by R.S. Grey
Yesterday, Lisa emailed me about an apartment she thinks could work. It’s in Inwood, a neighborhood located on the northernmost tip of Manhattan. When I arrive after an hour-long subway commute, Lisa is waiting for me outside. This is the first time we’ve met in person, and right away, I can tell she’s someone who spends a lot of time on her appearance: spray tan, bottle-blonde hair, long glitter nails, and thick pink lipstick. She waves enthusiastically as she sees me walking up the street, then she points to the structure beside her as if to say, Check it out! It’s an old brick building on the corner of an intersection with a combined deli and grocery store on the bottom floor.
“I know it’s not much on the outside, but give it a chance. The unit is up on seven,” she tells me as she leads me inside and up the stairs. I’m embarrassed to show that I’m already winded by the fourth floor, so I do the thing where you sip in secret shallow breaths instead of great heaving mouthfuls. I fool no one. She glances back at me with an amused grin.
“There’s no elevator, but you’ll get a great butt from walking up and down all these flights every day.”
Right, well, there is that.
Outside apartment 703, she retrieves a set of keys from her purse and unlocks the door, pushing it open wide with a game-show-host flourish.
“Your humble abode.”
Humble is right. I’m not as prissy as the rest of my family, but this is a dreary place to live by anyone’s standards. Chipping paint, stale air, water damage on the ceiling. Still, I look for the silver linings: there’s a large window in the living room, the bedroom is big enough that I could fit a queen bed, and the last tenant left a hulking beast of an armoire in the living room that I could never manage to lift and remove on my own but would be the perfect spot to house all of my art supplies.
I turn back to Lisa, who’s still hovering near the door and giving me space to look over the apartment on my own.
“I’ll take it,” I say, matter-of-factly.
Her brows shoot up in shock. I bet she assumed I was going to run out of here like my pants were on fire, but nope, I’ll happily sign on the dotted line, and I tell her so.
“Great!” she says, walking toward me with a spring in her step. “Here’s the application. If you fill it out now, I can scan it in when I get back to the office. Then the landlord will need first and last month’s rent up-front as well as a security deposit. I’m not sure of the exact dollar amount, but I’ll get that info and email you ASAP.”
I nod, trying to tally up what that total could be in my head. Hopefully, I’m good for it.
“Then there’s the background check,” she continues, after handing me the application. “And a credit check. They’ll also want to see your W-2s from the last two years.”
What?
“Why do they need W-2s?”
She looks confused by the question, like she doesn’t usually have to explain this part to her clients. “Oh, just to confirm your salary meets the minimum threshold. There’s an algorithm landlords like to use. Usually they just want to ensure that the proposed rent falls well beneath your monthly income. You know the drill.”
I don’t, actually. I lived in the dorms at RISD, and my scholarship paid for that. Before college, I was at home in my parents’ sprawling mansion in Connecticut—a mansion they haven’t paid the mortgage on for years, apparently.
“What if I don’t have a credit history or any W-2s?” I ask gently. “I could probably pay for a few months’ rent up-front instead?”
She frowns. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. It’s surprisingly hard to evict someone from an apartment once they’ve moved in. There’re all sorts of protections in place for tenants, so landlords want to ensure the person is going to be able to pay rent for the full term of the lease, not just a few months. I can’t say I blame them.”
I nod, and she must be able to see my distress because she continues, “What about getting a cosigner? Tenants your age usually have a parent or guardian cosign on a lease. That way you and the landlord are both happy.”
Right. Sure. If I had someone who could cosign, I’d happily take that option. Unfortunately, my parents are good for absolutely nothing considering how much debt they’re in, and my siblings can’t help either. Only two of them are over eighteen. Charlotte doesn’t have a job, and Jacob is still in college. I have an uncle in Minnesota—my mom’s brother—but I’ve only ever seen him a handful of times, and not once since I was twelve, so it’s not like I can just call him up and ask for help with my lease either.
“Is there any way you could ask the landlord if he’d make an exception just this once?” I ask with a pleading smile. “Like I said, I’m probably good for three months’ rent up-front, and if I sell some of my pieces then I can continue prepaying on the lease.”
Her brows scrunch together. “Pieces?”
“My art.”
That really tips her over the edge. “So you work on commission only, I’m assuming? That’ll make it even harder. Any landlord in the city will want you to have a cosigner.”
“But could you just ask? Please?”
She nods as if she’s going to do it, but I can tell she’s already writing me off.
Outside on the sidewalk, we say our farewells, and as I walk away, I feel hopeless.
I just might have to make it work at the hotel for a while instead of finding an apartment, which sucks considering even though it’s a budget-friendly place, it’s still draining my funds faster than I’d like and it’s absolutely tiny.
