Nobody Gets Free Rent in Manhattan
by curator · 1443 words · 7 min read
There are exactly three things every New Yorker agrees on.
First, pigeons are plotting something.
Second, nobody actually understands cryptocurrency.
And third, if someone tells you they found a beautiful penthouse apartment in Manhattan for free, they’re either lying, laundering money, or starring in the opening scene of a true crime documentary.
Oliver Brooks knew this better than most.
He was twenty-nine years old, single, and professionally confused. Not unemployed, mind you. Professionally confused sounds significantly better during family dinners and makes your mother cry about twenty percent less.
Officially, he was a screenwriter.
Unofficially, he spent most of his time writing brilliant opening paragraphs and then rewarding himself with six hours of YouTube videos titled “How to Become a Millionaire Before Thirty.”
He had recently turned twenty-nine and, according to Instagram, should have owned three properties in Miami, started two successful businesses, and possessed abdominal muscles sharp enough to cut diamonds.
Instead, he owned a houseplant named Steve that had been dying for approximately eighteen months and a credit card that had developed what financial experts refer to as “serious trust issues.”
He lived in Brooklyn in an apartment so small that if he stretched both arms simultaneously, he could touch his kitchen and his bathroom.
Which was convenient, really. There is something oddly efficient about being able to cook pasta while brushing your teeth.
His landlord had recently increased the rent by four hundred dollars a month and described it as “a great opportunity to live in one of New York’s most vibrant neighborhoods.”
Translation:
Congratulations. You now get to pay the GDP of a small European country to listen to your upstairs neighbour practice tap dancing every Tuesday at two in the morning.
Life was going wonderfully.
It was raining on a Wednesday afternoon when Oliver received the letter.
Not an email. Not a text message. An actual letter.
The sort of envelope that looked expensive enough to make you feel guilty opening it with kitchen scissors.
The paper was thick. Cream coloured. It smelled faintly of cedar wood and poor financial decisions.
There was only one sentence inside.
“Apartment Five has been expecting you.”
No address.
No explanation.
No contact number.
Which, admittedly, is exactly how most serial killer documentaries begin.
Naturally, Oliver ignored it.
For three whole days.
Then his landlord informed him that someone had accidentally flooded the apartment above his and that his ceiling had developed what could generously be described as an indoor waterfall.
Life has a peculiar way of forcing difficult decisions upon you.
Sometimes it sends opportunities.
Sometimes it drops dirty bathtub water onto your laptop.
And so, carrying nothing but a backpack, two suitcases, Steve the dying plant and approximately forty-seven terrible life choices, Oliver found himself standing in front of an old Art Deco building in Manhattan.
There was no doorman.
No security cameras.
No luxury cars parked outside.
Just a brass number five hanging beside a dark green door.
The building looked like it had spent the last hundred years quietly judging everyone who walked past it.
He checked the address again.
“This has to be a cult,” he whispered to himself.
He wasn’t necessarily against cults. He simply preferred knowing about them beforehand.
The door opened before he had the opportunity to knock.
Standing before him was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Which immediately made him suspicious.
Beautiful people are rarely trustworthy in New York. They usually have podcasts.
She was holding a glass of wine despite it being eleven o’clock in the morning.
“You’re late,” she said.
“By?”
“Roughly twenty-nine years.”
“Good. I hate arriving early.”
She smiled.
“You’ll fit in nicely.”
Oliver followed her upstairs, mentally preparing himself for either human sacrifice or an MLM presentation.
Neither happened.
Instead, he discovered the apartment.
Calling it an apartment felt almost insulting.
It was larger than some hotels he had stayed in. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan. There was a library containing more books than his local bookstore. A grand piano stood beside a fireplace that probably cost more than his university education.
The kitchen looked like something designed specifically to make chefs cry tears of joy.
“This is illegal,” Oliver announced.
“No,” the woman replied. “It’s just confusing.”
“What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Impossible.”
“Correct.”
He immediately disliked that answer.
“Who owns this place?”
“No idea.”
“Who pays for it?”
“No idea.”
“Who invited me?”
“No idea.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Emotionally? Frequently.”
Her name was Sofia Laurent.
