One thing you Columbia College snipes and, to be fair, any GSers roosting in University housing miss out on is that quintessentially New York experience of living in a slum.
I don't mean to suggest that you can't romp around the city supping the myriad glimpses of authenticity that Gotham provides just as well as I can. Just that while your dorm room may indeed have mats of mold hanging down from the ceiling or a hibernating bedbug or three, at least they aren't suing you for the privilege of living there.
Fed up after a 50 percent rent hike, seemingly Biblical plagues of roaches and bedbugs, not to mention the clouds of cigarette smoke wafting up through the floorboards and relentless pounding from the novice DJ downstairs, I decided to stop paying rent. Three months passed with nary a red-bordered late notice from the good people at our realty management corporation.
Queens County Housing Court wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Two weeks into January, we started getting sheaves of official-looking documents wedged under our door: a late notice, a three-day notice, a 30-day notice to debtor from some weird law firm. To hell with them, I said. We called them about the bedbugs dozens of times, and they never did anything. We threw away thousands of dollars worth of furniture. They don't deserve a dime and they know it.
Still, Mrs. Lucky Jim suggested that I do something. So I sent them my entire Christmas bonus and about a month-and-a-half back rent. That'll hold 'em, I declared. And even if they do do something, it'll be months before the sluggish scumbags at our management corporation catch on.
The next morning, we got served. I awoke to Gus, our laconic registered managing agent, pounding on our door. "You James?" "Ah, yeah," I said. He grunted and shoved what looked like a wad of giant, printed Kleenex stapled together into my hands and lumbered back down the stairs.
Civil Court of the City of New York City, Housing Part. It was addressed to both Mr. and Mrs. Lucky Jim, and 'John Doe' and 'Jane Doe.' On the back was an affidavit describing me as a white male with black hair, green eyes; height: 5 feet 5 inches, weight 130. (I'll have you know I'm 5-foot-11-inches, 138-thank you very much.) A second leaf was embossed with the seal of that same mysterious law firm, declaring itself as Attorney to the Practitioner. It was a Notice of Eviction and a Nonpayment petition.
Gulp. I sent the rest of the rent in via certified mail the very next day. But, since we still had an eviction pending, we still had to go in. Our hearing was the first day of school, so Mrs. Lucky Jim went, returning with armloads of pamphlets. She dumped them in my lap. You're coming with me to the trial, she said.
The trial was a week later. We planned all week, drilling one another on our carefully practiced counterarguments and printing out online copies of our cancelled checks and certified mail receipts-prima facie proving we'd paid. But disaster struck on the day of the trial. After a late night strategizing, Mrs. Lucky Jim was stricken with a debilitating, stress-induced migraine. I'd have to go it alone. I dressed up, as best I could for the weather, in a collared shirt and fancy sweater. After three last minute costume changes, squinting at me through pain-slitted eyelids, Mrs. Lucky Jim deemed me "acceptable."
The civil courthouse was in Jamaica, next door to the far statelier criminal court. Criminal court had columns and a wrought iron, spiked fence. Civil court looked like the annex of some shabby municipal library. Stuccoed concrete, smeared glass doors. But as I was waved through a wobbly metal detector, I was quite relieved that I wasn't on trial next door.
The housing part of the Queens Civil Court consisted of a wing on the fourth floor. It was clogged with clusters of nervous people clutching documents. I recognized "my" law firms' seal a couple of times. Clerks with clipboards flitted through them. I checked in with the clerk and was ushered into the courtroom.
I don't know what I was expecting, but a crowded, windowless room paneled with synthetic wood veneer and buzzing florescent rods wasn't it. There were rows of seats on one side and desks on the other. Occasionally they'd call someone's name. The burbling whispers would suddenly hush as everybody watched a flustered-looking tenant walk up to a desk. After a moment or two one of the court attorneys sitting at a desk would stamp a document and call for someone else.
"McGirk," called the meanest-looking lawyer. I walked up to the podium, sat down, and fanned my evidence out on her desk. "Your case has been dismissed," said the court attorney, stamping me. "So am I free to go?" "You're free to go."