Rental Dementia: Little Monsters

While living in New York I’ve had plenty of tough weeks, but nothing like this last one. When it was over, I needed to sit quietly with myself in deep meditation, far from the city, in a remote, unfamiliar and somewhat mystical place called Coney Island, where many before me had gone to contemplate life, lick similar wounds and drink gallons of vodka.

Like a Zen koan, my meditation consisted of a difficult question: What horrible act had I committed to deserve such horrendous karma? What, that is, beyond being a real estate agent?

It’s every agent’s nightmare. You do all of the work, the explaining, the searching, calling, scheduling, educating and convincing. You narrow it down to the right apartment in the right price range, in the right neighborhood. It’s $6,000 a month, a healthy commission and it’s a corporate relocation. The company will pay for everything, so there won’t be any whining or haggling over the fee. The appointment is scheduled for Monday morning. You stick around all weekend to make certain not a single property has been overlooked. You are absolutely certain: This is the one.

But then another schlep steps in, beats you to the punch, opens the door and collects your fee. This is how bad agents are born, and I was never that good to begin with.

I had gotten her initial email roughly three weeks earlier. “Courtney” and her husband were returning to Manhattan in September, and subsequently needed a three-bedroom rental. Preferably in the Far West Village, they were willing to spend up to $6,000 a month. I had worked with her before on several small film projects and genuinely liked her—though I was still hesitant to find her an apartment.

Although I don’t like to mix even casual friendships with business, especially this business, I eventually agreed. Her husband’s company would pay the fee, and therefore I wouldn’t mind collecting one. I don’t care how perfect the apartment is, how solid the relationship is or how hard an agent worked on the deal, there’s always bad blood when it comes to a $10,000 commission check, especially among friends.

Though we had close to a month before they arrived, I went straight to work, since true three-bedrooms are difficult to find, especially downtown. The keyed-elevator lofts in SoHo were too expensive or too small; a spot in the American Thread Building looked good, but would have never been available by the time they arrived. The little streets in the West Village—their first choice—were empty as well.

I was running her search every day through different channels and very little was coming up. Then they mentioned Brooklyn, and I tracked down the perfect apartment in Dumbo. I sent her the listing, and she agreed. It was perfect. With the appointment set, I spent the rest of the weekend looking into alternatives, just in case.

I got her text an hour before our appointment. “Hubby-bucks” must have been making the rounds on Sunday, though I was told he was unavailable to meet until Monday. But by that time he had already found an apartment. The text read: Sorry, we found one, thanks for all your help!

OK, it happens. In fact, it happens all the time—and I know her, she’s nice,—so I fought off any lurking resentment. But then things got really weird when her husband called later in the week to see if I could submit an application for them. I was completely confused as he explained his predicament. They were approved for the apartment, and everything was great, except his agent wouldn’t accept anything less than a 13.5 percent fee. His company would only cover 12 percent and the difference would come straight from his pocket. As he was going through the story and how I fit in, he casually mentioned that it was the apartment in Dumbo … the one I lined up for them. WHAT? He rented my apartment with someone else and was asking for my help again? What the fuck was he thinking?

And now he wanted to use me one more time to discount his fee and undercut the other agent. Is there a name for that kind of audacity? He knew how hard I had worked. Hell, in the last week alone his wife and I exchanged over 25 emails. He knew the address, the building and the apartment number. Knowing this, he walked in with another agent and rented it, and I still can’t figure out why. Hence, Coney Island, the vodka, and the meditation.

Why would he do that? After my solo journey down the broken-down boardwalk, my answer finally came. Hubby bucks isn’t an over-privileged, backstabbing cheapskate, nor is he a bad guy. No more evil than most real estate agents. The simple fact is that the real estate market makes monsters out of us all. This was, after all, the third time this week. It’s rough out there and no one is playing fair anymore.