The Edge Becomes the Center Page 4

  He laughs.

  On a couple of different listings, I’ll work with guys that have negotiated some sort of distressed purchase of a property. Maybe the sellers were underwater, they couldn’t make their mortgage payments, they lost their job, shit was bad, they weren’t able to pull out of whatever tailspin they were in, and they needed to sell. They needed to sell now. And they didn’t want to market it, and it needed to be cash. My clients who buy those places, they’ll say, “Listen, Adam, put it back on at market.” So I put the property on at market after it closed a month ago at half-price, and they haven’t done anything to it—but it’s fair market. They found the property that had more than 150 percent of equity that was left. And that’s that. But then people walk into an open house with a bone to pick. ’Cause people are so diligent—there’s a lot of different ways you can find out, well, when did this sell last? There’s new technology that’s in place for full disclosure. And they come in looking—he widens his eyes—saying, “What the fuck? Dude, this guy bought this for three hundred grand a month ago, and you’re selling it for seven hundred and fifty thousand? Fuck you!” That’s usually the lead. At first it’s anger. They weren’t even really interested in the place. They just came in to the open house to kick up some shit and vent and be like, “Fuck you, asshole. Because I wanted the three hundred thousand dollar deal.”

  And I just have to say, “Hey listen, guys, if you want the deal, you’re going to have to pay for it. I’ll go find you the deal. But you’re going to have to pay me to be your bird dog.” You know, these guys who get these deals, it’s not just luck of the draw, they happen to find a great thing, and woo-hoo. They have full staffs. This is their job. This is what they do professionally. They’ve got people in the neighborhood that work with them and hang out at the barbershop, that go to church, that talk to the communities. “What’s going on with old Joe’s mom’s house? Are they okay? It looks like shit’s falling to hell in a handbasket over there. Listen, I know somebody, he can help you. He’s all cash. He’ll pay you what you want, and then you can be free. You can move on.” And these guys have to pay on the side to have access to that information. So what closes on paper and what they’ve actually spent often times are not the same.

  And then all of a sudden they’re saying, “You mean I have to pay to get the deal? You mean the diamonds aren’t just laying around on the beach? And I can’t just walk down to the beach and trip over one and put it in my pocket?”

  But people still look at that margin, and they say, “I want that margin—and fuck you!” A lot of people are frustrated because the market is moving so fast, and they feel like they’re marginalized, and they’re not in the loop, and they can’t get what they perceive as the deal. So managing that is interesting, too. You’ve gotta just roll with it. If you’re thin-skinned, this isn’t the gig for you.

  The majority of my experiences have been respectful. I think, for the most part, people let you do your thing. It hasn’t been some really heavy, bad trip. I know sometimes you can feel a turned eyebrow at your back, like those dudes when we rolled up to that house with Izzy—but I’ve never experienced something where somebody just came right up to my face and called me out, or gave me some kind of bad trip. It’s always basically been very, “This is what you do, dude, and you’re doing it, and you’re nice to me. I’ll be nice to you and we’ll keep it moving.” And that’s it.

  I think it’s easy to frame the story and say gentrification is such a dirty, bad, awful word to the people that want to make it that, to make it this gross, awful, horrendous, hindering, handicapping kind of thing. But when you really see it, people are also reaping the benefits. And everybody has to share! If you don’t want to share, if you don’t want to live in the city, you cash out. You cash out, keep it moving, and go somewhere where you don’t have to share, where you don’t have to be affected by all these different people moving in and out and back and forth and up and down and all around you. If you’re not down with it, that’s cool—good-bye. But if you can manage it, then you say, “Hey, listen. It is what it is: things are changing.” You either get on board with it and you take advantage of the positives and you manage your negatives, or you pack up and you bounce. Period. The end.

  I don’t see powerlessness; I don’t feel that. I feel like there are choices, there are options. Everyone has the power to participate in this in a positive way. And I think a lot of people choose to. They say, “I can deal with it or I can’t but either way it’s bigger than I am and this is what’s happening.” To be on the fence here, it’s not a good place to be. You’ve gotta commit to it or you’ve gotta leave.

  3.

  Shortly after dropping his two-year-old daughter off at Brooklyn Friends School, Adam gets a call from MJ Mai. MJ is the contractor handling the gut renovation of a two-story Brooklyn home Adam and his wife bought one year ago. It is a wood-frame house in Clinton Hill and one of the first on the block to be reimagined with an influx of cash. The Sikorskis have been long-term, temporary residents of a one-bedroom apartment while MJ and his crew work. Moving in will mean more space and a backyard for the family. And income property, of course—a duplex apartment. In this city the American Dream often comes with a tenant or two.

  Work on the house is so close to completion that Adam can smell it: fresh paint, sanded wood, the plastic of new appliances. But on this morning, MJ’s tone of voice is spiked, shooting out of Adam’s car’s sound system. As Adam listens to his contractor, his expression grows uncharacteristically anxious and for good reason: his new washer and dryer, delivered just the day before, are gone. MJ says they were lifted in the night along with a couple thousand dollars worth of tools. Adam tells MJ to call 911 and does a U-turn, heading for the house.

