“FIVE DAYS RENT DEMAND NOTICE TO TENANT”
To: AMANDA LARK
Please be advised that you owe the Owner/Landlord of the property mentioned above a total of $11,424.00 for rent and additional charges covering the period from November 2013 to July 2015. You are required to settle this amount within FIVE (5) days of receiving this notice, or you must vacate the premises. Failure to comply will result in the Owner/Landlord initiating legal proceedings to reclaim possession of the property.
My mind raced with images of my dwindling bank account and ads for no-fee apartments on Craigslist. Not only did I lack the funds to cover such a sum, but I also didn’t owe anything at all. Yet the starkly capitalized FIVE DAYS felt unyielding and indifferent to my truth. I was disheartened that this correspondence from the past contained little more than a baseless threat.
As per the instructions I received when I first moved in eleven years prior, I adopted a peculiar method for paying rent. Each month, on the fifteenth, I write a check and walk down from my fourth-floor apartment to the second floor, where I slip it under the door of the building manager—who happens to be the landlord’s niece. She then delivers it to her uncle’s apartment. While the process is slow and indirect, the Groves (a pseudonym) seem to appreciate this method of submission.
Throughout our eleven years together, we’ve experienced almost no surprises or missed payments—meaning there was no money waiting to be claimed.
Letter still in hand, I stepped outside, entering the first phase of bewilderment (the shaky helpless patch). I spotted my landlord, Mr. Grove, opening the gate to his basement apartment, presumably returning from delivering that notice to me—as if I needed to be thrust into confrontation.
“Mr. Grove!” I called, brandishing the letter. “What is this?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted back. “You never pay your rent! I know how many people are living upstairs! Hundreds, that’s how many!” Spittle flew from his mouth, splattering his face in the process.
This outburst was so uncharacteristic of him that I was at a loss for how to respond. So, I naturally resorted to yelling back. For a minute, we stood there, exchanging shouts, until I stormed back inside, rushed up to my apartment, burst into tears, and called my mom, who wasn’t much help.
“Well, do you owe him money?” she asked.
“NO!” I cried back.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!” she reassured.
But I did have something to worry about. I had five days to either produce a massive sum I didn’t owe or risk losing my apartment—and everything I owned. I was even scared to walk my dog, fearing that I’d return to find myself apprehended by the authorities. I called the lawyer referenced in the letter, disputing their claims.
“You mean you don’t owe any money?”
“That’s right,” I affirmed.
“And you’re all paid up?”
“I’m all paid up.”
The lawyer then expressed concern over my landlord’s mental well-being and age, and I hoped that would be the end of it.
But two days later, another notice arrived, this one in a certified envelope in my mailbox. I reached out to the lawyer again, but he wouldn’t take my call. The following day, yet another letter came, and once again, the lawyer avoided my calls. Soon, I received a certified letter from a different attorney, with the amount I supposedly owed now jumping to $19,992. If I didn’t pay up in five days, I’d be out on the street. How many more FIVE DAYS would they give me?
I called 311, only to be directed to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, which operates only between 9:30 a.m. and 11:30 a.m., resulting in a busy signal if you call during that time. I consulted a few lawyers, who informed me that there was little I could do until I received an official eviction notice or a lawsuit, which I was cautioned against pursuing. Even if I was right, going to court would ruin my chances of renting in NYC ever again. No one seemed to care that my five-day deadline was rapidly approaching, and I feared I would have to move back into my mother’s one-bedroom apartment, sharing the couch with my five-year-old brother and a pint-sized dog named Maxi.
From what I understood, fabricating a debt and coercing someone to pay it is termed extortion. I wondered what sort of lawyer would draft these letters without verifying such claims. What rights did I have? As I began to research my legal situation and came up empty-handed, I searched for stories of tenants who had received similar letters, only to be frightened away by the official-looking documents. Where were the others who had faced this? Where were my fellow distressed souls?
Then, I remembered a project I admired by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom called the “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He had sifted through letters sent to the city’s Mayors from 1751 to 1969, collecting the most notable complaints into a broadsheet and eventually a book. I had always wanted to explore the archives myself, and now felt it was the perfect time. My goal: to unearth past complaints from tenants in my building, perhaps even from my own apartment. If I could gather enough evidence of neglect or wrongdoing, I would have leverage against Mr. Grove.
For three years, I had battled with heat issues in my apartment, often telling my landlord that it was freezing and that I wore gloves to bed, to which he would respond, “The heat works. It’s warm in my apartment.” If I had gone without heat for three years, surely other tenants had similar stories. I aimed to uncover a history of complaints stretching back as far as Brooklyn itself, hoping to amass enough evidence that it would take two volunteers from the municipal archives to push the cart of grievances into court behind me.
Overwhelmed by the task ahead, I arrived at the Municipal Archives, ready to dig through the extensive records. I hopped onto the Microfiche Reader, scrolling through the endless complaints. While I knew that finding grievances specific to my building would be a long shot, I unexpectedly discovered a complaint from my former residence on St. Mark’s Place. Dated August 2nd, 1888, it was a report from James C. Bayles, President of Health and Sanitation, addressed to Mayor Abram S. Hewitt.
I have the honor to return several complaints with the reports of inspectors detailed to investigate them, viz: The letter from Andrew Gross of 118 St. Mark’s Place, calling attention to the fact that undertakers empty ice in the streets, that has been in contact with dead bodies, I desire to retain for fuller investigation. I do not believe that this is a general practice, but if it is, I am somewhat in doubt whether it is a source of danger. Ice cannot well be infected and the rapid erasion of its surface by melting would probably remove from such gradments as fall into the hands of children, any source of danger. I will, however, see that proper action is taken to prevent this if it is done.
Respectfully,
James C. Bayles, President
In the same letter, Bayles details other complaints regarding nuisances and the preservation of health in the city. Despite the absurdity of the issues raised, the act of complaining had not changed much over the past century. I was captivated, but I lost track of time, consumed by the grievances of those who came before me.
Worried that I had squandered too much time, I rushed back home, racing against the clock. As I reached my street, my mail carrier flagged me down, further delaying my return.
“You have another certified letter,” she informed me.
“I do?” I said, trying not to panic.
She glanced around. “I know what’s going on.”
“What?” I asked, intrigued.
“There’s a British Real Estate lady—” she puffed her cheeks to demonstrate width—“telling all the landlords how much they can get for their apartments. Now all the landlords are trying to get their tenants out.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Don’t complain about anything, don’t give him any reason to get you out.”
“But I complained all winter to his niece about the heat. They wouldn’t fix it.”
“Oh, that’s not his niece. Eddie doesn’t have children.”
I knew that was incorrect, but I was too frazzled to argue.