A Notice of Rent Demand
To: JESSICA WILLOUGHBY
PLEASE TAKE NOTICE that you are reportedly indebted to the Owner/Landlord of the premises mentioned above in the amount of $11,424.00 for rent and additional charges covering the period from November 2013 through July 2015. You are required to remit payment within FIVE (5) days from the date of this notice, or vacate the premises. If you fail to comply, the Owner/Landlord will initiate summary proceedings under the Real Property Actions and Proceedings Law to reclaim possession of the property in question.
As I read the letter, my heart raced, and visions of no-fee apartment listings flashed across my mind. I didn’t possess that kind of money; in fact, I didn’t owe any money at all. The ominous capitalized FIVE DAYS felt cold and indifferent to my reality. I was disheartened that this letter from the past held nothing but a baseless threat wrapped in deception.
Following the egg-and-spoon method prescribed upon my move-in eleven years earlier, I dutifully write a check for rent each month, walk it down two flights, and slip it under the door of the building manager—who happens to be my landlord’s niece. It’s a slow but trusted system, and we’ve executed it flawlessly for over a decade. There were no surprises or outstanding debts on my part.
Still clutching the letter, I stepped outside and fell into the first stage of disbelief. I spotted my landlord, Mr. Thompson, emerging from the basement, likely having just dropped off this notice. Confrontation loomed, and I called out, “Mr. Thompson, what is this?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted back, his face red and agitated. “You never pay your rent. I know how many people are living upstairs! Hundreds!”
His fury caught me off guard, and I instinctively yelled back. We exchanged heated words until I retreated to my apartment, overwhelmed and in tears. I called my mother, who wasn’t much help.
“Do you owe him money?” she asked.
“Absolutely NOT!” I replied.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!” she insisted.
But I did have something to worry about. I had just five days to pay a hefty sum I didn’t owe, or risk losing my apartment and everything I owned. I hesitated to leave, even to walk my dog—fearing I might return to find myself in a legal battle. I dialed the lawyer’s number listed in the notice and disputed the claims.
“You mean to say you don’t owe any money?” the lawyer asked.
“That’s correct,” I said.
“You’re all paid up?”
“Yes, fully paid!”
He began expressing concern over my landlord’s mental state, and I thought that would be the end of it. How many days until I’d be homeless?
Two days later, another certified letter arrived, this time in my mailbox. I called the lawyer again, but my calls went unanswered. The following day brought yet another letter, and soon I received a certified notice from a different attorney claiming my debt had escalated to $19,992. I was baffled: how many five-day deadlines were they planning to impose upon me?
In desperation, I contacted 311, and they directed me to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, which only operates during limited hours, making it virtually impossible to reach. A few lawyers advised me that I couldn’t act until I received an eviction notice, which I was told could harm my rental prospects in the future. No one seemed to care that my five-day window was closing fast, and my only option might be to crash at my mother’s cramped one-bedroom apartment with my younger brother and a dog whimsically named Maxi after a feminine hygiene product.
It seemed to me that fabricating a debt and pressuring someone to pay it amounted to extortion. What kind of lawyer sends letters without verifying the claims? As I scoured online resources for tenants’ rights, I realized I was alone in my predicament. Where were the others like me, the ones who felt lost and confused?
This sparked a memory of an old project I admired by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom, who curated the “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He unearthed letters to past mayors from 1751 to 1969, documenting the grievances of city residents. Inspired, I set out to explore the Municipal Archives for complaints from tenants in my building, hoping to find evidence of neglect or wrongdoing.
For three years, I had struggled with heat issues in my apartment, and every time I mentioned it, my landlord dismissed my concerns. Surely, if I could uncover a history of similar complaints, I could strengthen my case against him.
Upon arriving at the archives, I was overwhelmed by the volume of grievances I had to sift through. I hopped on the Microfiche Reader, realizing my chances of finding complaints from my specific building were slim. Yet, I stumbled upon a letter from my former East Village residence dated August 2, 1888. In it, James C. Bayles, the President of Health and Sanitation, reported to Mayor Abram S. Hewitt regarding various complaints, including one about undertakers disposing of ice contaminated by deceased bodies.
After reviewing numerous complaints—ranging from nuisances to foul odors of dead animals—I recognized that not much had changed over the years. The cycle of complaints continues, just as it did back then.
Time slipped away more quickly than I anticipated, and I realized I was wasting my critical five days. Rushing home, I encountered my mail carrier, who handed me another certified letter.
“You’ve got another one,” she said.
“Really?” I asked, anxiety rising.
She glanced around and whispered, “There’s a British real estate lady encouraging landlords to hike rents. They’re all trying to force tenants out.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Don’t complain about anything; don’t give him a reason to evict you.”
But I had already voiced my concerns over the heat to his niece, whom I believed was his daughter.
As the chaos of my situation unfolded, I couldn’t help but wonder how many other tenants had faced similar struggles. My mission to uncover the past had only just begun, and I was determined to fight back against the injustices of the present.