For the second time today, I feel like a complete idiot. I graduated from RISD with a half-baked plan to move to New York City, and I’m embarrassed to admit I thought it would be a little bit easier than this. A part of me wants to blame my parents for not preparing me for the real world. I lived an incredibly sheltered life until I moved away for college, and that’s coming back to bite me in the ass. What kind of idiot doesn’t know you need some kind of credit history and past income statements if you want to be able to lease an apartment? Apparently, this idiot.
My phone rings when I’m on the subway platform waiting on the train, still beating myself up. My first hope is that it’s Lisa calling me back already with good news, but it’s an unknown number. Usually, I’d let it go to voicemail, but I answer instead, just in case Lisa is calling me from her office line or something.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Am I speaking with Elizabeth?” a female voice asks.
“Uh, yes.” A train screeches to a halt behind me, and I press my finger to my exposed ear so I can hear the person on the other end better. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is April, Mr. Jennings’ assistant,” she replies, all business with her prim-and-proper tone.
“Walt’s assistant?”
“Yes. Mr. Walter Jennings II.”
Good grief, what a mouthful.
“Oh, okay.”
“Yes, sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time, but I have a few things to go over with you.”
“Wait, I’m confused. I thought Mason was Walt’s assistant.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Mason is Mr. Jennings’ first assistant. I’m the one who handles his grunt work.”
I think she meant her statement to be self-deprecating, but there’s a heavy pause as we both realize she’s just referred to me as grunt work. I can’t help it. After the day I’ve had, I actually laugh.
“Is there any way we could pretend I didn’t just say that?” she asks, sounding thoroughly embarrassed and much less professional than she did at the start of the phone call. I think we’ve both decided to drop pretense.
“Sure, yeah. It’s fine. What did you say you’re calling about again? I’m waiting on my train so I’m worried the call might drop at any second.”
“Oh! I’ll be brief then. I have a packet of information to email over to you from Mr. Jennings’ lawyer. They need you to review it, sign, and email it back as soon as possible.”
“What’s in
the packet?”
“I’m not sure. It’s password protected with your social security number, so I can’t view it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Um…yes.”
“Don’t you think this is all a little weird?”
“God yes.” She laughs. “I thought I was the only one.”
A laugh sputters out of me, and she lowers her voice before continuing, “Did you really marry Walt this morning at the courthouse? That’s the rumor going around the office, but I didn’t dare believe it.”
“Yes…I did.”
“Holy shit.”
“Are you two friends?” I ask impulsively, hungry for information about Walt.
“Friends? Um, not at all.” She emphasizes the words as if to drive home that fact. “I’ve worked for him for six months and he’s barely said five words to me outside of work stuff.”
“So then he’s an asshole to his employees?”
She mulls my question over for a second. “Asshole isn’t the right word. He’s decent enough, just sort of austere. Or maybe aloof is a better word. You know what I mean—you married the guy.”
I wish I could admit to her the entire truth, but I doubt he’d want one of his assistants knowing intimate details about his life.
I see my train pulling up to the platform, and I know I can’t linger on the phone much longer. I spout off my email address quickly for April, who says she already has it. She was just calling to alert me that the documents are time sensitive.
“Right, okay.”
“Well…that’s all. I guess I should say congratulations?” she quips.
Yeah. Congratulations to me.
I don’t waste a single second back at the hotel. I scan my keycard, fling the door open, and grab my laptop off the bed. Sure enough, there’s an email waiting for me from Rupert Hirsch, Walt’s lawyer.
Four
In the email, Rupert briefly introduces himself and gives the reason he’s reaching out to me. He reiterates the time crunch then immediately jumps into business. Below the introductory paragraph, there are explicit instructions on who to contact when and for what reasons, along with accompanying phone numbers and email addresses. I skim over it, my annoyance growing by the second.
For questions or concerns regarding the Brighton-Jennings Trust, please contact Rupert Hirsch at Hirsch & Dershowitz.
For questions or concerns regarding details of the civil union between yourself and Mr. Walter Jennings II, please contact Rupert Hirsch at Hirsch & Dershowitz.
For questions or concerns that might be directed toward Mr. Walter Jennings II, please contact Mason Cunningham.
If Mason Cunningham is unavailable, please contact April Grant.
In case of emergencies only, Walter Jennings II may be reached using the following contact information.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES ONLY may I contact my husband. What in the world? Who does he think he is? Honestly! I’m not allowed to contact the guy? THE MAN I’M MARRIED TO?!
I’m pacing now, good and pissed.
I thought of all people he would at least understand. I thought he’d reach out at some point and say, Hey, this is all weird, but why don’t we get coffee and get to know each other better, not that he’d IN-CASE-OF-EMERGENCIES-ONLY me.
Owing to an upbringing where children were better off seen and not heard, I don’t do anything impulsive. Instead, I walk off my anger around the block near the hotel. Then, I stop and splurge on a pretzel because I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I eat most of it then feed the last little bit to a cute squirrel. That squirrel doesn’t take no for an answer once I’ve run out of food and will not stop following me on my walk back to my hotel. I think I have a new pet. I look back and I swear he stops too, like he’s saying, Where to next, miss?
