by DW Gibson
Adam barely touches the door leading out of the building but it seems to fly out of his way as he bursts onto the sun-splashed sidewalk.
What a fucking gorgeous day.
He hustles toward the nearest intersection, talking the whole way.
I’m Jewish. I don’t know if you knew that. My great-grandfather immigrated to this country from Russia at the turn of the century, but I was raised in California. I’m not super religious in the least. I wasn’t bar mitzvahed—I guess a lot of people would say I wasn’t a Jew. But that is in my bloodline, and there’s something about it that made me gravitate toward entertainment and real estate—as pigeonholed as that is. I don’t know why. It’s strange.
He laughs, scanning Carroll Street for his car.
See I entered this strictly as a buyer. That’s how I met TK. I was coming out to Bed-Stuy all the time, ’cause I did a lot of homework to get myself up to speed. I was looking for the bargain, and really, the bargain was out in Bed-Stuy up until about a year and a half ago. Now the bargains are over. Now it’s on fire.
Ride with me.
As soon as Adam climbs into his car, he docks his smartphone in a case attached to the dashboard, and in an instant, the interior of his Volvo is wired—calls automatically come through the speaker system, a bright screen provides navigation, and a computerized voice reads his text messages aloud if he is not on the phone. But mostly he is on the phone. Updates from contractors, updates from other brokers, updates from clients and lawyers, updates from Ernesto, Nacho, and Jimmy—the trio Adam connects with buyers and sellers looking for strong and wildly efficient movers available on short notice for twenty-five dollars an hour. At one point Adam speaks with a contractor about whether they will meet at two or two thirty; they split the difference with two fifteen.
With him, everything is a negotiation. You’re never going to get it at the first try, you have to just know that off the bat.
Despite the endless calls, fragmented by bad connections and yet more incoming calls—each usually regarding one deadline or another—and despite the clogged streets and their punishing traffic, Adam shows no trace of agitation or impatience. His voice stays soft and calm; and he keeps gesticulation to a minimum, as if offering his tranquility to the swarm of drivers, pedestrians, and bicyclists who share Myrtle Avenue with us. Most impressively: he always—always—yields to the car trying to take the lane in front of him.
When I met TK we discovered a lot of parallels. I’d been working in the entertainment business for about fifteen years, mostly on the music side, and TK came from a performance background, so we paralleled each other even if we didn’t know each other. When we connected on the real estate thing, there was a deeper level there, where we discovered we’re both inspired by film and creativity and music, art, architecture, fashion, food.
We like being a part of this. This is where it’s all happening, at least for me. And the essence of what I do now is kind of the essence of what I did in the music business. I connect people. I facilitate deals. I’m a dealmaker. I like finding the undiscovered thing and making it something that it wasn’t before. I enjoy when people discover something that they didn’t see at first. I like being around when the lightbulb goes off. I like to be in the know. I’m the guy who walks through the kitchen to get to the club. I’m not the guy who waits on line out front for two hours.
Nearing his destination, Adam parks at the end of the street and walks halfway down the block to a four-story brownstone with various layers of paint peeling from every corner of the facade. Three men stand together at the curb in front of the house, speculating about the sale of the building; a kid rests on his bike next to the trio, listening in; Henry, the agent showing the place, stands at the garden-level entrance, next to a for sale sign with his name on it. Adam shakes Henry’s hand and tries to get his client Izzy on the phone while we all loiter in front of the house. Henry, the three men at the curb, and the kid on the bike are all dark-complected; Adam and I are not. We are the duo that stands out because we are clearly the only ones here who do not live on this street—until Izzy arrives, floating across the street in bright blue pants, sunglasses, and a crisp, collared shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. A recent transplant from Tel Aviv, he works to manage the weight of the giant Nikon camera in his hand.
Henry gives a tour of the house, currently registered with the city as single room occupancy, or SRO. He opens a door on the second floor to reveal the layout of one of the rented rooms, which has the feel of a disorganized closet with a bed lodged in the middle; the shared bathroom on each floor sends the smell of an unflushed toilet up and down the hall. Izzy isn’t feeling the place—he doesn’t even take the lens off his camera—so the tour is brief.
