Queens Spills the Beans

The second most evil creatures in NYC are brokers, right behind the NYPD. These demons roam the city in decadent attire and extravagant rides. They don’t care who you are, what you are looking for, or even if you have the means to support yourself for what they are trying to (up) sell you.

All they care about is getting paid.

Let me put this into perspective. These aren’t your typical car salesmen that don’t shut up. These are people that do barely anything and get paid more than the average American.

I obviously choose the wrong profession.

A city broker is the middle man who gets paid for doing the work any normal human being who isn’t lazy and incompetent could do on their own (thank you internet and Craigslist). He takes the credit for finding you the apartment even though technically you found the landlord’s online listing, but proceeds to ask for your first month’s rent amount for his services.

He gets paid in the thousands to just open a door for you so that you can look at it.

On top of his charge, you are expected to pay the security deposit and one month’s rent to your landlord. That all equals to three month’s rent the first month you move in if you go through a broker.

Furthermore, the broker doesn’t answer his phone the first ten times, sends you on a wild goose chase to find him, and then lets you in to view the apartment by yourself so that he can double team and help another inquirer five blocks down the road.

No car salesmen tactics that make it seem like “the one for you.” No personalization. Nothing.

Why you ask? Because in the city, the demand is so high for living that losing one potential buyer is like dropping pennies on the ground to brokers.

While I viewed the “newly renovated” Astoria apartment that somehow still smelled like feces, I did the math in my head. With the lowest rent in NYC being around $1,000 in Harlem and Flatbush, an independent broker only has to lock in six leases per month to make $72,000 annually. Now factor in the million dollar condos and representing better areas in the city like the Financial District and Central Park. This was about the point my head exploded clean off of my neck.

These people are rolling in the dough for little to no effort.

Sure, your phone is going off all the time. You are meeting with client after client. And you probably have had to take a million trips to the bank after signing your name ten thousand times on all of the leases you have accrued.

Aw, my heart bleeds for you. That Bugatti Veyron probably can’t make it into the city from Queens on one tank of gas to deposit your commission checks.

Literally, it can’t. Look it up. It gets 8 miles to the gallon in the city. It only goes to show that looks don’t come with brains, even when talking about cars.

At least they aren’t false advertising – it’s all in their name. Brokers will make you broke. I keep reminding myself that you have to see the bad to know what the good looks like. Queens is definitely not our borough. I am sure that my dream place is right around the corner. I just haven’t found it yet. There has to be such a thing as a spacious, rodent free place. If not, I find it hard to believe that people of stature live in this city.


A Lil’ Lovin’ While Clubbin’

As another one of our adventures to check off of our to-do list, Ai and I decided to go clubbing and get the full effect of NYC nightlife.

As we pulled on our dress clothes, we were less than enthused. It was already 11pm and after moving to the city, we’ve become old people who watch Netflix until 10 and then surrender to the warmth of our beds.

But in the city that never sleeps, this night was nothing short of entertaining.

As soon as we got on the subway, we realized we were the only ones sober.  A couple tried to sell their homemade incense while we crossed into Manhattan until the husband surrendered to the cart’s intoxication. “Guys, we got vanilla flavored, chocolate flavored all for a dollar…. Man, all of you are drunk as Hell….”

There was a guy hoarding a life-sized M&M that he had stolen from the M&M Store. There were women who found sitting down a challenge. And there was an executive drinking straight liquor out of a brown paper bag.

It was an adventure, but I found out that the inappropriate executives aren’t far and few between.

As we stepped out into the Meat Packing District, we suddenly became alive. We weren’t tired anymore. In fact, everyone and their brother was out tonight, dressed in their best. Women roamed the streets in worse than the hooker attire dad and I saw last year on our visit in an upscale lounge. Old men in mid-life crisis drove past twenty-something’s revving their lipstick-red Ferraris and blasting techno music like it was from their generation.

I felt like I was in Las Vegas without all of the lights and “Go Go Girl” flyers being flicked in my face.

As we stood in line for the club, I watched as the bouncers weeded out half of the line based on beauty and age. Seeing as we were both skinny and young, we got in with no questions asked, but before us stood a senior citizen with a cane and his twenty-something-year-old mistress.

I first thought the cane in his hand was the equivalent of a “pimp cane” from rap videos. However, after I saw that he couldn’t balance without it, I stood corrected.

I watched as he slipped five hundreds in the bouncers pocket along with the $20 cover charge for his gold-digger. The bouncer let him pass, but that wasn’t the last we saw of him.

In fact, the night went downhill pretty fast.

My face got scratched its entire length from a trophy wife’s ring as she flailed about. I collected glass in my leg from three sloppy bimbos dropping every drink they bought on the floor. When they weren’t breaking glass, they were pouring half their drinks down my back and in my shoe.

There was a point during the night where I was tempted to drink the $40 of collected liquor from my heels. Add that to my list of “How to Make It in NYC as a Cheapskate.”

But while the club played awesome music and young financial executives pretending to still be frat boys entertained me as they ordered bottle after bottle at their table, I soon felt like vomiting.

The old man, standing with his cane while his mistress grinded on him bent over, took it upon himself to slip his shaky hand under her dress.

I’m sure I don’t need to give any more detail. We are all adults here. Hell, the old man has been an adult four times over. They did everything with her returning the favor (I didn’t look long enough to judge how well that went).

I stood there petrified. It was like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away. My brain was like, “He can really still do that, but he can barely walk?” while simultaneously thinking, “I’m stuck in an amateur porno.”

We left soon after as I dabbed my leg and foot-farted with each step of my sticky shoes. The bouncer looked at me on the way out and said, “Miss, are you OK?” I told him I was fine and he proceeded to tell me that I was a horrible liar.

At least we know one person will die happy if he croaks tonight.

The next time we go clubbing, I’m going to create a shoe device that collects slipped alcohol. Also, I am investing in a pair of horse blinders from Columbus Circle. Dirty old men are everywhere. I better be careful or soon I will get sucked in to the purr of their sports cars and start finding the smell of mothballs arousing.

Maybe it’s a sign that I should hit up Times Square again to have a chat with James Deen and his trusty intern.

Facts of May

Every woman’s wedding ring here is the size of my house key.

If marijuana was taxed in NYC alone, we would cut our national debt in half.

Staring out of my work window to David Beckham’s crotch and a naked woman’s ass inspires me for Bieber’s fragrance account.

I’m slowly developing whiplash because another Jill sits on the other side of my divider.

My coworkers are all mature, responsible adults whose inside jokes do not revolve around poop or drunken conversations.

It makes your day when your old boss makes you famous, tweeting to her thousands of followers about how she didn’t receive a thank-you card from her previous intern.

Seeing a couple have everything but intercourse next to you on the subway ruins your entire morning commute.

Getting locked in your apartment keeps your survival skills in check.

It only takes New Yorkers two days to key the entire length of your Canadian housemate’s Mercedes. Someone doesn’t like hockey….

NYPD can break five laws to ticket you for violating one.

The cinema will never be the same.

Nothing’s more shocking than the moment you realize college didn’t teach you anything pertaining to your job.

My boss is full of amazing quotes, like this one: “Fear is just the smell when ignorance takes a shit.”

Opening your first paycheck after four months of working for free makes you cry hysterically at your desk as your coworkers laugh. It led me to calculate how much I made per hour over the past four months, and then I laughed so hard I continued to cry.

Turns out that the dirty hippie boyfriend of the woman I didn’t talk to in Soho three months ago is KBS+P’s chief innovations officer, aka tech nerd. Another reason to show how life likes to foreshadow itself for me. What can I say, it’s a small city!