#30
Alex and Blima
Since I was spending so much time in Harlem, I decided to post some Open Listings on StreetEasy. As a result, Alex and Blima popped into my inbox. They needed help finding a one-bedroom rental in Washington Heights.
As I mentioned a paragraph or two ago, Wash Heights is the perineum of Manhattan, resting just above Harlem. It is home to Yeshiva University’s flagship campus, which means the area boasts a tremendous Hasidic population. Historically, a lot of Latinx immigrants have made their home in the Heights, as well. As I became acquainted with the area, I never stopped being bemused by the juxtaposition of Dominican flags and chest-length beards; Merengue music and kosher delis.
Alex and Blima were a soon-to-be-married, Orthodox Jewish couple, both 19-years-old. They came to me with a budget of $1800 per month. In Duluth, that may be a snap, but even here in upper Manhattan, it would be a scour. Impressively, they had every penny of their post-nuptial budget worked out as well: they would allocate $200/week on groceries, $30/week on transit, and $0/week on alcohol.
“We don’t drink,” Alex told me cheerfully, laughing at the comical way I stopped short on the sidewalk, an imaginary record needle scratching. “It’s good, it makes us both cheap dates!” He was so assured in his teetotalism, seeming to experience zero pangs of FOMO. He reminded me of the kid in high school blaring his French horn in the cafeteria, while everyone else wore Abercrombie and kept their heads down. I hoped one day I would be so sure about something — anything.
Alex and Blima were looking for the place they would move into right after marrying and losing their virginity. That fall, Alex would start at Yeshiva (Blima would attend Stern, which was the Barnard to his Columbia).
Blima was a Taurus, and I fell in love with her, almost to the point where I can’t sit still as I type this. She was as mild and agreeable as May itself, slim as a cow tail with hair to match. Respecting the uniform of the sisterhood, she wore skirts that fell halfway down her calves and quarter-length shirts.
As with all God’s creatures, I peppered her with questions — though Blima got an extra smattering of paprika, because I had never met a young Orthodox-Jewess before. I was fascinated. It was as though we were raised in the same solar system, but on different planets. I couldn’t imagine being married at 19 to anything other than Express, Diet Coke, and DKNY Delicious parfum. Blima said that she felt I knew the real her, because I took the time to ask. I would have moonlit as her big sister and bodyguard for the rest of her life, if propriety and poverty hadn’t stood in our way.
It took us three a while to find them the right spot. I remember pausing often on the street as Alex calculated the distance between Key Foods, the bus stop, and Yeshiva. He entered the data into a little notebook, always vocalizing his findings to his future bride. I marveled at his meticulous, procedural approach to decision-making: it was as though he and Blima had been raised during a wartime economy, while I came of age on vibes and trendy prejudice (I.e., “we don’t go to that diner, the owner’s homophobic!” “Ooh we love that coffee shop, they compost!”)
In the end, we found a place in our budget, close to both school and Key Foods, but the listing agent was asking for a broker fee: 15% of the annual rent.
I hated broker fees; they made me cringe myself into a dot. Charging a client $5000, purely for finding them an overpriced apartment, always seemed highly unethical to me. It made me feel like all my friendliness and tour-guiding were just calculations to “seal the deal;” like I was Stiffler telling a girl how beautiful her eyes were while winking at Oz across the room. I thought it proper that the landlords should pay our fee, even if they built it into the rental price. $200 extra a month was slightly better than paying $2500 up front, yes? At the very least, it was more manageable for a renter.
Usually broker fees cost a month’s rent. If it was 15% of the annual rent, like this listing was, it meant that it was being split between two brokers.
Alex’s father was highly annoyed. I overheard him on speaker-phone with Alex, curtly demanding his son tell him exactly how this $3600 fee had incurred. I writhed with shame, feeling responsible for poor Alex, alone in a big, bad city. His father was from Canada, where (I overheard him say): “Things are not done this way.”
If the fee were going to me alone, I would’ve offered to wave it. Sadly enough, my desire to not have anyone be mad at me subsumed even my need to eat. But half the fee was going to some jaded, veteran agent of the Heights, whose office spoke both Yiddish and Spanish (a phenomenal that doesn’t exist outside of W. 185th Street). Had I told her that they didn’t want to pay the fee, she would’ve had a good laugh, then rented the apartment to one of the three people standing behind us.
In the end, Alex’s father agreed to pay, the lease was inked, and I absolved myself of my guilt: after all, I was hired to do a job, and I had done it, right?
I visited the couple on move-in day. Blima wasn’t allowed to live there until they were married, lest she be tempted by Alex’s yarmulke and his ability to haggle at KeyFoods.
Standing amongst their isle of boxes, starchily taped, I congratulated them. I wished I could tell Alex to take 16 credits at Yeshiva and 4 credits on the clit, so Blima’s body didn’t devolve into a factory of function.
“It’s going to be the best wedding ever!” I cheered instead. I told them that, since they had taught me so much about their culture, I wanted to give them a slice of mine. If you have a Cloddagh on your hand, please raise it now, and recite along with me the blessing I wrote in their card:
May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine softly upon your face
And rain fall softly upon your fields
And until the day we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand
I wonder how many children my babies have now?
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