Adam and Izzy walk to the end of the block and Izzy says the place needs “too much work for eight hundred thousand dollars.” Adam reminds him that the “six hundred thousand dollar days are gone.” He is firm when conveying the realities of the Bed-Stuy market but comforting when he tells Izzy to take a few hours to consider it, maybe “talk about it with some of your guys.” Izzy agrees to report back by the end of the day, as other buyers will offer by then. They shake hands, and Adam hustles back to his car, on to the next appointment.
Controlled presentation is the name of the game. There are lots of different kinds of pressure points where a deal can fall apart. So my job is to alleviate the pressure points to the best of my ability, to actually get it to the end result, which is a transfer of title. Somebody pays for something, somebody gets something, and everybody walks away happy. Ultimately, that’s the driving force of this: connecting the dots, putting together a deal.
Nine times out of ten, the buyer and seller never meet each other until the day you’re actually walking in to sign the papers. It’s all behind somebody who’s behind somebody else. And while you’re representing an interest on one side of the table, you can also be representing the interest on the other side of the table. It’s kind of the veiled reality in the business. You never want to put a buyer and a seller in the same room at the same time, especially before they’ve executed the transaction. Control is really the name of this game because all kinds of crazy shit can jump up.
His phone rings again and he takes the call, which then necessitates that he make two more.
When it rains it pours. And they all want answers yesterday.
My effectiveness is being ahead of the curve. If I’m not super on top of it, fifteen other people are going to get what I’m looking for and walk away with it. My boots are on the ground right now, and if I don’t show up to an appointment when I need to, or if I don’t get that text and return it now, they’re on to the next one.
There’s never a dull moment. I’m anxious all the time, dude. But if I don’t get panicky, I think it affords me more leeway—if I can chill people out, too. I think at the end of the day, people just want what they want when they want it, so you have to manage expectations, and when you manage those expectations, try to do it with a cool demeanor; otherwise, you’ll go crazy in this kind of job. It can be very demanding, and all at inopportune times. When this business is ready to go, it wants to go. There’s no relaxing. I can barely keep up with this thing.
He flicks his smartphone with his finger.
Technology has definitely changed the business of real estate considerably. Access to information. Receiving and sending, being able to communicate with so many people so quick. That’s how business gets done. That’s the new efficiency of it all.
Social interactions are more specific and directed than they used to be. You used to crash into people. It wasn’t as direct and focused. Your happy accidents—I feel like happy accidents have been marginalized by technology. Like back when I was hanging out at D&D Studios between sessions. The community that grew out of those recording studios, those chance meetings, you know, when people hung out on the downtime, that’s when it was really interesting and amazing and inspiring. That’s gone but the m
omentum that was in the music business in the ’90s, where it was just so the place to be—that’s what’s going on in Brooklyn in the real estate market right now. It’s the same exact kind of exuberance and interest and discovery and change. I like that. There is an energy that I can swim around in all the time: you can touch it, you can feel it, you can taste it. And that’s what’s going on. You either get down with it, or you gotta get out. Some of it’s dirty and some of it’s fantastic, but you’re in it, and it’s happening in real time, and it’s live, and it’s exciting. That gets me off. I like that a lot.
I had a friend of mine from Los Angeles, took a trip to Paris and he called me saying, “Oh my god. Dude. The hottest restaurants in Paris right now are Brooklyn-inspired restaurants, and everywhere I go in Paris, people are talking about Brooklyn!”
I think it’s the underdog story. Brooklyn has always been the underdog. Big, shiny Manhattan kind of throws its weight around and turns its back on little Brooklyn. But Brooklyn has kind of been like, that’s cool; we’re cool with that. Let’s go do our own thing.
