“FIVE DAYS RENT DEMAND NOTICE TO TENANT”
To: AMANDA BLAKE
PLEASE BE ADVISED that you owe the Owner/Landlord of the property in question the sum of $11,424.00 for rent and additional charges for the duration from November 2013 to July 2015. You are required to pay this amount within FIVE (5) days of receiving this notice or vacate the premises. If you fail to comply, the Owner/Landlord will initiate legal action under the Real Property Actions and Proceedings Law to reclaim possession of the property.
Staring at this alarming notice, my mind raced to my dwindling bank account and the no-fee apartment listings on Craigslist. Not only did I lack the funds for such an outrageous claim, but I also didn’t owe a single cent. Yet, the starkly capitalized FIVE DAYS felt far from understanding, more like a threat than a chance to clarify matters. I was disheartened to discover that this letter from another era was merely a concoction of falsehoods wrapped in intimidation.
When I moved in eleven years ago, I adopted the egg-and-spoon method for rent payment. Every month on the fifteenth, I would write a check to my landlord, trek down from my fourth-floor apartment to the second floor, and slip my rent under the door of the building manager (the landlord’s niece). She would then deliver it to her uncle. It’s a slow method, but the trick seems to please the Groves (a pseudonym).
For over a decade, this arrangement had been smooth sailing, with no surprises or late payments on my end. The letter still clutched in my hand, I stepped outside and was hit by a wave of confusion and helplessness. I spotted my landlord emerging from his basement apartment, and I couldn’t help but feel a confrontation loomed.
“Mr. Groves,” I called out, waving the letter. “What is this?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted, his face red with rage. “You never pay your rent! I know how many people you have living upstairs! Hundreds, that’s how many!” Spittle flew from his mouth as his anger escalated.
His behavior was so out of character that I found myself yelling back in shock. We exchanged heated words for what felt like an eternity before I retreated to my apartment, overwhelmed and in tears. I called my mom, seeking comfort, but her response was less than reassuring.
“Do you owe him money?” she asked.
“NO!” I shot back.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!” she insisted.
But I had plenty to worry about. I had five days to pay an exorbitant sum I didn’t owe, or face losing my home and belongings. The thought of being confronted by authorities upon stepping outside made me anxious. I called the lawyer listed on the notice, disputing the claims against me.
“You don’t owe any money?” he confirmed.
“That’s correct,” I replied.
He expressed concern for my landlord’s mental state, and I thought that would be the end of it.
How many days until I would be homeless?
Two days later, another notice arrived, this time in a certified envelope tucked in my mailbox. I tried calling the lawyer again, but he wouldn’t take my calls. That same day, I received yet another letter, and the attorney continued to dodge my inquiries. Soon, a different lawyer sent me a certified letter, now claiming that I owed $19,992, a staggering increase of $8,000. How many FIVE DAYS could they possibly give me?
In desperation, I called 311, which led me to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, available only for two hours a day, during which I encountered a busy signal. Several lawyers informed me that I couldn’t take action until I received an eviction notice—something I was advised to avoid at all costs, as a court case could jeopardize future housing opportunities. No one seemed to care that my five-day window was closing in, and I faced the grim prospect of moving back in with my mother and sharing a couch with my five-year-old brother and a dog named Maxi.
To my knowledge, fabricating claims of debt and coercing someone into paying is called extortion. What kind of lawyer sends these letters without verifying the facts? What rights do I have? As I began researching my situation online, I found little guidance, just stories from others who had received similar letters. Did no one else feel lost? Where were the others like me—confused, anxious, and looking for support?
It struck me to look into an intriguing project by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom, titled “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He had sifted through centuries of letters to city mayors from 1751 to 1969, compiling the most compelling grievances into a broadsheet and later a book. Inspired, I decided to visit the municipal archives in search of past complaints from tenants in my building or even my apartment. If I could uncover enough evidence of wrongdoing or neglect, perhaps I could fight back against Mr. Groves.
Having dealt with heating issues for three years (my primary concern being the lack of heat), I thought it plausible that other tenants had endured similar problems. I wanted to gather enough historical documentation so that when I finally faced court, I’d have a mountain of evidence to support my case.
Upon arriving at the archives, I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of complaints I had to sift through. With limited time, I quickly hopped on the Microfiche Reader and scrolled through the digital files. Unfortunately, while I didn’t find any complaints from my building, I did discover a letter from my previous residence in the East Village, dated August 2, 1888. It was a report from James C. Bayles, President of Health and Sanitation, directed to Mayor Abram S. Hewitt.
In it, he addressed complaints about the unsanitary disposal of ice by undertakers and noted that while he doubted this was a widespread issue, he would investigate further. Another letter lamented the persistent odor of dead horses left in the street, seeking intervention from the authorities.
People seemed to be complaining about everything, from noise to corruption to loneliness—much like today, except for the dead horses and ice. The method of communication remained unchanged: messages passed through various channels before reaching their destinations.
I got so wrapped up in the past that I lost track of time, and I worried about my own apartment situation. Rushing home, I ran into my mail carrier, who had more news.
“There’s a buzz going around,” she said, “about a British real estate lady telling landlords how much they can charge for apartments. They’re trying to push tenants out.”
“Really?” I was stunned.
“Seriously. Don’t give him any reason to evict you,” she advised.
“But I complained about the heat!”
“That’s not his daughter,” she revealed. “Eddie doesn’t have kids.”
This revelation left me even more confused.
In the end, I learned that navigating tenant-landlord relationships can be as complex as history itself, filled with bureaucracy and misunderstandings.
In summary, I faced a daunting eviction notice filled with false claims of debt, which led me to explore historical tenant complaints in hopes of finding support against my landlord. Through my journey, I discovered that the struggles of tenants have persisted for generations, reminding us that the fight for justice and fairness is timeless.
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