  By the time he arrives, a dozen cops have descended on the scene. The junior officers, made to do the busywork of writing out the report, are more interested in Adam’s modern, bright white spread than his missing property.

  Cop: Amazing! From the street you’d never know this place was here.

  Adam tries to get the cop to refocus on the stolen property, and the cop reluctantly starts taking down the information, doing so with the lethargic posture and slack jaw of someone convinced there will be no meaningful outcome, other than perhaps an insurance claim, resulting from his task.

  MJ decides to cut his losses and leaves for his office. And half an hour later the general contractor has already brushed off the theft. He must. He’s already back at his desk working the phone. He pauses to take off his glasses and rub his eyes. He looks at his watch and shakes his head. Glasses back on.

  I was born year of horse. Not a good year.

  He laughs.

  Horse, working hard. That means I’m working hard.

  He wakes up at six thirty to begin his workday. Each morning includes a glass of fresh soymilk, consumed hot, even in the swampy late August haze. He is a short but stout fifty-nine-year-old man. His thinning hair, bushy eyebrows, and trimmed moustache are all dyed black—not one gray root left exposed.

  He lives in the Elmhurst neighborhood of Queens but he keeps his office for Great Will Construction in Manhattan, just off of Canal Street, along the blurry border between Chinatown and the Lower East Side. A shrine to Buddha is built into the corner opposite MJ’s desk. There’s also another figure on a shelf above Buddha.

  That’s Guan Gong. It’s a god to protect our business.

  Guan Gong and Buddha are both encircled by jars of incense, bowls of oranges, and bottles of wine.

  Wine for me.

  He smiles but still does not recline in his chair. Various phones continue to ring every five minutes: sometimes it is his mobile, sometimes it is the direct line to his desk, and sometimes it is the phone at the front of the office so the receptionist yells down the hall in Chinese to convey the caller. Occasionally she yells down the hall while MJ is already on the phone, and he delivers a quick response for her without interrupting the call. Most conversations are
in Chinese but a few are in English. Though it is his second language, MJ communicates well in English: despite the odd disordered word and unpredictable verb tense, his sentences are efficient and clear. Sometimes he extends a single word while gathering a thought and his voice jumps from one pitch to another, like a sudden burst of song.

  In China nobody trust the government. Communism. Actually my father died by that. You know the Cultural Revolution? My father was teacher in Shun De, our village near Canton. Nineteen sixty-six—the Cultural Revolution just starting—and my father died. I was twelve. When he died, I move out. I can’t live there no more. My sister go to my auntie’s home. And my other sister go to my father’s teacher’s home. The worst is the Red Guard, at the time, they go down to my father’s teacher’s house when my sister was there. So bad …

  His eyes water so he squeezes them shut.

  So bad, that story. I don’t mention it.

  Some years later my father’s teacher used my family story to write a book. My mom moved to New York, and we found out she became a citizen. They told my mom, oh, all your not-married kids can come with you. That’s why I come down here in 1982.

  When I first came to New York, I don’t like here. Everything is a stranger, you know. I only speak Chinese, right, no English. And I feel bad, so upset, really upset. I don’t have any dream. I just come down to start my new life, looking for work, that’s all.

  In ’83, after I live in New York for some time, I went back to China to see my girlfriend and we married. Then she come down to New York. We have two kids. The first one is a girl and the second one is a boy. That’s perfect—I tell you why.

  He grabs a scrap of paper and draws two Chinese characters. He points at the first:

  That means daughter.

  He points at the second character:

  This means son.

  He points at both characters:

  These two combined together means one word: good. That’s what I have. That’s perfect.

  I just told my kids, you know, I’m not really requiring you to become lawyer, or become doctor, something like that. I said I am only requiring you to not become the garbage. In Chinese, we say, “Don’t become the garbage.” That means you can support yourself. They could live by themselves. Not just depend on somebody. You can be useful. That’s what I require them. That’s all.

  When my children were in the elementary school a lot of gang people walk around the street and we were scared. We always worry every day about gang people attacking them. It’s better now. A lot’s changed—security most of all. More security, more security—here, in Chinatown and the Lower East Side, more security.

  My first job was the Chinese restaurants. Bad job.

  He laughs.

  Then I worked in the supermarket. After I found that job then I like New York slowly. After a couple years I feel I could get everything if I want it. You know, it’s simple: you’re working hard, you can get better—whatever you want. You pay more effort, you get more. That’s what I trust.

  At that time, I can speak both Mandarin and Cantonese but I don’t know English at all. And I know that English is very important. So I go to the evening school for learning English and the first school I go to is in a church, because it’s free. Free is important for me.

  He laughs.

  Later, another worker in the same supermarket told me that Confucius Plaza, they have an adult education program. So I register and took almost four years, just learning English. Every week we have two classes until 10:00 p.m. I’m working in the market from 9:00 a.m. I come back home almost midnight for four years.