Thirty-two years old.
Former fashion editor for one of the biggest magazines in the world.
Recently divorced from a billionaire whose yacht possessed its own helicopter.
She had moved into the apartment six months earlier after deciding that spending the remainder of her life attending charity galas with people named Sebastian and Maximilian sounded remarkably similar to being slowly poisoned.
The second roommate was Liam O’Connell.
A Michelin-star chef from Ireland who had somehow managed to become famous for publicly throwing an entire lobster at a food critic during a live television interview.
He maintained that the lobster deserved justice.
The third roommate was Maya Chen.
Twenty-five years old. Photographer. Recently dumped by her fiancé via voice message while she was travelling through South America photographing volcanoes.
“I wanted something casual,” he had said.
After seven years together.
Human beings are remarkable creatures.
The fourth roommate was Nathan Rhodes.
Corporate lawyer by day.
Stand-up comedian by night.
Terrible at both.
He specialised in representing people he hated in order to fund his dream of performing for twelve drunk strangers every Thursday evening in Brooklyn.
Together, they made absolutely no sense.
And yet somehow, they looked perfectly at home sitting around the enormous kitchen island eating Chinese takeout and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
“No,” Maya announced.
“Yes,” Nathan replied.
“No.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“It’s a crime.”
“It’s innovation.”
“It’s fruit.”
“Tomatoes are fruit.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Nothing is irrelevant in this discussion.”
Oliver quietly observed them.
They behaved like people who had known one another for decades despite having met only months ago.
There was an effortless familiarity between them.
The sort that cannot be manufactured.
“So,” Oliver finally asked. “How much is the rent?”
Silence.
They all looked at him.
“We don’t pay rent,” Sofia replied.
“Funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Utilities?”
“No.”
“Maintenance?”
“No.”
“Internet?”
“No.”
“Wine subscription?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Who pays for all of this?”
The four roommates exchanged glances before Liam spoke.
“The apartment.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The apartment.”
“That answer somehow raises more questions than it answers.”
“It usually does.”
Oliver laughed.
“No seriously.”
“We are serious.”
The apartment paid for everything.
Food appeared.
Maintenance happened automatically.
Broken appliances fixed themselves.
Every resident received enough money each month to live comfortably.
There was only one condition.
Nobody could leave permanently during their first year.
“Congratulations,” Nathan announced. “You’ve accidentally signed a lease agreement with destiny.”
“That’s not legally binding.”
“Neither is half of New York’s dating scene, and yet people continue participating.”
Then Sofia mentioned the Sixth Roommate.
“The what?”
“The Sixth Roommate.”
Every month, on the first day of the month, the apartment chooses another resident.
Nobody knows for how long.
Sometimes a day.
Sometimes years.
“Who chooses them?”
“The apartment.”
“There it is again. I hate when you people say that.”
“It’s difficult explaining a sentient Manhattan penthouse before lunch.”
“The apartment isn’t sentient.”
“That’s exactly what the last guy said before it locked him in the wine cellar with his soulmate for six hours.”
Oliver stared at them.
“You’re all insane.”
“Very likely,” Maya agreed.
“What happens if I decide to leave tomorrow?”
“You can.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“Nobody ever does.”
He didn’t believe them.
Not even slightly.
That evening, after unpacking his belongings inside the most beautiful bedroom he had ever seen, Oliver sat beside the massive window overlooking New York.
The city stretched endlessly before him.
For the first time in years, he realised he wasn’t worried about tomorrow.
No rent.
No deadlines.
No expectations.
Just five strangers living inside an impossible apartment.
Steve the houseplant had been placed beside the window and somehow looked significantly healthier already.
The apartment itself felt strangely alive.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Like it had been waiting patiently for him to arrive.
Which, admittedly, was a ridiculous thought.
Apartments don’t wait for people.
They certainly don’t choose them.
And yet, somewhere deep down, Oliver knew something extraordinary had happened that day.
He simply hadn’t realised how extraordinary it truly was.
Because tomorrow was the first day of the month.
And the apartment was about to choose its Sixth Roommate.
Welcome to Apartment Five.
Nothing in your life will ever make sense again.