I pushed open the frosted glass door with “Goldstein Property Management” etched in flaking gold letters. The smell hit me immediately—cheap cologne trying to mask the mustiness of old furniture, like a man who thinks one splash of aftershave can hide a week without showering. Mr. Goldstein hunched behind his desk, his bald head gleaming under fluorescent lights that cast everyone in their sickly, unforgiving glow.
He didn’t look up when I entered, his eyes fixed on his computer screen where rows of numbers—other people’s fates reduced to digits—scrolled past. His fingers tapped at his keyboard with mechanical precision. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. I stood there, unwelcome and unacknowledged, clutching my purse against my side like a shield.
The office was small, cramped with filing cabinets that had probably been there since the Reagan administration. A dying fern drooped in the corner, its browning leaves a testimony to neglect. The chair across from his desk—my designated spot—had a tear in the vinyl seat that had been repaired with electrical tape, now curling at the edges from years of nervous visitors shifting their weight.
I cleared my throat.
Mr. Goldstein held up one finger—wait—without breaking his rhythm or looking away from his screen. The gesture was practiced, perfected through years of making people like me understand their place in his world. Beneath notice. Until convenient.
I waited, because what choice did I have? My eyes wandered to the framed certificates on his wall, the family photo where even his children seemed to be frowning, the desk calendar marked with what looked like eviction dates in red pen.
“Have you sampled the pizza from the establishment that replaced your shop?” he finally asked, still not looking up. His voice had that nasal quality that always made me think of someone trying to sound more important than they were. “Their margherita is absolutely divine.”
Divine. The word hung in the air between us, a deliberate mockery. He knew what my shop had been, what I had offered there. Spiritual guidance. Readings. A sanctuary for those seeking answers. And he had reduced it to a before-and-after food review.
“I haven’t,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
“You should.” He clicked his mouse decisively, finally turning his attention to me. His glasses sat low on his nose, transforming his eyes into calculating little marbles. “Support local business.”
The words were a paper cut—small but stinging. My shop had been local. Years of building relationships, of creating a safe space where people could explore their fears and hopes. Now it was all mozzarella and marinara.
Mr. Goldstein reached for a folder on the corner of his desk, sliding it toward me without making eye contact. His fingers were thick, adorned with a gold pinky ring that caught the light as he moved. “Your file.”
I didn’t reach for it. “I came to ask about my apartment.”
“Did you?” He raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “I thought perhaps you were here about the notice.”
My fingers brushed against the tarot deck in my pocket, seeking comfort in its familiar edges and corners. I always carried a deck with me. Not my professional deck—that one stayed home, treated with reverence—but a smaller one, worn from handling. A talisman. A tool. A truth-teller when all else seemed designed to deceive.
What would the cards tell me about this man? The Tower, perhaps—destruction of false structures. Or the Devil—bondage to material concerns. I imagined laying out a spread right there on his cluttered desk, watching his smug expression falter as the cards revealed what I already knew: he was a small man wielding what little power he had with mean-spirited precision.
But I didn’t pull out my cards. Instead, I forced myself to meet his gaze directly. “Yes. About the notice.”
He finally looked up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cold and assessing. “You’ve got four months until rent goes up.”
“Goes up?” The words came out as a whisper. “By how much?”
Mr. Goldstein leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. “Threefold. It’s all in the file.” He gestured to the folder between us, which suddenly seemed to contain not papers but a sentence. A judgment.
“Threefold?” I repeated, my mind racing to calculate what that would mean. My current rent already consumed most of my income. With the shop gone, with only private readings to sustain me… “That’s not possible. That’s not—”
“Market rate,” he interrupted, the phrase clipped and final. “The neighborhood is changing, Ms. Vega.”
Changing. Like my shop changing into a pizza place. Like stable rent changing into impossible demand. Like security changing into fear.
“I’ve been a tenant for fifteen years,” I said, hearing the desperation creeping into my voice and hating it. “I’ve never been late with rent. Never caused problems.”
“And I appreciate that.” His tone suggested he appreciated it the way one appreciates a train running on schedule—expected, unremarkable. “Which is why you’re being given four months’ notice rather than the legally required sixty days.”
My hand closed around the deck in my pocket, squeezing until the edges dug into my palm. Pain to focus on. Pain to keep me from screaming or crying or begging—none of which would move this man.
“I can’t afford a three hundred percent increase,” I said, forcing each word past the tightness in my throat. “Not with my business…”
“Ah, yes. The unfortunate closure.” He nodded as if sympathetic, though his eyes remained cold. “Have you considered seeking employment elsewhere? The pizza place might be hiring.” A small, cruel smile. “I hear they’re quite successful.”
The room seemed to contract around me. The walls inching closer, the ceiling lowering. The air growing thinner. I felt my breath coming faster, shallower. My vision tunneling until all I could see was Mr. Goldstein’s face, floating in darkness like a malevolent moon.
“Is there…” I swallowed, tried again. “Is there any flexibility on the increase?”
He checked his watch—a not-subtle hint that my time was expiring. “You’re welcome to renew at the new rate or provide notice of your intent to vacate.” He pushed the folder closer to me. “All the details are inside.”
I reached for the folder with numb fingers, the paper cool and impersonal against my skin. Just sheets of corporate language disguising a simple truth: I was being pushed out. Just like my shop. Just like everything else that didn’t fit the new vision, the new neighborhood, the new reality.
“Four months,” I repeated, needing to say it aloud, to make it real.
“The letter explains everything.” Mr. Goldstein was already turning back to his computer, dismissing me.
I stood, the folder clutched against my chest, the deck in my pocket pressing against my thigh. The floor beneath me no longer felt solid. I was floating, untethered, the world around me suddenly uncertain.
“Thank you for your time,” I said automatically, words my mother had drilled into me. Always be polite. Even to those who don’t deserve it.
Mr. Goldstein didn’t respond, already typing away at whatever spreadsheet contained the next person’s fate. I turned toward the door, my movements mechanical, disconnected from conscious thought.
The hallway outside his office was dim, illuminated by flickering fluorescent tubes that buzzed like trapped insects. I leaned against the wall, letting the cool plaster support me while I tried to steady my breathing. Four months. The price is three times what it was before.
Mathematical impossibility dressed up in legal language.
I pushed away from the wall and moved toward the stairs, the folder heavy in my hands as if it contained stones rather than papers. Each step down felt like descent into deeper waters, pressure building in my ears, movement becoming more difficult.
Outside, the summer heat hit me like a physical blow. The sidewalk shimmered, people moved past in a blur of colors and sounds that didn’t quite register. I stood frozen, adrift in a current of pedestrians who flowed around me like I was just another obstacle to navigate.
Four months. And then what?
The folder crumpled slightly in my grip. I forced myself to loosen my hold, to straighten my spine, to put one foot in front of the other. Movement without purpose, direction without destination.
The walls were closing in. The floor beneath my feet no longer solid. The future no longer certain.
And somewhere, in a corner of my mind, Mister B.’s voice echoed: “Perhaps he will have news that will… adjust your perspective.”
Adjusted indeed. Shifted from worry to panic, from uncertainty to doom. I moved through the heat-soaked streets, a ghost already, haunting a life that was slipping through my fingers like water.
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and then Add to home screen.