luck in real estate matters; it was silent about the hellish landlord.
“Now where were we? Ah yes, the broker fee. You pay a broker fee, which is fifteen percent of your first year’s rent, and we also charge a three-hundred-dollar paper processing fee.”
I nervously sit up in my chair and try to calculate how much all this is going to cost me. I’ve been spoiled by France’s pro-tenant laws and hadn’t expected to pay more than two months’ rent in advance. I guess the laws are different in New York. For a split second, I consider raising the subject but think better of it. Looking into his eyes, I see homelessness.
“Okay.”
“Do you have any credit history in this country?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’ll need to find yourself a guarantor with a New York City address who makes a few hundred grand and who will guarantee the lease.”
Merde. Now I’m really screwed. Who do I know in New York who will guarantee my lease? A few of my father’s relatives lived in New York, but I hadn’t spoken to them in about fifteen years. I couldn’t just call up and ask them to guarantee my exorbitant rent, could I? There was my friend Lisa, whom I had met at law school and who was now living in New York, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her either. Maybe the firm would sign? After all, I’m not the first foreigner to transfer to the city.
“No problem,” I reply, keeping my sangfroid.
“Now let me tell you something,” he says, pointing his index finger while lowering his voice for emphasis: “There are two types of tenants I don’t care to have in my buildings: models and lawyers. Models don’t pay their rent and usually skip town on me, and lawyers are real shit disturbers. They’re always quoting me some fucking section of this act or that code to avoid paying their rent. I don’t want any problems, you hear me? I have no qualms about evicting anybody.” He snaps his fingers dramatically.
I nod back, gritting my teeth, amused to hear that for once in my life I fall into the same category as a model. I’m also happy I kept my big mouth shut rather than blabbering on about irrelevant French laws. If I had even broached the topic of French locataire rights, this guy would’ve had me out on the street faster than a dead cockroach.
“And there’s another thing.”
Okay, now I’m really scared. What else is this guy going to come up with?
“The superintendent in your building is walking a very tight rope with me at the moment.” He joins his thumb and index finger together in mid-air, mimicking a tight rope. “So I expect you to report back to me anything he does that ain’t kosher, got it?” he tells me, his index finger still pointing. “So when are you moving in?”
“Next weekend?”
He dials a number on his phone. “There’s a French chick in my office. She’s signing a lease for apartment 7A. She’ll be coming over to pick up the keys and she’s moving in next weekend. No fucking screw-ups this time!”
It takes me a second, but I figure out that he’s having a oneway conversation with the superintendent in my building, for whom I suddenly feel a tremendous amount of sympathy.
After signing about fifty forms and handing over a ridiculous amount of money, I stand up to leave his office, très fatiguée by the whole experience.
“Miss, send me the signed guarantee by the end of the week or I’m giving the apartment to someone else, capice? ” He smiles proudly as if he had just pronounced a word in French.
“I want the postcoital flush.”
“That’s my girl.” Rikash pats me on the back.
“I can’t believe I just said that to a Sephora salesclerk.”
After an exhausting first week in New York and a traumatic rendezvous with my new landlord, I treat myself to a relaxing Sunday afternoon in Soho in the company of my confidant/ personal shopper/beauty consultant.
“I love the NARS Super Orgasm collection,” Rikash coos while dabbing a bit of colour on his
“Now where were we? Ah yes, the broker fee. You pay a broker fee, which is fifteen percent of your first year’s rent, and we also charge a three-hundred-dollar paper processing fee.”
I nervously sit up in my chair and try to calculate how much all this is going to cost me. I’ve been spoiled by France’s pro-tenant laws and hadn’t expected to pay more than two months’ rent in advance. I guess the laws are different in New York. For a split second, I consider raising the subject but think better of it. Looking into his eyes, I see homelessness.
“Okay.”
“Do you have any credit history in this country?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’ll need to find yourself a guarantor with a New York City address who makes a few hundred grand and who will guarantee the lease.”
Merde. Now I’m really screwed. Who do I know in New York who will guarantee my lease? A few of my father’s relatives lived in New York, but I hadn’t spoken to them in about fifteen years. I couldn’t just call up and ask them to guarantee my exorbitant rent, could I? There was my friend Lisa, whom I had met at law school and who was now living in New York, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her either. Maybe the firm would sign? After all, I’m not the first foreigner to transfer to the city.
“No problem,” I reply, keeping my sangfroid.
“Now let me tell you something,” he says, pointing his index finger while lowering his voice for emphasis: “There are two types of tenants I don’t care to have in my buildings: models and lawyers. Models don’t pay their rent and usually skip town on me, and lawyers are real shit disturbers. They’re always quoting me some fucking section of this act or that code to avoid paying their rent. I don’t want any problems, you hear me? I have no qualms about evicting anybody.” He snaps his fingers dramatically.
I nod back, gritting my teeth, amused to hear that for once in my life I fall into the same category as a model. I’m also happy I kept my big mouth shut rather than blabbering on about irrelevant French laws. If I had even broached the topic of French locataire rights, this guy would’ve had me out on the street faster than a dead cockroach.
“And there’s another thing.”
Okay, now I’m really scared. What else is this guy going to come up with?
“The superintendent in your building is walking a very tight rope with me at the moment.” He joins his thumb and index finger together in mid-air, mimicking a tight rope. “So I expect you to report back to me anything he does that ain’t kosher, got it?” he tells me, his index finger still pointing. “So when are you moving in?”
“Next weekend?”
He dials a number on his phone. “There’s a French chick in my office. She’s signing a lease for apartment 7A. She’ll be coming over to pick up the keys and she’s moving in next weekend. No fucking screw-ups this time!”
It takes me a second, but I figure out that he’s having a oneway conversation with the superintendent in my building, for whom I suddenly feel a tremendous amount of sympathy.
After signing about fifty forms and handing over a ridiculous amount of money, I stand up to leave his office, très fatiguée by the whole experience.
“Miss, send me the signed guarantee by the end of the week or I’m giving the apartment to someone else, capice? ” He smiles proudly as if he had just pronounced a word in French.
“I want the postcoital flush.”
“That’s my girl.” Rikash pats me on the back.
“I can’t believe I just said that to a Sephora salesclerk.”
After an exhausting first week in New York and a traumatic rendezvous with my new landlord, I treat myself to a relaxing Sunday afternoon in Soho in the company of my confidant/ personal shopper/beauty consultant.
“I love the NARS Super Orgasm collection,” Rikash coos while dabbing a bit of colour on his
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