Over a decade ago, my wife and I lived in New York City for three years. From Manhattan to Brooklyn and then back to Manhattan, we lived in three different apartments during that time. Our last apartment, on East 93rd Street in the Carnegie Hill section of Manhattan, was just around the corner from the famous 92nd Street Y, also the former home to the great writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, where today famous authors, poets, and celebrities give engaging talks.
The apartment was located on the fourth floor of a co-op building once lived in by the Marx Brothers. It came equipped with marble countertops, cherry-wood cabinets, and a tin ceiling in the kitchen. There were ceiling fans throughout, a large yellow and white artificial fireplace backdropped by a deep red wall adorning the living room, crown moldings on the ceilings, and respectable hardwood flooring. It also had a very impressive bathroom: an NYC subway-tiled shower and bath with large sliding glass doors and a toilet the size of a throne with a big silver French handle on it.
Our landlord, a quirky, pseudo-intellectual retired UPS driver who loved to use big words and make obscure literature and film references, lived out of state in Florida but was previously a New Yorker for many years. Richard was the kind of guy who wore fluffy Christmas sweaters and, I’d surmised, had a copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace sitting on his nightstand.
On day one of the lease for our new apartment, we found him inside camped out on the living room floor. A sleeping bag, a half-pot of cooked rice, and some empty water bottles were scattered throughout. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he perked right up upon sight of us. “David, it’s good to finally meet you,” he said, standing up. “And this must be Kathleen.”
My wife immediately turned red, something that happens when she’s embarrassed for everyone in the room, including herself.
“David, quick, let me show you something first,” Richard said, walking toward the fireplace. “This is the new play I wrote.” He grabbed a thick, handwritten packet of white paper from the mantle and opened it to the first page so I could see it.
“Wow,” I said, feigning interest. “That’s impressive.”
Afterwards, he told us he’d been wandering the city by day visiting museums. When asked if he’d be cleaning the place and making minor repairs before our move the next day, he said, “You know, I meant to spend the day cleaning yesterday, but I got bogged down with other stuff.” He assured us, however, that he’d be gone before the movers arrived—a welcome relief.
The first few months in the apartment were great. But then, things took a sudden turn. We started having issues with the heat; there was an exploding pipe; loose handles and knobs on cabinet doors, vanity doors, doors of all kinds; things just randomly falling off. A neighbor in the apartment next door beyond our shared wall did clumsy Tai-Chi sessions and organized furniture every night between three and five in the morning.
And then, there were the mice.
Because of the nature of our quirky interactions, the emails between Richard and me became more and more fanciful and ludicrous.
On the day after the exterminator came, I wrote him an email:
Hi Richard,
I don’t know what Kathleen responded but I wanted to let you know the outcome.
Yes, the exterminator, a very large man who, if you ask me, seemed to be posing as an exterminator, came out yesterday.
He greeted me at the door by yelling, “Rent reduction, rent reduction!” and said the stairs were “too much.”I’m not sure what he did since it was such a quick visit, but that’s not the point. The guy was all about enthusiasm. “We’ll get the little fucker,” he kept saying.
As for our mouse friend, it seems he’s trying to save face. I told him he has no business up here. Of course, he didn’t listen at first, continued to peek out from behind our bookshelf as any mouse would (some taunting going on, too), even feigned like he was sniffing out one of the classics.
When he inadvertently brushed up against Kafka’s The Trail, however, that was it. His whole demeanor changed. I’m guessing he thought his prospects would be better elsewhere.
Also, I’m happy to report that we’re now the proud owners of six mouse trap bags.
-David”
I signed off my iPad feeling accomplished.
But the problems wouldn’t stop. Needless to say, we had had enough and wanted out.So one day, I got Richard on the phone and we came to an agreement: Kathleen and I would begin the process of subletting our apartment and breaking the lease.
But first, we would need the blessing of the head of the apartment building’s co-op board, a small, fiery Asian woman named Sherry. That’s just the way Richard wanted it.
He and I began emailing again, of course, about the situation, and about Sherry. And each email became more preposterous than the last.
Feeling silly and determined to get us out of the lease, I dug deep one afternoon. Richard, although a good, honest man, was a completely preposterous individual, so this would not have worked on any other person. But I came up with an email that would ultimately get the ball rolling:
Hi Richard,
If there was ever a time to remain steadfast to your position that the building heed your concerns, then certainly it is now. Sherry’s countenance — sufficiently peevish, no doubt — might well call to mind for you a character in the movie RAN, but one would be remiss in failing to understand her true nature.
A complimentary encounter such as, “Oh, hi, Sherry. By the way, the flowers out front look great. Are those new shoes you’re wearing?” which I, with your encouragement, would so graciously initiate, might not reveal much more than what we already know about her, I’m afraid.
Have there been misunderstandings? Certainly. Sherry and I have, by our own admission, been a complete nuisance to one another. Sure, righto, of course.
That said, Kathleen and I are responsible renters and always have been so. “You guys are always on time with the rent. Wow, you keep the place so clean. You’re so quiet and respectful of the other neighbors,” they invariably say. (Or maybe that’s us just saying it to ourselves.)
In any case, the decision to eschew a future sublet arrangement is yours, yes. However, I implore you to consider that in recognizing the co-op board’s fiduciary responsibility, the power might not lie solely with Sherry.
-David
After that, Richard fell in line quickly, as did Sherry and the others. And ultimately, we moved out for good.
Now I’m just wondering if I should send him another email, eleven years later, with wording even more ludicrous than the last.