I think he’s going to follow me right into the lobby, but he gets jumpy around the automatic doors and runs off in the other direction.
Now, glad to have rid myself of one problem, I decide to tackle another.
I do my best to read through the documents in the email with a fine-tooth comb, but it’s tricky. The information is so shrouded in legalese that I doubt I even absorb half of it. A large bulk of it outlines our prenuptial agreement, which I signed at the courthouse but didn’t have time to really read. Now, I realize all of Walt’s assets will remain his in the event of our divorce. I’m entitled to nothing, not even spousal support if we ultimately part ways. How generous of him. It’s not that I would want his money anyway, it’s just good to know we’re going into this arrangement only looking out for ourselves. Now I know I should act accordingly.
The next section of the documents outlines how and when the beneficiaries of the trust will be compensated. My parents’ names are in there, along with Charlotte and Jacob, and me. My younger siblings will start to collect on their inheritance when they turn eighteen, and only if they follow the same set of rules outlined for the rest of my family. There are quite a few parameters that have to be met, things like negative drug screenings once a quarter, a minimum number of community service hours, no misdemeanors or felonies. If deemed worthy, rather than being gifted with one lump sum, we will each receive a monthly disbursement. My parents will each get $20,000, while my siblings and I will receive $10,000. I actually have to read that part twice because I don’t believe it at first. To some, that figure might be astounding. To my parents, it will be a slap in the face. My mom spends more on clothes during a single trip to Chanel. But…that’s not my problem.
$10,000 is good money, money I shouldn’t pass up at the moment, but it’s also money I don’t want. I need something else. I need a cosigner on my lease, and I’m going to ask Walt to do it. Right after I work up the nerve to give him a call.
I take the first crucial step by programming his number into my cell phone. It’s actually scarier than it sounds because I keep worrying I’ll accidentally hit the call button with my big fat thumbs and then what?!
After I do that minor task, which amounts to basically nothing but feels like a huge deal, I shower and check my email. Then I flip through TV channels while lying under the covers, and that’s how I fall asleep—grasping the TV controller in one hand and my phone in the other. In the morning, I wake up with a start, surprised to find that a whopping eight hours has passed and I’m still too scared to call Walt.
This is getting ridiculous. It’s just a phone call, I chide myself.
I don’t allow myself any more excuses. Sure, my breath is horrid and I could use a good shower, but Walt won’t know that over the phone. I sit up in bed, lean against the headboard, and press call.
Holy moly. My sweat glands are alive and well. My palms can barely hang on to the phone as it rings. Jesus.
When the call connects, I inhale sharply.
Then there’s his voice. “Hello?”
I fumble over my words, trying to speak both quickly and articulately. “Hi. Mr. Jennings, good morning. Um—”
“It’s Walt,” he says, cutting me off with a touch of annoyance.
“Oh right. Sorry. I just keep seeing Mr. Walter Jennings II on all these legal documents I’m reading…it gets confusing.”
There’s a pause where he’s supposed to respond in a kind and gentle way that would put me at ease, but that reply never comes. Instead, silence.
Yikes, this isn’t going well.
“I, um, know I’m only supposed to contact you if it’s an emergency…”
I give him the chance to laugh and clear up that misconception. Again, no laugh. No clearing up.
“It’s just that I have something to discuss with you and I thought it’d be best if I spoke to you directly rather than going through Mason.”
“Hold on one moment,” he says. His voice grows quieter, like he’s taken his mouth away from the receiver. “Andre, I’ll have to call you back in a moment. Yes, I know. Give me five.” Then he’s speaking to me again, loud and clear. “What do you need, Elizabeth?”
He does not sou
nd pleased.
“Who were you talking to?”
“A work contact.”
“Oh…” I glance at the clock near my bed. It’s only 7:23. “It’s early.”
“Andre is head of Singapore distribution for Diomedica. It’s not early for him.”
I pinch my eyes closed with embarrassment. I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that Walt would likely already be working. “Let me call you later then! I didn’t realize…crap. Sorry. Also sorry for saying crap!”
“You’ve already interrupted me once. Calling again later won’t help anything. Now what did you need to discuss?”
“It’s something to do with the trust payouts.”
He sighs heavily like he was expecting this. “I won’t budge on—”
“It’s not the amount!” I rush to clarify. “It’s…well, I was wondering if I could sort of negotiate things?”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’d be willing to forego my portion of the disbursement if you would be willing to cosign on an apartment for me.”
He doesn’t reply right away, and I wish we were together in person now because then I could try to get a read on what he’s thinking. Is he surprised that I’m willing to give up the money? Annoyed that I’m pestering him while he’s at work?
There’s no way for me to know, but I wait patiently until he replies.
“Email Mason the address for the apartment as well as the contact information for your realtor.”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious!?”
“I haven’t said yes yet. Email Mason and we’ll go from there.”
