Quinn strode into the real estate office.
“Can I help you?” asked the agent.
“Why yes” relied Quinn. I am looking for a new residence.”
“Co-op, condo, house, apart—?”
“Condo.” Quinn interjected.
“Excellent! I have some lovely condos in downtown—”
“Oh no. I know exactly which residence I like. In fact, I’m even ready to put down the first month’s maintenance fee.”
“Very good. And where exactly are you hoping to live?”
“The International Space Station.” replied Quinn.
“Well…uh…sir, there’s no possible way you can live in the International Space Station.”
“Oh, dear. All the units taken?”
“Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean, I’m not sure. What I’m trying to say is that the International Space Station is strictly for astronauts.”
“Restricted, eh? What are you, some kind of racist? Look, there are laws protecting people like me from that kind of discrimination.”
“Yes, sir. Laws. But before I refer you to another agent (aside: or even to a good psychiatrist) , what exactly drew you to the space station in the first place?”
“My allergies.” stated Quinn. “I am very allergic to pollen—terrible hayfever. And in all the pictures I have seen, there seem to be very few trees and little grass around there.”
“Very true. Let me ask, do you like it quiet?”
“The quieter, the better.” answered Quinn.
“Not a big fan. Things are beginning to sag as it is. Don’t need to speed it up.”
“‘Not…a…big…fan’” stated the agent, pretending to take notes but actually looking to get Quinn out of the office as soon as possible before he scared off more mentally stable, prospective clients.
“Current residence?” asked the agent. “In case I need to mail you any space station-related brochures or prospectuses.”
“American Museum of Natural History” Quinn responded. “It’s on West Eighty-Sixth Street and—”
“No need. I’m familiar with the place.”