Rental Dementia: The DJ and His Entourage

I didn’t recognize him when he walked into our office. He looked like any other aging and pumped-up Chelsea boy in search of a dramatic, lofty space close enough to the club scene. His friends did most of the talking, and it wasn’t until after they filled out our standard rental form that I realized who he was. My new client, dressed in baggy shorts, flip-flops and a T-shirt too small for him, was a world-renowned and legendary New York City DJ As his little entourage left the office, several agents asked in astonishment, “Don’t you know who that is?” Yeah sort of … I guess.

“Jesse” was one of my more interesting clients. He slept all day and had no interest in amenities, light or stainless steel appliances. Neighborhood mattered, but it was size he wanted. He was obsessed with space. He wanted as much square footage as he could get his hands on. Everything else was negotiable.

Personally, I have always preferred a good dive bar to an overdone club. I think it has something to do with the people—odd as that may seem. Yet, as a rental agent sweating through one brutal month into another, the fun in my life had been reduced to finishing a Sudoku before the train reached my stop.

Here my new client had built a life out of having fun, because you can’t tell me that being a DJ is work—no matter how many albums you’ve dragged to a bar mitzvah. This guy was paid handsomely to fly off to London for weekends of playing clubs, wild parties, and innovative music. I was in awe of his lifestyle and asked myself the same torturous question, “How do people do it?” The question plagues me whenever I meet someone who loves what they do for a living.

He even had a half-assed entourage made up of a sycophant groupie, a former boyfriend, a new (younger) boyfriend, his business manager and a simple yes-man-lackey. They made finding an apartment impossible, but we had a great time doing it. I’d find the perfect 2,500 square foot, keyed elevator loft off Broadway, and they would complain it was too far east or that the floors were “gross” and “nasty.” He wouldn’t say a word, but only deferred to his friends.

His hours weren’t exactly nine to five, so we scheduled our appointments as late as possible. Routinely a half hour late, the pack would roll up bleary-eyed and without apology. We would see an apartment, but then need to grab coffee, then a quick drink, another drink, food and various other accessories. They’d insist on dropping in on friends when they recognized a building. “Oh, so and so lives here, let’s see if he’s home real quick.” Somewhere another agent was waiting for us, while they argued over who said what last night and how the evening ended or didn’t end. I’d call to cancel 20 minutes after our scheduled time.

They were unruly, loud and not at all shy about trashing the taste of the current tenant. They went through people’s closets. It was like a twisted version of “Queer Eye and the Straight Agent,” and more of a traveling party than an apartment tour.

We were about three weeks into a completely fruitless search—well not entirely fruitless if you’re into good gay gossip—when it started to hit me. My new endless party lifestyle was wearing me out. My girlfriend was growing suspicious since my hours were getting later and later. My new gay friends were donating me clothes they thought I’d look “cute” in. Every new show, I’d get another shirt. I didn’t know what was happening to me anymore. I had the latest hair products (also donated) and knew the names of guys who worked the door at clubs. I would have never gotten into those places only two weeks earlier. When I looked into the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. Me? A … I don’t even know the word … a clubber? Where was the loveable and disheveled loser rental agent? I was turning metrosexual or something—and couldn’t stop. I had to get out, but they refused to agree on a place.

As entertaining as it was, I was growing tired of trying to satisfy six different opinions when only one really mattered. His temper was starting to annoy me as well. Usually pretty quiet and the most reserved of the group, the famous DJ was occasionally prone to fits of yelling. I was beginning to get the sense that I was no longer only a useful agent anymore; I was slowly being roped into an endless party through some bizarre initiation.

When I backed off and began declining their invitations, they would ask what else could I possibly have planned. What was I going to say? I’m trying to finish The Brothers Karamazov? It’s Sudoku night at home?

Although I’m not always in love with what I do for a living, I do get to meet some characters, and usually for exactly as long as I’d like to. After three weeks of running around town with an extremely colorful group of guys, I found Jesse a loft on Sixth Avenue and collected a nice commission for my effort—if you could call it that.