Life as a Box

New York City is entirely composed of squares and rectangles. You wake up in a tiny box and cross linear streets at right angles. Then you climb into rectangular transportation to arrive at your daily cubical – where you talk into a box, type on little boxes and check off yet another box on the calendar, as the days wind down inside strict contours. While I do enjoy circles, the geometrical design of the city had never really been a problem for me until recently. A short time ago, I faced the frightening realization that the lease was up on one of my boxes, and I’d have to find a new apartment for the summer.

I’m a college student; 21 and already city-savvy. I’ve only lived in Manhattan for about eight months now, but I feel like I own it. Nothing would have prepared me for apartment-hunting, however. That’s when all the crazies come out. After careful consideration, I finally decided that I would go in on a place with my boyfriend, Andrew, and his college roommate, Jesse. We could divide up the rent three ways and save money. The only thing left was to actually find a place.

I don’t trust Craigslist, but it’s really the only way to go if you don’t want to pay broker fees. I began checking Craigslist daily, weeding through the $6000 loft apartments in Manhattan and the 10 square-foot crawl spaces on the Staten Island shore. We needed something specific: 2 bedrooms, furnished, available four months and near a subway stop. Our box didn’t need to be beautiful, just functional.

The first apartment we got excited about was in Bushwick, Brooklyn. It seemed to be everything we wanted, until we realized that the quaint little $1400 apartment was situated snuggly between two enormous high-rise projects. I didn’t want to end up in a box six feet underground, so I determined that living there would be a bad idea and crossed it off my list.

The next possibility was almost $2000, but the pictures posted online were exquisite. The upper Manhattan residence was located right near a park, the listing said. There were hardwood floors, colorful art on the walls, and stylish furniture. I was ready to write a check. On the hour-long subway ride to 191st Street, I pictured how I would decorate my new box. I exited the subway station still daydreaming and was struck suddenly by the overwhelming reality of the situation. Mine was the only white face beaming from a sea of browns and blacks muttering in Spanish and peering at me curiously.

I met up with Andrew and Jesse, both dressed to impress, donning conservative sweater vests and blazers. We walked together to see the sublet. Trash littered the streets, Reggaeton blared from curbside delis, and groups of men loitered, smoking cigarettes. We walked up the graffiti-smeared staircase to the third floor to meet Ivan, the landlord. He wore baggy camouflage cargo pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. A silver tooth shined in his mouth, which smirked in amusement when he saw us. I knew some Spanish. I made all A’s in that class in high school. I could bluff my way through this.

After greeting each other, I asked, “Habla espanol, Ivan?”

“Si, es mi primera lengua,” he responded. “Y tu?”

“Si, pero solamente un poco,” I said, pleased that I might convince him that we could fit in here.

He opened the door to our exquisite apartment and billows of marijuana smoke swirled into the hallway. A bag of weed rested on a cigarette-burned coffee table and an inch of dust and dirt covered the hardwood floors. The rickety furniture did not look so stylish in person, and for fear of dirtying my coat by brushing against the walls, I remained in the center of every room. Andrew and Jesse’s eyes cut back and forth, as they stood awkwardly and silently, forcing Ivan and I to carry on conversation.

We stayed for about 10 minutes out of courtesy and didn’t exhale until we were safely on the 1 train headed back down to my comfortable, affluent lower Manhattan neighborhood. All was not lost, however, because I’d made an appointment to see another Brooklyn apartment the next day.

The following morning spilled sunlight through my window. Andrew and I proceeded to the remaining option. I only had around two weeks to find someplace before I’d be kicked out of my current residence. We traveled to Carroll Gardens saying little, sipping 75-cent coffee. Emerging from the subway terminal into the outside air, I was pleasantly surprised to find clean, tidy streets lined with elegant brownstones. Blossoming trees swayed in the breeze and children zipped about on bikes and scooters. I’d found a suburban square in the midst of one of the biggest cities on earth!

The apartment was sparse but spotless, and Leo, the man who showed it to us, seemed trustworthy.

“We’ll take it!” I said, beaming.

“Great,” Leo replied, with an unknown accent. “You have the money now?”

“Well, we can pay the security deposit at least,” Andrew answered. “We can get the first month’s rent together within the next couple days.”

“Okay. I’ll call the landlord and let him know. And I’ll give you his bank account number,” Leo said.

“Wait a second, is there a lease first?” I asked.

“Oh, um, right, a lease,” Leo stuttered. “I don’t think I have one with me, but I can have the landlord email it to you. You can pay the deposit, and then it will be set.”

“I’d prefer to give you the lease in person,” I said. “Can we come back tomorrow and handle it then?”

“Um, tomorrow?” Leo hesitated. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have the landlord call you, and we can figure it all out.”

We left and walked around our beautiful soon-to-be new neighborhood. Andrew and I were delighted, looking at the various outdoor cafes, basketball courts and crowded parks. The next few days thereafter were increasingly more confusing. I began receiving multiple calls and emails from Leo and Zvi, the unseen landlord with an accent so thick his words were barely comprehendible. The two didn’t seem to be communicating with each other and were feeding us conflicting information.

At first, Leo said someone else was interested in the apartment for a year, and they’d get preference. Then Zvi continuously emailed us a “tenant questionnaire” (pronounced “question-are-y”), asking us to fill it out about four times, even though we already had days earlier. He called from a mysterious 11-digit number that didn’t match any listed country codes. Zvi told us to call Leo, and Leo told us to talk to Zvi.

I decided that it was a scam – that they would never give us keys to the place. Then, magically, Leo sent a text message telling me to check my email, and I found a lease in my inbox. Everything looked in order, and it appeared to be a standard New York contract. Something ate at me, though. Could I trust this? We emailed back, saying that we just needed to meet to hand over the lease, pay by check and pick up the keys.

I waited for a day to hear back, nervously, expecting the worst. Finally, Zvi called from the strange number and left a message saying that he actually needed three months rent upfront as a security deposit and all of our social security numbers to run “credit checks.” No beautiful suburban box for us. I told Andrew to call back and tell them we were done.

The next day I went from cube to cube disheartened, stressed out because I kept crossing off boxes on the calendar and soon would have nowhere to live.

I write this now in a box, with the walls closing in. I still haven’t found a place, and I have exactly ten days time to do it. I’m hoping that there’s a master architect behind this design and that all will resolve itself. But there’s one thing I know for sure, I’ll never attempt to sublet in the city again on my own. If I need an apartment, I’ll hire a broker and hand over little green rectangles in exchange for a clean and simple box to store myself and my many boxes.