The Edge Becomes the Center

by DW Gibson

  The line to get in the door—to shuffle through security and wait in a second line for the persnickety elevators—usually runs onto the sidewalk and all the way down the block well before eight in the morning.

  On the tenth floor, the elevator doors open onto a crowded hall filled with the strident din of heated conversations. Clumps of three or four people are staggered from wall to wall: always a landlord, always a tenant, usually a landlord’s lawyer, occasionally a tenant’s lawyer, too. They are all haggling, trying to reach a settlement; when and if they do, the details are immediately written on a piece of paper and taken into one of the court rooms to receive a judge’s approval. There are dozens of courtrooms; some for hearings, some for trial—all of them with long waits.

  In room 505, Brent Meltzer is grinding his way through the trial of a client named Noelia Calero. He is cross-examining an engineer, and Noelia’s landlord’s lawyer, with the landlord at his side, interrupts every question Brent asks—every question. He is relentless with his objections and words them for the judge with a sarcastic tone. Unexpectedly, the judge tolerates the lawyer’s behavior and, what’s more, upholds the majority of his objections. Brent does not mask his disappointment but he is impossible to rile, which is all that the other lawyer is really after. Noelia sits at Brent’s side, her stoic expression concealing a complex of emotions. After the hearing, she suggests that I see her home for myself. A few days later I pay her a visit.

  Her apartment is on Linden Street in Bushwick. The closest subway stop is nearly a mile up the street. Most of the blocks between her apartment and the L train are lined with three-story apartment buildings, some private developments, some public. American and Puerto Rican flags hang from several windows; in a couple of spots, banners of small flags are draped across the street from one lamppost to another. There are Laundromats and barbershops and delis—Sea Town Supermarket occupies two separate buildings across the street from each other, so the smell of fish hits you from both sides. Two live poultry shops, Kikiriki and Pio Pio, operate right next to each other. Three men are standing in front of Pio Pio—each holds a briefcase and wears a dark suit on a hot, midday sidewalk. They point at the building, discussing its facade, trying to hear each other over the clucking chickens.

  When I arrive at 98 Linden, Noelia, thirty-two, greets me at the front door and escorts me down the hall to her apartment. The first room we enter is mostly filled by a bed where her mother rests, watching television. Noelia’s husband is at work, repairing potholes across the city. Noelia is currently unemployed. She has several years of clerical work experience, mostly with a construction company, where she became versed in building permits and city agencies.

  Originally from Nicaragua, Noelia has a calm, sober demeanor. Her hair is brown with honey-colored highlights and pulled back into a tight bun. She takes me through her narrow railroad apartment, requiring passage through one room to get to the next. We sit at the dining table in her living room. It is a small, cramped space, and it is packed with boxes stacked to the ceiling along every wall. It feels like sitting in the cleared middle of a storage unit.

  Since I was six I’ve lived in Bushwick. Before it was a lot of Mexicans, and Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans. Now there’s a lot of Ecuadorians and Colombians. We lived here for twenty-three years in this apartment.

  All the owners that I’ve known, four or five, haven’t been good owners. They don’t want to repair, they don’t want to fix up. The previous landlord, when he bought this, he tried to kick us out, too. At that point the entire building was rent stabilized. He tried to kick all of us out. We had to go to court. We’ve always gone to court. We’ve never had a good landlord here. We’ve always had problems in this building—always. We’ve always paid our rent on time for twenty-three years. But every time we have to paint or fix something we’ve done it out of our pockets.

  But these owners have been the worst. They bought the building last year, January of 2013. The previous owner sent a letter in January saying that he sold the building. And we didn’t hear from these new people until March when they sent a letter saying they wanted to fix up the building. After the letter we were like, “I’m not going to say no to fixing up the building.”

  They didn’t show up to introduce themselves until a few weeks after. They were actually very polite. They were like, “We just bought the building and we want to make it look nicer.” They told us they want to change the floor tiles and put paint and fix the bathroom. Basically he said, “Happy tenants, happy landlords.”

  And I was like, “Okay that’s different.”

  So we moved all our things from the kitchen and the bathroom to this room and the backyard. He said it was going to take a couple weeks.

  And we believed him.

  And we’re going to have a year now with no bathroom, no kitchen. Completely demolished.

  Both owners came—two brothers, apparently. They brought one worker with a sledgehammer and electric saw. They took out the walls that divided my bathroom from the neighbor’s kitchen. You could just walk right next door. They ripped the walls open and the floors. They completely destroyed the sink that was in the kitchen. In the bathroom, too, they removed the toilet and the sink. There’s no tub. You can’t even tell where the bathroom was. It’s completely destroyed.

  It took them less than two hours and they left. It was very chaotic. I didn’t realize they were gone already. I opened the door and saw that it was completely destroyed. I could walk over from my bathroom to the neighbor’s kitchen. It’s my uncle next door. From there it’s even worse because you can see straight into the basement.

  The landlord came two or three days later and I asked him what’s going on and he said, “The work, it’s bigger than we expected.”

  “You didn’t say you were going to break the floors or the walls.”

