Yesterday morning at 8 a.m. construction started in the apartment across the hall from us — the rent-stabilized one my landlord had successfully evicted an 18-year tenant from the week before, so that his son could move in (remains to be seen). And by construction I mean pulling up floors, knocking out cabinets, and general banging that was so loud and disruptive I couldn’t help but laugh as I complained about it.
A few minutes later I heard my landlord talking in the hall and then banging on our apartment door. At this point Dustin was in the shower and I was in bed eating oatmeal or something, in my pajamas. The night before I found a note he left on our door letting me know I forgot to include the agreed-upon $20 for our monthly gas payment in my rent. Whoops. I had no cash on me so I took down the note and planned to go to the ATM the next day. I’d also read a note he left on our building door saying that SOMEONE had stolen the padlock that he put on the door leading down to the basement. The basement he locks so that no one can go in the backyard. The basement where the circuit breakers are. The basement where we keep a bunch of our belongings because this was always totally acceptable until he put a padlock on the basement and gave the spare key to the elderly lady upstairs, in case we need to, say, escape in a fire or if she needs to let in National Grid to read the gas meters. So I knew he was showing up to either demand $20 or ask us if we knew where the padlock was — neither of which I really felt were worth putting pants and a bra on for. I froze in bed, spoon in midair, but didn’t get up. He banged again and instinctively I shouted, “What?!”
Will future generations will look upon us City dwellers with pity or scorn? Actually, scratch “future generations.” How about “denizens of Pittsburgh, Denver, Lincoln, or pretty much any other damn place besides San Francisco”? Because the folly of living in New York City, it keeps getting more intense. According to Curbed, which gleaned data from Zumper, median rents for a one-bedroom in the City this past month leaped from “Astronomical” to “More Than Your Great-Grandpa Made in a Year.” They ranged from $1,200 in Brownsville, Brooklyn, which is a place Lena Dunham never lived, to a whopping $4,210 in TriBeCa, in Manhattan, which is a place she did.
Apparently we can blame the Greenpoint price spike on her (a median one-bedroom now sets you back an exorbitant $2,275), since after she set her TV show “Girls” there, the neighborhood exploded. Of course, even the ‘point can’t compare to what I lovingly call “Barely Brooklyn,” the parts of the borough that may as well be Manhattan: