Will Hochman

Eng 112

Spring 2005

A Singular Investment in Manhattan Real Estate Over Lunch

Since he arrived, all Emanuel Tweed could imagine was getting another place to live. He had been living in the tiniest of studios in a crowded, 19 th Century tenement on Bank St. in New York City. It was a sublet really, and he paid only five times what his "under-landlord" paid in rent control. Even so, his monthly rent didn't buy him more than space for a bed, stove and bathroom. He was pretty certain his room was a closet before New York real estate made everyone crazy. It was a start, but not much more than that.

It took him several decades but now he owned his own apartment atop one of Park Avenue's best properties. He should know. He had earned his living as a fixer or lawyer for landlords who needed help manipulating tenants who paid too little rent. He had his hand in some of Manhattan's most outrageously under-priced and desirable apartments. Often, he could negotiate from strength because an apartment earning vastly below market price can become an investment that will be fully realized in five years of increased rent and continue to yield larger benefits thereafter. A little law, some basic psychology, and people grease when necessary have taken him a long way.

He crafted brilliant and easy ways for strangers to give up their homes and security for a few thousand dollars (while charging his clients tens of thousands of dollars). It wasn't hard at first, just good money fun. After all, the only thing worse than a phone call from your landlord is a call from your landlord's lawyer.

He built his life offering small treasures to steal larger ones, and he was good at it. He blossomed in the city's real estate market and moved accordingly, but always lived alone. The wife and child that he never had would have given him something he never knew he wanted. He never had to think about why he was happy enough to always open doors with a grin. He liked people, just not too much. He allowed for social interaction (if business-related) only at lunch time.

The last conversation he remembered having for weeks beyond a few sentences was when he forgot his hat and gloves at a restaurant because the winter weather was so mild. When he retrieved them the next day in the morning, only the chef was there. They were both was surprised. He saw an apron stained widely with blood and the chef saw a neighbor. This particular fine restaurant was known for its finesse and subtle textures. As the chef unlocked the door, they dimly recognized each other. It took them several awkward sentence to realize they had lived in the same building for almost half a decade without talking to each other at all. They ended their conversation that day agreeing city life was like that, though one was thinking "how" and the other was thinking "what."

His real estate leasing deals wouldn't seem like stealing for years, and some of his clients would never even realize what he'd done. By now, he reasoned, his conscience should fail as much or even more than his memory had. Maybe it had always failed? Being old has to have its advantages, he tried to believe, but he knew he'd run out of space to believe much of anything. He had to leave himself but all he could do was walk madly out on his terrace and fly like a coat exiting a closet, not knowing where he will hang himself next.

on the sidewalk

   a scatter of dead leaves

   and a single glove

copyright2006 Will Hochman