“Hi, this is Marcy: your landlord,” a voice rings in my ears as I sprint out of the amphitheater, answering the unknown 347 number that disturbed the middle of my program. My heart fluttered and my breath quickened, and any number of horrible things that my roommates could’ve done to bring this call upon me while I was enjoying my family vacation. I hadn’t been in town for the move-in, and to have her calling meant that, obviously, something had gone seriously wrong. I took a deep breath, and from within I channeled the strength to respond,

“Oh, hi… How are you?”

“Uh, good. You can’t put plants on the fire escape.”

There was some irony in her telling me. First and foremost, I was the only one of my roommates not home (or, of the two of us signed onto the lease, I was the only half not present that week). Additionally, she hadn’t met me or my boyfriend, who were the two individuals signed onto the apartment. She hadn’t given us an introduction, a hello, a handshake, or a “Welcome to the building!” Not only that, but she hadn’t given my boyfriend the mailbox keys or the lease agreement- and still hasn’t. I’ve been home for a week now, and none of this has changed. She hasn’t called me since the plants were on the fire escape, and I’ve been hoping that no one in the past week tried to contact me through the post because, if they have, I’ve had no way of getting to it. I’ve called her twice, text messaged her three times, and my boyfriend (Sean, for future reference) has called her once — all without answer.

The only true contact I’ve had with Marcy, let the incident with the plants, was through my realtor contacting me saying that she told him to tell me that “If I had anyone staying for more than just the day, just to call her and let her know.” I am currently living without Wi-Fi and gas, and this woman is concerned with the number of guests that I have and for how long. A woman with a backyard several times larger than the size of my apartment, who lives to take money from people who live more-or-less silently in a building, is concerning herself with the people I have entering and exiting my apartment at my own will.

The issue is that the overwhelming feeling of invasion-of-privacy is doubled with severe paranoia over my roommate Genevieve who never signed onto the lease and is instead subletting through me. In the two bedroom apartment, with a full living room and dining room, almost entirely unconverted, it is apparently an issue that I should have more than two people living in here. In the apartment that I paid all the deposits on, with no issues and a speedy and undramatic move-in, it is apparently of concern that I have bodies that aren’t mine or Sean’s entering our apartment. And with absolutely no consequences written into the lease agreement, I have to treat my landlord like the RA of my floor in a dorming house. If I had wanted to live in a dorm, I would be sharing a room with Brittany from Long Island over on 96th and Lexington Avenue through Hunter College.

To most proponents of gentrification, landlords are evil blood-sucking individuals who kick older families out of their homes and charge young white people egregiously for their tiny apartments (and they’re probably right, unfortunately). But to Doria, proponent of confrontation, especially if it’s done indirectly through my once-realtor whom I’ve happily payed in full and am no longer indebted to, considers her landlord to be something of a communist overlord, watching me from the camera at the end of the hall and, through lack of general action, ruining my life.