CHAPTER TEN: Rental Relief

I didn’t know if Greg had ever filed a #police complaint about Natasha’s brother beating him up, but things jogged along okay at 51 Manson Street for the next month.  The street doors would have to be repaired at some stage, but they weren’t urgent, and at least they went with the neighborhood.  I heard no more from the downstairs #tenants regarding the beating, and they sent me a money order for their rent, on time.

Meanwhile, I had been waiting to receive a check from the Department of Social Services for Natasha’s #rent.  However, as the end of May approached, I still hadn’t received any rent for my elusive upstairs tenant.  I had dutifully sent D.S.S. a copy of the #deed to prove I now owned the #house, and Natasha's mother had telephoned to ask me to meet her at Natasha’s apartment to sign a #landlord statement so she could submit it to D.S.S.  Apparently Natasha was out of town and couldn’t call me herself.

What, then, was holding up the rent?  I surmised there was probably some sort of waiting period for red tape, but I had now been the proud owner of my Schemmerhornian edifice for nearly two months and still had seen no sign of a rent check from the Department of Social Services.

Eventually, I called D.S.S. to find out what was up.  This might sound like a simple procedure but, believe me, it’s not.

First of all, I discovered that a collection of female caseworkers was in charge of each section of the alphabet.  I had to call the general information number to find out the name of Natasha's caseworker, and tried several times before the general number wasn’t busy.

When I at last got through, I discovered that the caseworker for Natasha's section of the alphabet was a Mrs. Planet.  I tried to call Mrs. Planet for two or three days, but to no avail.  The line was always busy.  If I did get through, someone invariably told me Mrs. Planet was away from her desk and that I should call back in fifteen minutes.  I soon realized this was the stock answer invariably given when a caseworker was not at her desk.  Be she at lunch, in a meeting, with a client, or just "away from her desk," it was always, "Try back in fifteen minutes."  I wonder if that phrase is printed in the D.S.S. employee handbook under "Telephone Etiquette?"

I thought I might stand a better chance of getting through if I called early in the morning. The Department of Social Services opened at eight thirty a.m.  Unfortunately, at that time I was sitting on public transportation, inching my way toward the smoky haze of downtown St. Albans.  I tried calling the minute I got into work at eight forty-five a.m., but the line was already busy by then.

One day I told my boss I’d be a bit late for work the next morning, so I could call D.S.S. from home at eight thirty a.m. and catch the later bus.  Of course, said day happened to be a vacation day for the elusive caseworker, and woe betide if I dared suggest that someone else help me in her stead.  No, it had to be Mrs. Planet and none other. 

“Call back tomorrow,” I was told.

I tried calling later the next day at around three-thirty p.m. when the caseworkers’ day ends, also with no success.  The line stayed obstinately busy, right up until three-thirty.  Try calling a minute later, and either the phone rang endlessly, or someone else answered and reported that Mrs. Planet had just left for the day. 

My mind conjured up an image of crafty caseworkers perched on the edges of their chairs in a state of readiness for flight, like sprinters awaiting the gun, telephone receivers off the hook, the air humming with dial tones, all eyes on the clock. 

Three-thirty strikes. 

Clunk!  Receivers back, and out the door, ladies!

Still, eventually perseverance does pay off.  I finally got through to Mrs. Planet and enquired as to the non-arrival of the rent check.

"We sent May’s voucher to Tony Maloney," the caseworker told me.  “He never sent it back to us.”

"Why did you do that?" I asked.  "I own the house now, not him.  You’ve got a copy of the deed and Natasha's new landlord statement.  And what’s this about a voucher?”

"We send a voucher out to the landlord every month.  The landlord has to sign and return it to us, authorizing us to mail out a check,” Mrs. Planet explained.  “I can’t set you up as landlord of record yet until you send us a W-9 form.”

"A W-9?  What's a W-9?"

"It's a tax form you have to fill out with your name and social security number so that we can put an ID number into the system for making payments to you."

I hadn’t know about any of this.  "Seems to me like a lot of rigmarole," I said.

"Well, dear, give me your address, and I'll send you a W-9 form," said Mrs. Planet.  “Then we can send you out vouchers for May and June.”

"Okay, thanks," I said, and gave her the information.

The W-9 form arrived a few days later.  I filled it out and dispatched it with alacrity to the Department of Social Services.

Apparently vouchers were only sent out on the last Thursday of the month.  When that last Friday rolled around, oh how sweet was the sight of two bright yellow vouchers for May’s and June’s rents. The rental payments from the downstairs threesome didn’t quite cover my five-hundred-and-seven-dollar monthly mortgage payment, so I had been losing a few dollars each month.

I was euphoric."It's great to be a landlord!" I announced to the world at large as I signed the vouchers and put them in the mail to the Department of Social Services.

Ka-ching!

Things were looking up . . . or so I thought.