"The Move - someone has to die

Is there an act more universally dreaded then moving? My dad says, “ The three pivotal points in a person’s life are getting married, having kids, and moving.” I was forced to move every 12 months for the 11 years I lived in Manhattan. Why? It all begins right here.

In New York, rent can be raised to the maximum every year when your lease ends, unless you live in a rent-controlled apartment. Oh, what’s that “maximum” you ask? It’s a 20% increase on your annual rent. This is why I had to move every freaking year.

I actually lived in one place for two years while in NYC: 159 Essex Street. Honestly, I don’t know how I lasted 730 days in that apartment. Sure, it was a great location (Essex between Houston and Stanton), but it was also a shoebox. It was a small two-bedroom, a fucking studio that was cut into two bedrooms, about 300, maybe 400 square feet. A wall constructed across half the place made it a “two bedroom” by New York standards.

Everything was exactly one giant step away, literally. I could take one step from the front door to the bathroom, and one step from the bathroom to my bedroom. In case you’re wondering, I skipped over the kitchen on purpose. While it consisted of a refrigerator, sink, cabinets, small kitchen table, and stove, there was no oven. What about the oven? There wasn’t an oven! My first week in the apartment, I brought home a nice piece of fish, ready to chow-down, and once in that tiny kitchen, became utterly confused. “Am I crazy? Where the hell is the freaking oven?” I thought to myself as I was opening all of the cabinets in the kitchen to find nothing. I even looked in the cabinets under the stovetop, but nothing. You can add “oven” to one of the many “amenities” you can’t safely assume comes in a New York apartment.

Despite the shortcomings of the place, I had some good times there though. I mean, one advantage of not having a living room is when you bring a guy home; isn’t anywhere else to go except the bedroom. And on a holiday weekend when your drunk friends who all had to move to Brooklyn because they couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan anymore need a place to crash, you have three or four people jammed in your bed, which can sometimes lead to a little orgy. So, I guess that’s one plus for this “shared studio cut into two bedroom apartment” action.

Living in this type of environment is analogous to living in an animal shelter, though. Actually, I may have seen cats that had larger living spaces who resided at the ASPCA. Habitating in such small quarters will eventually wear anyone out. This was a big reason I did apartment searchs, and one particular time I felt basically like giving-up. Looking at my options made me feel discouraged. I couldn’t afford anything down in the Lower East Side anymore, thanks to gentrification – and let me tell you what starts gentrification. It’s not the first new luxury condo, what new building developers call “urban renewal,” or the Vanity Fair write-up. Those come after the gentrification happens.
A neighborhood’s first new trendy restaurant, one fancypants restaurant that all the trendsetters must go to, and then the neighborhood goes to shit. I think it was opening of Schindler’s that really did the Lower East Side in. Once people living in the Upper West Side and Upper East Side were no longer afraid to come to the L.E.S., we were done for. That was the beginning of the end, friends.

Affordability, though, comes to people in very specific ways from my observations. The only people that have affordable places are the ones that have been living in the L.E.S. for a long, long time. My friend Alex has been down in the L.E.S. since the 80s. And let me tell you, the Lower East Side wasn’t pretty in the 80s. Someone really didn’t go down there unless necessary, or you were a junkie, struggling actress, artist, or musician. That was when struggling artists, actresses, and musicians really could live in Manhattan. It truly was their city. Now I don’t know where they live. Redhook or East Bushwick? By the way, East Bushwick is listed as “Williamsburg” in the apartment listings and let me tell you, East Bushwick is definitely not Williamsburg (but it might be in another 5 years).

Anyhow, Alex lived in a huge two bedroom on Third Street between Avenue A and B. And I mean gigantic. It had two real bedrooms, ones where fitting a queen-sized bed and three additional pieces of furniture are not impossible. It had a separate living room, a complete luxury in the city – an average living room (if you’re lucky to have one) in Manhattan means kitchen slash living room. Translation: a kitchen counter, a kitchen table, a couch, and a coffee table end up living in the same room, which a lot of people end-up doing ordinarily than not. But, not only did Alex have a separate living room, he had a separate kitchen! I really couldn’t believe it when I first visited his place – it was a real apartment. To top it off, at the time he was paying $900 a month.

UNHEARD OF!

“Do you know anyone moving out of your building, Alex? Have you heard of anyone moving out maybe soon?” I’ve been asking him for years, and the answer was always the same: “Beth, no one ever moves out of my building. It’s one of the only rent-controlled ones left down here. No one moves out unless they die.”

Well, as luck would have it, I got my wish. Alex and I made plans to hang out one night, and as I was making my way to the elevator (oh, yes, there was an elevator; none of this 75 steps to climb nonsense), I passed an apartment door with a bunch of cards taped to it. There were also flowers on the floor.

As I was waiting for the elevator, it hit me. Wait! WAIT! WHAT? I ran back to the apartment door to take a closer look. The cards were condolence cards!