I also think there’s kind of been this migration of cool. Follow the cool people away. So the cool people don’t live in Manhattan anymore. Cool people live in Brooklyn. And it’s probably purely an economic force that’s driven that, but now it’s been branded. There’s been a stamp that’s said the migration of cool has come here, and if you want to be a part of that, don’t even waste your time over there in Manhattan anymore. It’s not dangerous anymore. Brooklyn is dangerous. Or at least it’s perceived to be dangerous. And danger loves to hug cool. Cool and danger hang together. They are homies.
Stopped at a light on Myrtle Avenue, formerly known as “Murder Avenue,” we are shadowed by train tracks that run over the center of the road, and Adam points at an unmarked door hiding a speakeasy coffee shop serving lattes to a room full of laptops. His take on danger hugging cool echoes urbanist Neil Smith. Decades before “cool people live[d] in Brooklyn,” Smith wrote about the false sense of frontierism experienced by those moving capital into neighborhoods: “Where the militance or persistence of working-class communities or the extent of disinvestment and dilapidation would seem to render genteel reconstruction a Sisyphean task, the classes can be juxtaposed by other means. Squalor, poverty, and the violence of eviction are constituted as exquisite ambience.”
As it happens, most of the guys who are in this game are Jewish. It’s just a fact. And what’s really interesting is when you start to see the different strata and how they go about their business. Like some guys drive, you know, the 600SL with all the bells and whistles. And some guys don’t even drive. It’s interesting to see how they express themselves, and to see which American ideal of success they relate to.
The Persian Jews tend to be the slickest. They’re the ones that are so heavily impacted by a perceived expression of wealth, and they want to be seen as, wow, you guys are the high rollers. They’ll spend the money on the cars, and they’ll spend the money on the clothes. They wanna be like, we made it, and this is what success in America is. And a lot of them have incredibly bad taste when it comes to picking finishes.
He laughs.
You know, they want to make it like the Venetian at Las Vegas, and you’re just like, wow, the market doesn’t want that. So that’s been interesting, to give them notes and rein them in a little bit towards the norm, because the way they express their taste—well, it behooves them not to.
You’ve also got the Hasids, the ultra-Orthodox. There’s kind of two factions. There was a central figure in the ultra-Orthodox community; he passed away and the two sons have kind of been fighting for control. And it’s been a big to-do within the Hasidic community. But they’re the first comers. They like to be landlords. They’re not into flipping or selling. They’re into buying and holding. They tend to have a deeper connection to the place. The Hasids are growing the community on the Williamsburg/Bed-Stuy border—that little pocket over there. They’re reinvesting money, they’re reinvesting in Brooklyn. They’re invested in what this place is and they’re not looking for an exit. If Hasids keep something, they tend to want to keep it forever. Their endgame is to generate a portfolio. Also, as I’ve been reading, it’s kind of inherent to the ultra-Orthodox Talmud, based in religious scripture, the idea that you have to devote a certain percentage of the money you make to real estate. So it’s almost like a religious proclivity to be involved in real estate. The religious component informs you about what someone’s endgame is. That’s been interesting for me to uncover.
The Hasids are very different from the mentality of a new immigrant to the country, like an Israeli immigrant. Because these guys are all about go, go, go, fast, fast, fast, fast, buy it, flip it, sell it, keep it moving, go, go, go. It kind of feels like, with the new guys, it’s just a job, and they’re wham-bam, thank you ma’am. A lot of the newcomers don’t live in Brooklyn. They live in Long Island. And they come in and do their thing, and then they go back—they leave. That’s definitely something that, if you threw a lens on it, I think you’d make a lot of people really upset.
Adam arrives at a two-unit home where he’s arranged a meeting between his cabinet guy and a client, David; the two of them are already standing in front of the stoop, looking at samples. David is almost done renovating the place, which is immaculate: exposed wood beams and clean white walls frame open rooms drenched in sunlight pouring through windows—and skylights in the unit on the second floor. Adam is investigating the latest work in the first floor apartment bathroom when a woman suddenly appears. She is African American, looks to be in her mid-forties, and walks through the front door of the place with confidence and curiosity. Adam doesn’t flinch at the sight of an unexpected person standing in the room with him. His calmness is always something to be shared.
