My first question to any new client is why are you moving since those who don’t need to move will, in the end, probably not move at all. Few rational people are willing to search through the lousy leftover inventory, deal with the shady brokers, pay the insane prices and then pack up all of their shit and hire a moving truck unless they have to. The shocking reality of the rental market will often make a current space feel a little bigger, and strangely more comfortable. They rearrange some furniture, buy a few plants and wait it out another year.
Her answer was simply enough. After only three months into a new lease, she had started dating a neighbor. The arrangement had quickly become both awkward and confused, and “some space” was already in order, but not too much. “I need a sunny alcove studio in the same neighborhood, just not in the same building, so we can, like, still have dinner, and go out and stuff.”
My next question was equally if not more important: “And, uh, how are you going to pay for the apartment?” She was unfazed, “I’m not paying, my parents are. They pay for everything.”
Scheduling time with her was remarkably simple, as her only obligation each week was a one-hour drawing class that took place in her small apartment. I went there to take some pictures—hoping to rent her place at the same time—and noticed the shaded apples she had been working on. I said, “Nice apples, I really like the colors.” But, as it turned out they were supposed to be vases. I was able to rebound, though, by correctly guessing that another drawing of hers was in fact a unicorn.
Moving on, I snapped some photos, while she got dressed in the bathroom. We were headed to see an alcove studio in a building just three blocks away. It would be the first and only apartment that I showed her: She loved it. On the 12th floor, it faced directly south and was one of the brightest apartments I had ever seen. Though it was $350 more a month than her current place, she didn’t seem concerned. More money was only a phone call away.
Regardless of how filthy rich her parents were, they would still object to paying for two Manhattan apartments at the same time. They were teaching her a valuable life lesson: The real world can be awfully cruel and we all need to make sacrifices. Her mother slammed a firm foot down. She would only pay for one luxury apartment per month and, of course, all of her daughter’s other expenses. It was tough love, and difficult to witness.
I wasn’t able to rent her current place as a certain listing agent preferred to handle every deal in the building. It was a condo, and I could have found a new tenant, and then contacted the owner directly, but the listing agent was willing to let her out early. If the apartment sat vacant, they would keep her one-month security deposit. We agreed, and went to work on securing her new apartment.
Though her parents had $7 million sitting in a U.S. bank account, her father had some time ago, renounced his citizenship and had moved back to South Korea for tax purposes. Her mother, who had devoted her life to golfing in California, had no income of her own, spoke very little English and couldn’t be reached while on the course.
The building she chose was a nightmare to deal with, and one of our supposed “exclusives,” which really only meant we, along with a few other outfits, paid for access. They’d take half the commission, and we well…got kicked in the groin for our effort.
The smacked ass of a building manager liked to play leasing agent when he wasn’t un-clogging toilets and firing painters. Our entire application package was dropped on his desk, as he would scan it over and tell me what we would need to do the deal. In reality, that package would be sent to the main office where the actual decision was made, but I guess he liked to feel like he was earning his half of my commission.
Initially, I was told six months extra security. He wouldn’t budge, and making matters worse, her current apartment had already been rented. I offered my couch while we found the right space, but eventually her mother caved in and sent the check.
With a check for $17,850 in my hand, I triumphantly entered his office. “What’s this? I said nine months security.” Needless to say, a rather nasty argument ensued. I was about to be banned from the building, when he literally threw the check at me and told me to get another one. I refused, and the check was still on the office floor when I walked out. “Cash it or don’t, I don’t give a shit.” All of this for a lousy $1,147 bucks. They cashed it, and so did I, but I think I was the only one who felt bad about it.