I don’t believe it!

I don’t believe it!

It’s my lucky day!

Someone actually fucking died!

After the elevator carried me to Alex’s floor, I raced to his door, knocking ferociously and out of breath.

“What? What? Is everything okay?” Alex asked when he answered.

“I don’t believe it! You won’t believe it! Someone died on your floor!” I was jumping up and down so much I couldn’t contain myself.

“Oh, right. Ms.Giovanni died last week. She’s been in the building for like 50 years. I think she was like 98,” he said.

“Wait, you knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry! I didn’t know you were looking to move,” Alex replied.

“Was I looking? Who cares if I was looking? We’re talking about a rent-controlled two bedroom!” My excitement was now both pathetic and hopeful. “Okay, who cares really. More importantly, do you have the building manager’s number?”

After handing me seven numbers I hoped would change my life, Alex dished a little hope my way. “You’ll obviously be the first one to call. I mean, it’s not even listed yet. It should be as good as yours,” he said.

That’s right, as good as mine…it’s a dream come true. Bless your little heart, Ms. Giovanni, I thought to myself.

The next morning at work, I decided to call Alex’s building manager. As I started to pump myself up for the conversation, I also realized I had to come up with a couth, solid story. I mean, someone did die here, and now I was about to ask for that dead woman’s apartment. I was reminded of something my dad once told me about living in Manhattan: you would find available apartments to rent by looking in the obituaries. I’m not sure if that’s an urban myth or not, but it was starting to make more and more sense.

After a few rings, someone picked up in the building manager’s office. “Hello?”

“Hi, my name is Beth and I’m calling in reference to the vacant apartment at 220 Third Street.” She cut me off before I could really begin. “There isn’t an apartment available,” she replied.

“Well, yes, I understand it may not be listed yet. I’m calling under…unusual circumstances,” I continued, pausing slowly in between words to carefully move forward. “You see, many of us are still grieving, but I know Ms. Giovanni passed away in apartment 12, and I was…calling about it.” Please forgive me God, I know I’m increasing my chances of landing that express ticket to hell for this. But don’t I really deserve a rent-stabilized apartment? I kept repeating to myself.

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, well…I haven’t heard anything about it yet.”

“I understand,” I said. I wanted to seem empathetic to Ms. Giovanni, but my determination won out. “But, is there a way I can maybe give you my name and number for when…the apartment opens-up?” I tried to pause again, but the disgust in the voice on the other end was undeniable.

“Excuse me?” the woman said incredulously.

“Do you think I can leave you my name and number?” I repeated, slightly embarrassed, but accepting of the fact I was now on God’s shit list..

“Why don’t you try calling back tomorrow? The property manager who handles that building isn’t here today,” she replied.

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your help,” I said, and we disconnected. Okay, that didn’t go as bad as potentially expected, I thought. I just have to get this place! I would never have to move again if I scored it! Fucking joy!

Next morning at work, I called the building company again, ready to bring my game face again.

“Hello?” answered a woman.

“Hi, I called yesterday about the apartment at 220 Third Street.”

“Oh yeah – hold on a minute, please.”

Another woman picked up the call in the first woman’s place. “Hello,” she greeted me. “What can I do for you?”

Ugh, here we go again. My voice automatically does the pauses for effect. “Well, I’m calling under….unusual circumstances. (pause) Apartment 12 (pause), Ms.Giovanni, she was such a lovely women, but she passed away recently…and I was wondering about her (pause) apartment?”

“Nothing’s available in that apartment,” she fires abruptly.

Unfortunately for me, my fake, soft grieving voice becomes a little more harsh and to the point.

“I’m sorry, how could nothing be available if her apartment is vacant?” I demanded.

“I said nothing is available,” the woman said.

“Well, who is taking her apartment?” I asked.

“Try back next week. I don’t even know if her things are out yet.”

You bet your next rent increase I tried. Everyday, actually, for two weeks, all I kept getting from one woman or another was “Call back,” or “It’s not available yet.” I called so many times I was positive they recognized my voice. I even had a friend call, just to see if the office would say the same thing to a different voice, and they did.

As I was losing hope on week three, I called one more time to get down to business.

“Hello, this is Beth,” I started to say as the woman who picked up the call then cut me off.

“Listen, lady, the apartment has been taken.”

“What?! How can it be taken?” I asked, confused and slightly irritated. “I thought I was definitely the first one to call?”

“It’s taken. Please stop calling here.” And with that click of the phone, so went the apartment of my dreams.

Damn! I wondered if it really was true or not, so I called Alex later that evening; he said he saw the building manager showing Ms. Giovanni’s niece the apartment earlier that week. Ah, right…the niece. I should have figured, anyone with an access to a rent-stabilized apartment that big is going to give it to a friend or relative. Even in death. What bullshit!