“NOTICE OF RENT DEMAND FOR FIVE DAYS”
To: AMANDA LEE
PLEASE BE ADVISED that you owe the Owner/Landlord of the premises mentioned above a sum of $11,424.00 for rent and additional charges for the period from November 2013 through July 2015. This amount must be settled within FIVE (5) days from the date of this notice, or you must vacate the premises. Failure to comply will result in the Owner/Landlord initiating summary proceedings to reclaim possession of the property.
As I read the notice, panic surged through me, accompanied by images of no-fee apartment listings on Craigslist. Not only was that amount beyond my means, but it was also entirely inaccurate—I didn’t owe a dime. However, the starkly capitalized FIVE DAYS offered no compassion or interest in the truth. Disappointment washed over me as I realized this historical correspondence was little more than a falsehood cloaked in a menacing threat.
Following the method outlined when I first moved in over a decade ago, I dutifully employed the egg-and-spoon technique to pay my rent. Each month, on the fifteenth, I would write a check, traverse from my fourth-floor apartment to the second floor, and slide my rent payment beneath the door of the building manager, the landlord’s daughter. She would then deliver it to her father in the garden apartment. This rather indirect approach to rent payment had worked seamlessly for eleven years—no surprises, no missed payments.
With the letter still clutched in my hand, I stepped outside and felt the first wave of confusion wash over me. I spotted my landlord, Mr. Green, opening the gate to his basement apartment, presumably returning from delivering this notice to my door, thrusting me into my least favorite scenario—confrontation.
“Mr. Green!” I called out, brandishing the letter. “What is this about?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted, his voice rising. “You never pay your rent. I know how many people you have living upstairs! Hundreds!”
His anger was so intense that I could see spit flying from his mouth. This behavior was completely out of character for him, leaving me stunned. In shock, I retaliated, and soon we were yelling at each other in the street. After a minute, I stormed back inside, raced to my apartment, burst into tears, and called my mother, who was less than helpful.
“Do you owe him money?” she asked.
“NO!” I replied.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!” she assured me.
But I did have something to worry about. I had a mere five days to pay an outrageous sum I didn’t owe, or risk losing my apartment and all my belongings. Fearing I might be ambushed upon leaving, even to walk my dog, I called the lawyer whose number was listed on the notice and disputed the claims.
“So you don’t owe any money?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I insisted.
“You’re fully paid up?”
“Absolutely.”
He then expressed concern about my landlord’s mental state and age, which I thought would be the end of it.
Two days later, another notice appeared, this time in a certified envelope in my mailbox. I tried calling the lawyer again, but he refused to take my calls. The following day, yet another letter arrived, and the lawyer continued to evade me. Soon, a different lawyer’s certified letter arrived, claiming I now owed $19,992—an increase of $8,000—and if I didn’t pay it in five days, I would be evicted. How many five-day demands were they planning to issue?
I reached out to 311, who directed me to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, which only accepted calls during limited hours, resulting in a busy signal for two hours straight. I consulted several lawyers, all of whom told me there was little I could do until I received an eviction notice or he sued me—which they advised against, as even if I was correct, going to housing court would ruin my rental prospects in NYC. It didn’t matter that I was a fifth-generation New Yorker. My impending five-day deadline loomed, and I pictured myself crammed into my mother’s one-bedroom apartment, sharing a couch with my five-year-old brother and a dog named Maxi.
To my knowledge, fabricating a claim of debt and coercing someone to pay it is known as extortion. What sort of lawyer would send these letters without proof? What were my rights? I began researching the legalities surrounding my situation, but when I failed to find adequate answers, I searched for stories from tenants who had received similar letters, only to be deterred by the official-looking doc and pdf tags that preceded each link. Where were all the others like me? Where were my fellow complainers and distressed souls?
This led me to recall a project by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom, titled “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He had delved into the Municipal Archives, collecting letters to the city’s Mayors from 1751 to 1969 to compile a book of grievances. The project had always fascinated me, and I realized that now was the time to explore the archives myself. My goal: to uncover past complaints from tenants in my building—or even my own apartment. If I could gather enough evidence of wrongdoing, neglect, and poor conditions, I’d have leverage against my landlord.
For three years, I had dealt with heating issues, and each time I notified Mr. Green that my apartment felt like a freezer, he dismissed me, claiming his unit was warm. If I had endured three years without heat, surely other tenants had similar grievances. I wanted to amass a historical record of complaints that would be so substantial I’d need two volunteers from the archives to cart the evidence into court.
Upon arrival at the archives, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of discontent. With limited time, I hopped on the Microfiche Reader and began scrolling through the digital records. I knew the chances of finding complaints from my building were slim, but I unexpectedly stumbled upon a letter from my previous East Village residence, dating back to August 2, 1888. It was a report from James C. Bayles, President of Health and Sanitation, addressed to Mayor Abram S. Hewitt.
In the letter, Mr. Bayles detailed several complaints, including one from a resident regarding the disposal of ice contaminated by dead bodies. He expressed skepticism about this being a widespread issue but promised to investigate further. The same letter addressed complaints about a nuisance reported by “Many Residents” at a specific address, only to have inspectors find no cause for concern.
Other letters lamented the odor of decaying horses, questioning whether the Board of Health existed to address such issues. One letter specifically begged for intervention regarding a dead horse lingering in the street for over a week, illustrating the same grievances that residents faced today.
In short, aside from the specific nuisances of yesteryear—like dead horses and contaminated ice—nothing has really changed. The centuries-old process of lodging complaints, from the mail carrier to the inspector to the mayor, remains largely the same.
I lost track of time, engrossed in the archives, and realized I had squandered one of my precious five days without gathering any useful information to bolster my case.
Upon my hurried return home, fearing I may have lost my apartment, I encountered my mail carrier. She paused to inform me that I had yet another certified letter.
“I do?” I asked, trying to suppress my anxiety.
She nodded knowingly. “There’s a British real estate lady who’s been advising landlords on how much they can charge for their apartments. They all want their tenants out.”
“Seriously?” I asked, incredulous.
“Seriously. Don’t complain about anything, don’t give him a reason to evict you.”
“I complained to his daughter all winter about the heat, and they never fixed it.”
“That’s not his daughter. Eddie doesn’t have kids.”
I was certain she was mistaken; she had introduced herself as his daughter since I moved in.
This entire ordeal made me realize that understanding the dynamics of housing, tenant rights, and the historical context of complaints could be crucial in navigating my current predicament. It also sparked my interest in exploring home insemination options, which could be a topic worth investigating further. For those curious about this journey, you might find useful insights at Make a Mom, where they discuss various methods.
In addition, if you are considering the intricacies of becoming a parent, check out the NICHD for more comprehensive information on pregnancy and home insemination resources.
In summary, navigating the complexities of landlord-tenant relationships can be daunting, particularly when faced with erroneous demands for payment. Historical grievances echo the challenges of today, and exploring archival complaints may provide essential insights into tenant rights. In the meanwhile, considering options for home insemination could also offer a different perspective on building a family.
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