Adam: Hello. How are you?
Neighbor: I’m fine, thank you. I’m just looking around because I live next door and this house was a mess.
Adam: Oh, I know. We hooked it up!
Neighbor (smiling): I knew the lady that lived here. She had about fourteen kids. Fifteen kids! And more people hanging out, having parties. It was a mess, let me tell you.
Adam: Wow.
Neighbor (moving farther into the apartment, peering into the backyard): That’s going to be a deck, huh? Oh that’ll be real nice.
Adam: I know I’m about ready to go hang out there right now.
Neighbor: Me too!
Adam: C’mon let’s go grab a beer!
Neighbor (laughing): I don’t drink beers. Only Sunkist soda.
Adam: Alright.
They laugh together. She goes upstairs to take a look at the second unit and Adam wanders out to the front of the building to squeeze more samples out of the cabinet man. Adam isn’t happy with any of the faux wood choices, and neither is David. As the three men discuss possible alternatives, a second neighbor approaches. She is also African American, early fifties, and she’s pointing at David’s renovation, waving her finger with a question on her lips:
Neighbor: Can I ask one question, please: Around how much does that siding cost?
Adam (hesitating): You know, I don’t know how much this costs.
Neighbor: Because I can get the aluminum for a thousand.
Adam: Okay. I think this might be a little more like three.
Neighbor: I still have the original siding and it’s time, you know, it’s time …
Adam: Little upgrades?
Neighbor: Yeah. There’s a lot of money in that house and we try to keep it a certain way but it’s not easy. (Point at the new siding.) I love this but I can’t afford this. But I want this!”
She laughs.
Neighbor: I want this. I love it.
Adam: We’re trying to make the neighborhood pretty.
Neighbor: Sure, sure. Lord knows we need all the help we can get!
She makes Adam laugh. She lingers while the cabinet guy, a Hasidic man with a barrel chest to rival Adam’s, returns to the mat
ter of natural finish options, promising to send samples by the end of the week. Adam walks with the neighbor down the block; I follow close behind as they talk siding, their broad smiles and earnest tones seem somewhat squeamish about moving past the established topic. At the corner they wave good-bye to each other and Adam looks over his shoulder to confirm I’m keeping up.
There’s a lot of interesting moments that happen in a day. The people who are not planned, but drift in and out. I get that all day long. And nine times out of ten, it’s positive. She wanted to put her two cents in, and at first I thought, “Oh boy. Here it comes. She’s gonna lay into us.” But then she was smiling and had a cool vibe and it was kind of like, “I like what you’re doing. Thank you. And I’d like to do it myself.” So that’s cool. I like happy, unexpected interactions that just happen. Nobody had to really overanalyze it. It was just like, “I live on the block, and I want to see what you guys are doing. Wow, this place is great.”
But there is that slice of interactions where we’ll get a face like, you low-down, dirty—look at what you’re doing. Who are these dudes to come into the community and turn it into something that could be worse—or could be better—but why are you here doing something? Who gave you permission to come in and do something? You enacted something that we didn’t do, and we’re not sure if we like that.
You know, these guys from Long Island, they come in, they buy the place, they renovate it and they sell it—and they’re going to make a profit. It would be easy to judge them and demonize them and be, like, fuck those dudes—man, those dudes came over here, and they bought that place from somebody that we used to know, and they were some local down on their luck, and they took advantage of them, and now they’re just gonna go ahead and sell it and keep it moving. But what you didn’t see in a knee-jerk reaction is what that development meant to the immediate community.
That woman came inside the house back there because she knew what it had looked like before and she wanted to see what it looks like now. She knew who lived there. And what was her reaction? Oh, by the way, the people who lived here, they wrecked this place. They jacked it up. And they had parties. And they didn’t respect the block. And we’re happy that they’re gone—happy that you came in and fixed it up and made it pretty and made it beautiful. That’s when the story turns on its head. But that’s not a good storyline. That’s not a good angle. Because then you don’t have a bad guy in the story. There’s no one to hang out to dry.