“DEMAND FOR RENT NOTICE”
To: AMANDA STERN
Please be informed that you owe the Landlord of the aforementioned premises the sum of $11,424.00 for rent and additional charges from November 2013 to July 2015. You must pay this amount within FIVE (5) days of receiving this notice or vacate the premises. Failure to comply will result in legal proceedings to reclaim possession of the property.
As I read the letter, my mind raced through images of my bank account balance and no-fee apartment listings on Craigslist. Not only did I lack the funds to cover such an outrageous claim, but I also didn’t owe a single penny. The emphatic FIVE DAYS in capital letters felt cold and indifferent to my reality, leaving me frustrated that this missive from the past was merely a falsehood shrouded in intimidation.
Following the instructions provided when I first moved in eleven years prior, I utilized an egg-and-spoon method for rent payment. Each month, on the fifteenth, I would write a check and carefully transport it from my fourth-floor apartment to the building manager’s second-floor unit, a routine my landlord’s daughter executed by delivering it to her father in the garden apartment. This indirect approach to rent payment has been shockingly smooth, with no missed payments over the years. In other words, there was no outstanding debt.
Still clutching the letter, I stepped outside, entering a haze of confusion and helplessness. I spotted my landlord, Mr. Mason, emerging from his basement apartment, likely just having dropped this alarming notice in the hallway. The thought of confrontation made my stomach churn.
“Mr. Mason,” I called out, brandishing the letter. “What is this about?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted back, his face flushed with rage. “You never pay your rent! I know how many people are living upstairs! Hundreds, that’s how many!” Spittle flew from his mouth, a testament to his fury.
This outburst was so uncharacteristic that I found myself at a loss for words. In a state of shock, I yelled back, and soon we were exchanging shouts in the street for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, I retreated to my apartment, overwhelmed, and called my mom, who was less than reassuring.
“Do you owe him money?” she asked.
“NO!” I replied.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!”
But I did have something to worry about. I faced a five-day deadline to pay a staggering amount I didn’t owe, or risk losing my home and all my belongings. I felt trapped, afraid even to take my dog for a walk, fearing I would return to find myself forcibly evicted. I contacted the lawyer specified in the letter, disputing the claims.
“You mean you don’t owe any money?” he asked, surprised.
“That’s correct,” I confirmed.
“You’re fully paid up?”
“Yes,” I insisted.
He then shared his concerns about my landlord’s mental state and age, and I hoped that would be the end of it. But as luck would have it, just two days later, another notice arrived, this one in a certified envelope. I tried to reach the lawyer again, but he wouldn’t take my calls. The next day brought yet another letter, and again, my attempts to contact the lawyer were met with silence. Soon, I received a certified letter from a different attorney, and the alleged amount I owed had ballooned by $8,000—now totaling $19,992. How many more five-day notices would they send?
I called 311, only to be directed to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, which operated only during a two-hour window when callers faced busy signals. I sought advice from various attorneys, but they told me there was nothing I could do until I received an eviction notice or my landlord filed a lawsuit. They warned me against going to housing court, as it would tarnish my rental history, making it nearly impossible to find another place in NYC, despite my being a fifth-generation New Yorker. I dreaded the thought of moving back to my mother’s cramped one-bedroom apartment and sharing the couch with my five-year-old brother and our dog, Maxi.
To my knowledge, fabricating a debt and coercing someone into payment is called extortion. What kind of lawyer would draft such letters without verifying claims? I decided to research my rights, and when I found little help online, I began to look for stories from other tenants who had received similar letters. Were they all so informed about Five Day Rent Demand Notices that they didn’t need to seek comfort from dubious sources on the Internet? Where were my fellow distressed tenants? Where were the complainers?
Then I remembered a project by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom, titled “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He had sifted through letters to city mayors from 1751 to 1969, compiling the most compelling grievances into a broadsheet. I had always wanted to explore the archives myself, and now it seemed like the perfect opportunity. My goal: to uncover past complaints from tenants in my building, possibly even from my own apartment. If I could gather enough evidence of neglect and disrepair, I’d have the leverage I needed against my landlord.
For three years, I had endured heating issues, often telling my landlord that I was freezing, to which he would dismissively reply, “The heat works in my apartment.” If I had suffered without heat, surely others had as well. I was determined to find a history of complaints dating back to the origins of Brooklyn itself, enough so that when I arrived in court, it would take two volunteers from the archives to cart my evidence before the judge.
As I dove into the Municipal Archives, I quickly realized I was unprepared for the volume of grievances I would encounter. With limited time, I jumped onto the Microfiche Reader and started searching. Although I suspected I wouldn’t find complaints from my current building, I discovered letters from my former East Village home.
One particular letter, dated August 2, 1888, was from James C. Bayles, the President of Health and Sanitation, addressing Mayor Abram S. Hewitt. Mr. Bayles detailed various complaints, including one from a resident of 118 St. Mark’s Place who expressed concern about undertakers disposing of ice contaminated by dead bodies onto the streets. He noted the potential dangers and promised to investigate further.
Bayles also reported on a nuisance complaint from “Many Residents” of 95 Rivington Street, which the inspector found baseless. Other letters raised issues about the stench of dead horses, political corruption, and general disturbances. It seemed that throughout history, city dwellers had always found something to complain about, whether it was the smell of rotting horses or the noise of the city. The communication process—letters from complainants to inspectors, to the mayor, and back—hadn’t changed much over time.
I found myself absorbed in the stories of frustrated residents, losing track of time in my quest to uncover past grievances. When I finally returned home, worried that I might have lost my apartment, I was stopped by my mail carrier.
“You have another certified letter,” she informed me, and my heart sank.
“I do?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure.
She glanced over her shoulder conspiratorially. “There’s a British real estate lady telling landlords how much they can charge for their apartments. They’re all trying to get their tenants out.”
“Seriously?” I was incredulous.
“Seriously. Don’t complain about anything. Don’t give him any reason to evict you.”
“I’ve complained about the heat for months. They wouldn’t fix it!”
“Oh, that’s not his daughter,” she said, shaking her head. “Eddie doesn’t have kids.”
Despite her claims, I had been under the impression that it was his daughter from the very beginning.
Conclusion
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