" ...getting a signature on the lease of a 1600 apartment will net the broker $2,880..."
Renovated!, Nov 2, 1999
Broker Fee: In Manhattan, brokers charge the prospective tenant 15% of a year's rent; they earn this money by talking building owners into turning over the agony of renting an apartment. A broker then lists the apartment in the Village Voice and shows it to a desperate client. Getting a signature on the lease of a 1600 apartment will net the broker $2,880.
by owner: This means you won't be dealing with a broker. You will be paying $100 to 200 dollars to a broker who claims not to be a broker because she will not be showing you the apartment. Instead she will be emailing you and at least 100 other clients each day with new listings. Once the email is sent, the ball is in your and your competition's court. Good luck.
Open house: This means you and anyone else who can get off work during the designated thirty minute interval can file into the apartment, two by two, to look and fill out an application. There is no fee and even less dignity.
East 97th at Park, 2 bedrooms, 4 rooms, $1150, by owner
This apartment was being shown from 6 to 6:30 pm on a Tuesday. 97th Street is the entree to Harlem. It's just a few streets up from the low 90's, which are chic and yuppie and a few streets down from abandoned blocks and the only part of Manhattan not renovated and gentrified for the middle class. Two bedrooms for 1150- unheard of! Not impossible though, if someone has lived in the building for many years and the building is rent stabilized. It's a bit higher than we want to live, but we gave it a go. Such a deal.
Fifty other working people had the same idea and we all waited on the stoop for the super to crack it open.
"You can all go home," a fiftyish woman yelled as she approached the group, "it's mine!"
At 5:58, a paint stained super slipped up the steps and opened the door. A line was formed, but Gennady and I watched from the sidewalk as the light turned on and one of the two bedrooms filled with people. Gennady noticed that a short man walked from the bedroom door to the front window in two steps. The line thinned and many people left without filling out the paperwork. The first room was the kitchen. A radiator speared through the center of the kitchen and the bathroom had a shower but no tub. The first bedroom had six corners and space enough for a crib or a dresser with drawers; no windows. The second room, visible from the street, had five corners and a shelf and also, not enough space for a single bed. None of the four rooms had closets and that is how we stumbled upon a rampant problem called the renovated 1 or 2 bedroom.
A landlord will take a studio and slice it in half with one or even two walls, and call it a one or two bedroom. The sqare footage has been decreased by whatever the width of the new walls adds up to, but now, it's a 2 bedroom and the rent can increase dramatically.
"I can't believe anyone would have the nerve to call that a two bedroom," muttered the woman so convinced the place was hers, "it's not right." We agreed and crossed the street.
11st/Ave B, reno 1 bedroom, $1395, by owner
This too was an ex studio. Gennady opened a window and the handle fell off. A fifth floor walk up, a shower small enough to make one step out onto the floor to reach for something on one's feet, such as dropped soap.
24th/3rd, studio, $1895
This one we called ourselves from a list of landlords that use management companies instead of brokers. Management companies are paid by the owner; the buildings are nicer and more expensive. The super met us at 6pm on Thursday and how refreshing it was to see a studio allowed to bask in its effiency instead of raped by plaster. We'll decide how to chop up the space, thank you. It's a penthouse studio on the sixth story and there is an elevator. A skylight breaks open the room, the fireplace works and there are three closets, plus a full bathtub and a separate kitchen. It's a ten minute walk from work and there's a laundry room on the first floor.
Yahoo.
We met with the management company on Friday afternoon. I brought three paystubs and proof of day job employment. I'm keeping the comedy thing our little secret. Since I've worked at this company for less than three years, I need a guarator. A guarantor is a homeowner in the tri-state area who will promise to pay my rent if I skip town. Luckily Gennady's parents want him out of the house; they are willing to be my guarantor and sent a copy of the deed to the apartment they bought in Brooklyn in 1984. I also brought $100.00 cash for the "credit check."
Not good enough, screamed the management agent, Barbara. New York women have a habit of yelling, in a friendly tone. It is jarring at first, interesting when you realize it has nothing to do with you and obnoxious when you really really want a nice place to live.
"I need something that has the address on it," she shouted, pointing to the deed. She repeated this sentence at least six times. "Laurie, you're things are fine, but you," she shouted, pointing at Gennady, "bring me something on Monday that says the address of the place your parents own, and a check for the first month and the deposit, and the cash for the credit check and we'll sign the lease then."
Yes, yes you fat bitch. Now, why she wants cash for a credit check when she is also wants a first and security so we can sign a lease is just one of the things that makes no sense but you don't ask because you have your heart set on a place, a nice place, with you and the man you love, for just one year of your life in Manhattan.
