Busted

Lena
New York, NY--Downtown Manhattan
February 2004-present
4-bdrm loft apt, occupied by three ever-rotating female roomies (ten different ones in the time I've lived there--and then there are all the boyfriends who've ended up "moving in" along with them) and I

About two years ago I returned home one night to find a police officer standing at the top of the stairs.

As I opened the door I heard the woman shouting to another officer around the corner. I froze. She looked nervous and put up her hands and told me to stop and not come up the stairs. The next thing I heard was the other officer shouting/asking if I live on the second floor. I quickly responded that, no, I do not live on the second but on the fourth floor. I repeated this a few times in case there was any doubt.

After standing in the cold doorway for about ten minutes the officer motioned for me to pass. I quickly walked up the stairs and as I turned the corner I noticed three more police officers standing on every other step of the next flight. The lead officer looked very tense and had his hand on his gun. There was another officer at the second-floor apartment door getting ready to break it down. He was holding that weapon they use to break down doors with.

They all looked at me half accusingly. The main officer continued to bang on the door and shout "open up!" I wondered if anyone was home. I quickly brushed by them and continued up the rest of the stairs. I made it inside but I was in a state of shock. My roommates saw the disbelief on my face and I quickly told them about my brief encounter with the cops. My one roommate ran back into her room to put makeup on and go flirt with some of the officers. Another roommate wanted to run down to see more of the action in person and the other one started analyzing how the landlord could be part of the bust.

The next morning, heading downstairs on my way to work, I saw that second-floor door covered in orange tape with big black letters: WARNING. There was an eviction notice on the door and some handwriting stating the tenants were part of an illegal massage and prostitution operation. Over the next couple of weeks the tenants managed to disappear, the apartment was renovated, and new tenants were found. The overall trafficking of random men that used to drop by stopped. On occasion, I still do see men in business suits coming and going from the apartment. They’re usually wearing guilty expressions and most of them are wearing wedding bands. They tend to hang around waiting for a good twenty minutes.

Thing is, it didn't really bother me. I figure my neighbors can do as they please as long as it doesn't interfere--too much--with my living.

Screwed

Kristen
New York, NY--East Village/Alphabet City neighborhood
October-November 2005
Studio apt, occupied by my then-boyfriend and I

October 10, 2005
We officially moved to the East Village today. Three months this round.

I love it. Hell if our apartment is very small w/ bugs, the walls streaked w/ who knows what, sentences like "revolutionary things aren't realized until after you're dead" scrawled end to end, a lone dried rose dangling upside-down from a thumbtack... A simple paint job should do wonders. (Yeah, we got permission. Not that anyone'd care.)

Excited! Once those puppies are covered in robin's egg blue, I fear I'll never leave. Size be damned, the space'll be adorable. Anyway, we have the perfect amount of stuff to fill it with.

October 29, 2005
We're staring a pretty dire sublet situation in the face. In sum, in the last couple of weeks, we've learned that a) we walked into a sublet once or twice removed (dude who's subletting to us is subletting from another who's subletting from... his mommy?); b) not a cent of our prepaid rent has yet to make it into landlord-hands; c) our neighbor, guy who's handling the sublet logistics for his friend (leaseholder who's really not) is, along w/ said leaseholder, making a good deal of $ off us (the apartment, clearly in a rent-stabilized complex, is valued at a mere $850/month); d) by default, we *owe* over $900 in back bills to Con Ed, and if the bill isn't taken care of yesterday, off goes the power; and e) if we don't get out soon, we may find ourselves enmeshed in some pretty icky legal proceedings (no, we didn't open his mail, just held it up to the window). That's the gist of it.

Anyhow, a dear and resourceful friend will be consulted in depth later tonight. By tomorrow our game plan should be clear.

November 29, 2005
Tomorrow evening we say goodbye to this luckless apartment forever.

To its credit, I suppose there were a few bright spots. A rundown:

+ Pretty blue walls, self-painted
+ TV, microwave
+ Hardwoods w/ minimal buckling
+ Shower in the bathroom (vs. in the kitchen)
+ Proximity to bus line

And now, the flip:

- Damp walls = peeling paint (not so pretty)
- Fuses blown daily
- Bathroom suited for a 1/2 person
- Living in fear of canceled electricity
- Living in fear of returning home to changed locks
- Living in fear that growling-man (outside window most mornings) would find a way in
- Doll (twin) bed
- Hearing our cross-hall neighbor (and sublet administrator), Rich, smooth-talk the ladies at 3 a.m.
- Hearing said neighbor talk
- Seeing said neighbor
- Long-ass trek to the train
- Long hairy bugs as yet unclassified by entomologists

Let's hear it for the cons.

Good riddance, 1A.

March 25, 2008
W/ this one, the saga didn't end on move-out day, which came a month early at our insistence. Maybe it would have ended then, had our 23-year-old rent-hoarding sublet administrator returned the money we were owed (we'd paid him three months' rent upfront), but alas, he withheld. And so, in the wake of several thwarted promises--"dude I swear, I'll PayPal you the money tonight"--we hauled him to small claims court, we did, only he failed to show up. Of course, judgment was issued against him, a decision we smugly received amidst the cries--"but that asshole ruined my best suit!"--of disgruntled dry cleaner patrons. If memory serves, we treated ourselves to sushi right after.

In retrospect, we'd been pretty dumb to hand over all that money w/ (very) minimal documentation, but w/ two days left at our current location, we'd been desperate. And besides, this was the East Village, neighborhood we'd lusted after since the get-go. At any rate, all's well that ends well, and we at least walked w/ our money and a few good stories, one of my favorites being when D had knocked on Rich's door to inquire about a) a (way) past-due notice that'd just come from the landlord, and b) a final-and-we-really-mean-it-this-time notice from Con Ed. Rich, chin raised, dick/ego hummin' following a spin home from school (a finance major, of course) on his trusty motorcycle, could tell something was up. But he invited D in, and as he made his way to his sleazy vinyl sofa, he pulled a dollar-store switchblade out of his pocket, which he attempted to casually fling open. After a few solid efforts, he was ultimately unsuccessful, and, dejected, reduced, he dropped the thing on his desk. (Oh Rich--pathetic you are, scary you'll never be.) Anyhow, panicked and eager to gain some ground, he fell back on plan b, segueing into an account of recent sexual prosperity, including: "Yeah, the other night I nailed that chick in 2C--you know the one?" Yeah Rich. We love you! Good luck man.