My Name is Patrick
Apartment living is great. First of all, living in Manhattan, apartments make up 99% of the residences. Most people are surprised to learn that there are less than 3,000 townhouses in Manhattan, so unless you were lucky enough to buy one years ago for some ridiculously low price like $5 million, forget it, you can’t afford it. With apartments, it used to be all about co-ops or condos since rentals were boxy and ordinary. Now-a-days the rental market, which comports well with the new millennial lifestyle, has adjusted to offer much more unique and well-appointed rentals with top-of-the-line appliances and fixtures. And then the amenities of lounges, game rooms, gyms and pools round out the experience to make rental living very appealing.
Kim and I sold our condo penthouse a few years ago on the theory that the market was topish and the flexibility of a rental suited our pre-retirement mentality. That way nothing would slow us down or get in our way when we decided it was time to pull the plug and move out permanently to our home in San Diego. Flexibility and ease of living were the guiding principles. We ground the perfect rental in lower Manhattan.
To begin with, we had lived in lower Manhattan for ten years so we were used to it. Second, it was closer to the kids in Brooklyn or New Jersey than anywhere else. Third, my business of the moment was located 150 feet away. And fourth, it was price-pointed not too cheap and not too dear. So Kim had gone off to find a place for us to move into 6-9 months in the future. What she came back with was the “perfect” place on the first day of looking. But it had to be rented right away. So, somewhat unceremoniously, we made the arrangements and made the move.
We were pleasantly surprised. The building staff was all about accommodating our move-in and helping us with any utilities or other needs for the new renter. There was little that needed doing given the quality of the fittings, so we moved in easily and set up shop with only one drape-making delay and kitchen island delivery delay.
This is a two-bedroom plus study apartment with three full baths. It doesn’t get much bigger than that in a Manhattan unless you’re George Soros. There is lots of closet space and we have TV’s hooked up in four rooms so we don’t have to miss a minute of MSNBC coverage. The health club is a short elevator ride away and the shoe shine guy comes every Tuesday to shine your shoes. They even have regular parties on the roof that are nicely catered with live music or a summertime big-screen movie. It’s a nice set-up all around and the repairmen fix anything that breaks the next day.
Everything was perfect until last night. We have never heard a peep from our neighbors in a year. Whether it was the quality of construction, good quiet neighbors or the layouts, the apartment was nicely found-insulated. That was, until last night.
Last night the music started at 11:00pm. By 11:45 we began to worry since it showed no signs of easing up and the bass was pounding out the rhythm like a dance club. At midnight we had tried to go to sleep to no avail, so Kim called the doorman. As best we could tell, the music was coming from above. Jose the doorman said he would check it out right away. When it hadn’t stopped by 12:15 we called again and were told he went to the 9th floor and heard nothing. We said it was more than we could handle. He went back up and said he told them to turn it down. No improvement.
Finally, at 12:20 we asked if there were any house rules forbidding me dealing with it directly. We suspect a Jose was relieved to be out of it. I suited up with shorts, t-shirt and Crocs and headed out into the hallway. My first stop was to the door to the apartment adjacent to ours. Bingo! I heard thumping music coming through the door. I was careful to listen for a moment given the late hour and not wanting to make a mistake. When I was confident the music was from that apartment I knocked and stood waiting with my arms folded and my face serious.
A young man of 30-something answered the door with a surprised look on his face. He had a certain Irish look about him and the raised eyebrows of someone not knowing what to expect next from this 350-pound 6’5” monster with the Crocs on his feet.
I politely asked in a low voice if he could please turn down the music since it was after midnight and it was keeping us awake. He looked genuinely surprised by this request. He said, “Of course I’ll turn down the music.”
I thanked him and turned away when he said, “How long have you lived here?”
Now it was my turn for surprise, but I said it had been one year. He said, “And you’ve never had this problem before?” Expecting my assent. I said I had not. He then said, “I’ve lived here nine years.” I said that was great and turned to go.
He then blurted out, “My name is Patrick.” I nodded my assent again.
He followed with, “What’s your name?”
I was starting to lose my sense of humor with this conversation, but I told him my name and said a firm, “Good night, Patrick.”
It was his turn to nod assent, and we went our own apartment-dwelling way on Tuesday night.