  He said, “We want to fix the whole thing, we just want to get work permits.”

  A few weeks passed and I called him several times to follow up and he didn’t get back to me. So one day he shows up with a work permit. And my husband said, “The landlord’s here and he says that we have to move out.”

  I said, “That’s not what we agreed upon.”

  So I looked at the work permit and it’s an old work permit—and it was for the third floor. I was upset. So I ripped it off the wall and I told him this is not for my apartment. That’s when he got rude and he said, “Well, I need you guys to leave.”

  What they want is to get us out and fix the apartment and raise the rent. The minute you leave your apartment you don’t have your rights anymore.

  So I said, “That’s not what we agreed on.”

  And he was basically like, “You’re just going to have to go.”

  “No. We’re not moving. And you’ll be speaking with my lawyer from now on.”

  At that point we’d already seen his intentions. It had been a month and he didn’t respond, and he didn’t come see us, so we’d lawyered up at that time.

  We’ve met other tenants from other buildings that are going through the same things. So we’ve come together a couple times to help each other out. We know a few of this landlord’s tenants that were evicted. His workers destroyed the electric meters and the piping so the Department of Buildings actually evicted those people. Right here on Central Avenue, one of the ladies there, she went out one day and when she returned her apartment had been destroyed. From what I know of other buildings, that’s his tactic. Destroy the kitchen and the bathroom and people just give up and leave. That’s been his way of operating in this neighborhood. But too bad for him he met with the wrong people. Now he has to deal with us. We’re not giving up. We’re just not.

  In the living room where we sit, Noelia has set up a hot plate and a small refrigerator. There is no running water in the apartment.

  My aunt lives upstairs with my uncle. And that’s where we use the bathroom. We started using the kitchen there but as you can see we have a little electric burner. I try t
o avoid going upstairs as much as possible because I wouldn’t want someone invading my space all day long. We’re very grateful to her for letting us use her stuff. Even though she’s family she didn’t have to do that.

  A hodgepodge barricade of scrap and plywood closes off the entrance to the back half of the apartment, to what were once the bathroom and kitchen. Noelia is not allowed to enter that space, much less show it to me.

  Sometimes we hear rats and we hear cats fighting back there.

  One of the channels, Telemundo, they have a Nicaraguan and I actually met him once, so that’s how we got the media to come here. They were horrified to see how we were. So they took it on themselves to help us. I’ve been very grateful. At first I was like, no, I don’t want to be on camera but then I think about other people and other Hispanics, a lot of them don’t speak English, or maybe some of them are illegal and they get scared and they leave. But I’m not illegal, I’m a citizen, and I do speak English and you’re not treating me like this so I’m not leaving.

  The landlord wasn’t happy we were showing the media. He got a partial vacate order so nobody’s allowed to go back there because it’s unsafe. Of course he destroyed it while we were here and he wasn’t concerned about our safety in the beginning. But it’s not convenient to him for us to show people. So we can’t go back there.

  One of the last times the landlord came he brought a guy to live on the second floor and basically harass us. He basically said he’s the security guard. He was hired to be here. So we’re like okay, as long as he doesn’t touch me, I don’t care. But when he first moved here he used to walk around with bats, with a sledgehammer. He’s always screaming. He puts loud music on and it’s annoying but I don’t let it show that it bothers me. I just sing along to whatever he’s playing and I walk around like it doesn’t bother me. His friends come over and they’re yelling at two or three in the morning. We call the cops and they don’t show up. We’ve lived here for twenty-three years, we’ve paid our rent on time, and, you know, you’re not going to kick me out of my apartment. Not in that way.

  The other day I was thinking: my cousin lives next door and we’re like sisters, we have such a great relationship. But I think this has put so much stress on all of us that we’re all moody and sometimes I don’t even want to talk to her.

  My husband and I were planning to have a baby and things haven’t worked the way we planned. It just hasn’t happened. And I think I’ve just been stressed out. Sometimes I cook here and this is my little pot where I have to put my dirty dishes so I can go upstairs to wash them and sometimes I have to go up there three times a day and I just want to grab it and throw it and, “UGGGHHHHH!”

  There are days when I think we should just leave. We visit family in Pennsylvania and they’re so comfortable there. And I’m like, “God, I want this.” But I grew up in New York. This is home. This is where my heart is. When I look at the New York skyline: “Ah, beautiful!” There isn’t any place like New York. As much as I hate the situation and used to hate Brooklyn because it was so ugly and there was a lot of drugs—this is home. When I walk down the street I know where everything is. This is where my friends are. My family is here. My neighbor, Anna from the third floor, I’ve known her for twenty-three years. She’s seen me grow up. In this building I know everyone. So I could walk up and down the stairs and I feel safe. You don’t get that in many buildings.

  When we first moved here I was eight years old but I remember it was ugly.

  She laughs.

