The estate agents who once mocked us are now begging for our business

Oh how the tables have turned. Where once the estate agent Kings of New York City were literally laughing at us and hanging up the phone, now we have the power, writes Holly Baxter

Open season: the pandemic has driven many out of Manhattan (Getty/iStock)

A strange thing has happened to us, two undesirable Brits with no credit rating to speak of on the house hunt in New York City: we’ve suddenly become desirable. Last year, when we scrambled to find a place after our landlord announced she was selling our building, estate agents literally put down the phone when we told them neither of us were citizens. Seasoned apartment-hunters on the NYC market gave us sympathetic looks when we described our situation to realtors at open houses: recent expats, just one year of tax returns, a lopsided-fanged vampire soot-gremlin of a cat who may or may not destroy the carpets.

At the beginning of 2020, we applied to 12 apartments and were turned down for all but one. We lived out the year in a windowless box with walls so thin that I have genuine opinions on what Sarah in Apartment 3 needs to do about Dwayne’s habit of walking past the dishes in the kitchen sink every evening. And in the past month, back on the market, we threw in a couple of applications for ridiculously nice apartments and steeled ourselves for the inevitable rejections. Then they... just didn’t come.

Instead, estate agents were calling us on the phone. The first time I picked up to an unknown number and heard, “Hi, this is Jacob from Friendly Brooklyn Real Estate”, I assumed it was some kind of cynical prank.

I can’t work out what’s happened here. We’re not objectively good applicants. Surely something must’ve gone wrong

“Jacob?” I whispered into the phone. “Is there... something wrong on our file?”

“Not at all!” a man who once would’ve laughed as he tossed my application into the trash said brightly. “I just wanted to let you know that the landlord needs a little more information.”

“The cat, though,” I said, “I assume he’s very upset about the cat?” (Nelson zoomed past me as a I spoke and crashed audibly into the AC unit in pursuit of a cockroach.)

“Not at all!” said Jacob. “Here at Friendly Brooklyn Real Estate, we only work with pet-friendly landlords. As of spring 2020.”

Unnerved, I sent over a few more of our details, and while I was waiting for his reply, another estate agent emailed to say our application had been immediately approved.

“Is this some kind of identity fraud?” I said to E, as we looked back at the fully approved apartment. It had multiple windows! It was in a building with a doorman! There was a gym in the basement and a pet park at the back! There was a roof garden with barbecue grills and views of the Manhattan skyline!

“I can’t work out what’s happened here,” said E, grimly. “We’re not objectively good applicants. Surely something must’ve gone wrong.”

We waited for a couple of days for the realtors to work it out, but instead they sent over rental contracts asking to be signed and calendars to book in our moving time with the doorman. The rent was the same as our thin-walled box, which currently comes sans bathroom ventilation and featuring people who steal our packages from the hallway. For decades, real estate agents have been the kings of New York City, gathering obscene fees from the huddled masses and deciding our fates with the click of a button. Now, the tables have turned.

Covid has driven the scared and weary out of the urban sprawl and into Montana ranches, Connecticut beach towns and bougie upstate suburbs. The rest of us are left, crawling out our basement apartments, blinking in the light, and slowly coming to terms with a brave new world where the realtors who mocked us now beg us for our business.

All of this to say: we’re moving into an apartment complex to be proud of in a couple of weeks’ time. And even the lopsided vampire cat will be getting a hero’s welcome.