  And after four years we go to Florida for a personal reason: my brother disappeared. Nobody knows where he goes. So I go down to help his wife. Even though they divorced I still look at her as my sister. I spend three years there and help her to be independent. Then my friend called me and he says he formed a general contracting company in New York and he wanted me to come as a partner. He gave me a good offer, and that’s why I’m coming back.

  But after coming up, he changed his mind. No more offer.

  What can I do? I cannot do anything. He changed his mind.

  MJ shrugs and flips his hand in the air. It seems to take no less than the atrocities of the Cultural Revolution to even slightly rattle this man. All other misfortunes, including moving across several states for a job that, in the end, doesn’t materialize, are met with an upright posture that will not collapse, a blasé tone that refuses to bark back at circumstances that cannot be firmly gripped. MJ drops his hand back down onto his desk where it forms as a fist.

  I had to find work. I know New York area so I started my own contracting company. Great Will Construction is the name I give. I got the license and started my own work.

  After just about half a year, another friend, he have a big job. The problem, he don’t know English so he wanted me to get involved, to help him, and then I joined his project. It take almost one year. After the project finish, the general contractor, the owner—it’s a big company—gave me a call and he gave me a very good offer. So I join him. I was vice president over there and took care of all the construction work. I stayed at the company six years until about 1994.

  But then I quit the job because of personal reason.

  It’s bad for me. Really bad for me.

  You know I have my brother, right? Well, when I’m working for the company, my brother call me. He’s in Hong Kong and he’s coming back to New York. I was shocked. Really, really shocked. He said he wanted me to help him to start a restaurant in New York. A Japanese restaurant. I told him I don’t like to do anything in restaurants. He said, “I don’t need anything,” he said, “just be my credit to get a loan from the bank.”

  So I do it. I help him to get the loan from the bank: $140,000. I’m not nervous, I trust him.

  When we open the restaurant: loss. Total loss. Every month is a minus.

  And the most harm: my brother disappeared again. Less than six months after the restaurant open he left.

  After this happened we never talk. Not one time.

  It killed me at the time—the loan, the lease, the money. The landowner, every month he sends somebody down to collect the rent. Six thousand five hundred per month. So I look for somebody to take over the restaurant. Nobody. Finally one guy, he come down, take a look and he said, “Okay. I only could take over the lease. Forget paying for all the restaurant equipment.”

  So I say, “Okay.”

  I gave everything to him. Total loss. I lost almost $200,000.

  That’s why I go back to my own construction business—just the regular contractor, starting over from there, looking for clients, looking for work.

  In 2001, I have a friend and he get the project for the 434 Lafayette Street. It’s an old building. A two-story house on top of the theater. It was a big project, about five thousand square feet. One point one million dollars. That’s too big for my friend. Also he don’t know how to go through the architect drawing. So he bring the drawing to me and I go through them and I said I could do it. Then he say, “Why not we do it together?” So we started. And I supervise the project from beginning to finish, the whole project.

  The whole interior design is not the regular design. Something special. The walls are not the regular Sheetrock, it’s called resin wall. The texture, it looks like the fiberglass. It looks different, not like you see before, very special space. They sent the resin walls from Ohio and use a crane to lift them to the back of building. Crazy.

  From that project I started working with that architect—MESH Architects—doing more jobs. We work on the Atrium House in Brooklyn, in Williamsburg. Nineteen Powers Street, near Union Avenue. This one.

  He points to the 2012 Building Brooklyn Award that hangs on the wall behind him.

  Actually the Atrium House was posted in New York magazine. It is originally a one-story garage. Nobody using it, nobody in building. Then the architects they see it and decided to change the garage to
a live-in unit. They have an extension to become a two-story and we build the house around a courtyard. It’s beautiful. It looks so different. The sunlight comes in and there’s grass and the grill for the barbecue. Not like you see so much in New York. Something new.

  Now I’m doing building projects in New York for about twenty years. I’m still here.

  He smiles.

  I have ten people working for me. So far, even though I try to find somebody to help me lead, I can’t find anybody. You know, many people they know how to do the work but no English. Or I got the people could speak English but they don’t know how to do the work.

  Most of the construction workers that come from China now are older, same age as me. They know how to work but no chance to get English. No chance. They pay certain money, $60,000 at least, and then somebody help them get into USA. They set up the payment schedule. They have to work for five or six years at least to pay back the money. You know, some are making something like $1,000 a month, right, because they don’t have any skills. They only work for construction, or maybe restaurants. The maximum they get is $1,000, something like that. Assume they give two hundred dollars to pay back the cost to come to US, they have only eight hundred for the rest of living.

  One job we did on Madison Street, the government wanted someone to help take over the building, to clean up all the violation. I went there to take a look. The room like this, same size.

  He motions to the walls of the well-ordered 12 x 15 office where we sit.

  Even smaller than this room. And guess how many people live there? Twenty-two. I cannot imagine. Three layer of the bed. And then the shoes all around the floor. Twenty-two people. I saw the paper on the door of the fridge. The name and how much money they pay for the rent. Twenty dollars a month. Just for a bed. The whole building was like that.