  It was ugly. Down the block there are those new houses. But they were empty lots. There were a lot of drugs and people yelling. I used to know the code for “police coming”—it was just ugly. I used to want to move. I hated this place. Before they didn’t care about cleaning up Brooklyn. Then they started to build things and it started becoming nicer. There’s less drugs. There’s still crime but not on this block. I feel safe walking around my neighborhood. And I thought finally they’re fixing Brooklyn. But I didn’t know it was at the expense of the people who were already here. Before it was a lot of Hispanics and a lot of blacks. Now you don’t see a lot of them. You see a lot of white people. It’s not for us to live in. It’s for other people. But I’m like, “Ooh, I want to try that restaurant. It looks nice.” I like organic stuff, too!

  She laughs.

  My cousin and I, we love Starbucks so I say, “I can’t wait to have a Starbucks right by!” Everything that’s in Manhattan is coming in here—I like that. But I don’t like that it’s so expensive. I think change is good when it’s for the better. I just wish it were in the way that we could all live here. Until this happened to us I didn’t realize that people were getting kicked out of their homes. Even though I’m still here, it’s happening to me, too.

  There are days when I want to throw in the towel but when we leave this building or have to leave Brooklyn it has to be when I want. Not when someone wants to kick me out like an animal. We have to stick together to be forceful. So I say no. I say we’re going to do this. We’re going to be treated with respect until this is fixed. And then I can decide whether we stay here or move—on my terms. I’m not going to be kicked out of my neighborhood because it’s not just the apartment. It’s the neighborhood, too. Rent is very expensive. Where would I go? It would mean I move out of New York and that’s not something that I’m willing to do.

  Who can I complain to? It’s just frustrating. We used to have a backyard and right now the door would have been open. And I would have been cooking or cleaning and my dog would have been in the backyard. Sometimes I don’t even know what the weather looks like because the only window we have is in my mother’s room. And I have to be in my room or this room—the living room, slash kitchen, slash storage. So it’s very frustrating.

  Housing court is horrible. Slow. Helpless.

  Housing court, to me, is all about landlords and whoever has money and forget everybody else. I feel like they prefer to help people who have money rather than people that don’t. There are a lot of laws to help and protect tenants but the courts aren’t doing much to enforce them. That is the problem. When people go into court they come out without getting the help that they deserve. We just feel like we’re helpless. What’s the point of even going?

  Brent has been incredible. He’s been so good to us. We used to have the Department of Buildings coming in here and telling us that they were going to evict us. And any time that we call him, Brent is there to be like, “Hold on, let me see what’s going on.” We’ve been very lucky and so grateful that we met him. I’m sure he doesn’t sleep—just like us!

  We first went to court late July of last year, early August. At first they’re like the landlord can’t do this. They have to fix this. It’s an emergency. Blah blah. Emergency? Almost a year! Look, somebody step up! If I could fix it I would have already fixed it. But then I would get in trouble because I’m not allowed to fix it. But then they didn’t force the landlord to fix it.

  The trial finished last week. We’re waiting for the judge to make her decision; it could take two or three months. They’re trying to settle with us, giving us some offers to consider. They tried to settle before but it’s always been to delay the process. It feels like déjà vu. I don’t really believe them. Why don’t you just start getting the permits so we can tell that you’re serious? We aren’t stopping you. You should have been on that months ago.

  Eventually something has to happen. I try not to make myself think, yeah they’re going to fix it. Because I’ve been there already where we think that they’re finally going to fix it and then it doesn’t happen.

  That’s why we feel like we never win. I mean, yes, once we get the rest of our apartment back—thank God—but then we still have to deal with him. Go away already! Why did you buy a building that was like this if you don’t want to deal with it? Who does this to other people, other human beings? You’re a horrible person.

  It always seems like regardless of whether we go to court or not we’re
always losing. We contacted the media. We contacted the government. And it always feels like we’re the bad people. But we’ve lived here for twenty-three years. We work. We don’t mess with nobody. We’ve paid our rent on time. And who’s helping us? Who’s there to help us?

  23.

  The government’s answer to Noelia’s question—“Who’s there to help us?”—is someone like Daniel Squadron. He is the state senator for New York’s 26th District, which includes all of Lower Manhattan—Wall Street, Tribeca, the Lower East Side, Chinatown—and many of the waterfront neighborhoods in Brooklyn, just across the East River.

  His grandfather immigrated to the United States, passing through Ellis Island, which, as Daniel likes to point out, is in his district. After living and working on the Lower East Side for much of his life, Daniel’s grandfather moved the family to the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, leaving Ludlow Street for “life in the country,” as Daniel puts it. His father was a leader for the American Jewish Congress delegation and marched in Washington, DC, with Martin Luther King, Jr.; his mother went to Mississippi to march during Freedom Summer in 1964.

  I grew up in a house with parents for whom a basic sense of fairness and opportunity in government was really a mission. This says a lot about why I do public service. That drives me in a lot of ways. There are individual and community issues that inevitably get left out, that get left behind, that are overlooked. They are the orphans of the system.

  Daniel has glasses and a closely trimmed beard—he looks serious and studious. He likes to point out that the crowded metropolis of New York qualifies by multiple measures—population, economy, etc.—as a “large state or even a small nation.” His chief of staff is at his side, scrolling endlessly through her inbox on her phone. She looks at her watch every few minutes so that Daniel doesn’t have to.