fairly chirped. I had closed the deal in the bathroom and saved $10 a month.

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