CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: Debts and Debtors or "Just Pay the Frickin' Rent Already!"

It seemed like I was never going to hear from Charmayne regarding my judgment against her.  I sent the Sheriff the Transcript of Judgment form I’d obtained from the County Clerk, along with an  Income Execution for garnishing Charmayne's wages, and a check for the Sheriff’s fee of $22.75. 

About a month later, I was reading a notice from Greatest Pest Control about a $1.07 increase in their monthly maintenance fee, when Giselle called to report that the walls in the second bedroom were now beginning to crack.  An overworked Wim added it to his list.

By this time, my house had been on the market eight months, and I’d only received one measly inquiry which never amounted to anything. 

Giselle managed to find a job, and shortly afterwards Social Services sent me a notice that they were terminating her #rental assistance. 

“Great,” I muttered, remembering what had happened when they'd terminated Charmayne’s assistance: goodbye #security #deposit!  Giselle took over paying her own #rent, and although the money orders always arrived late, at least they arrived!

It had been a while since I’d sent Charmayne’s Income Execution to the Sheriff, so I gave him a call.  The Sheriff's office informed me that they’d been unable to serve it because Charmayne was on disability. 

When had they been planning on telling me that?

If I were to ever get anywhere with Charmayne, it seemed I needed to take a circuitous route. Working in a lawyer's office helped me figure it out.  The plan was to serve Charmayne with an Information Subpoena.  She would almost certainly ignore it as she had ignored everything else.  I would then serve a Summons upon her to appear in Court to explain her default.  If she failed to show up in Court, I could get a warrant issued for her arrest. 

These measures might sound rather severe and over the top, but I’d got the hell in and was determined to make her pay.  The Information Subpoena demanded Charmayne's current address and bank account information. It also asked about pending lawsuits and identification of attorneys.  I mailed the subpoena to the Sheriff and settled down to wait.  I knew it could take a while.

Finally, on November 15th, the Sheriff's Department very enterprisingly discovered that Charmayne had moved to a new address.  They served the Information Subpoena upon her and notified me of the address. A month went by with no response from Charmayne.  Being otherwise occupied with preparations for Christmas and visiting relatives, I didn’t have time to follow up on it just then.

Another dismal report arrived from Wally the #realtor.  The market was about the same.  In fact, #properties seemed to be selling for a little less.        

He called me at the end of November. “It’s bin three months.  You wanna renew?”

‘Will it cost me another hundred and fifty?” I asked.

“Nope.  From now on, renewals are free.  You wanna drop another five thousand to forty-nine-nine?”

“Sure, whatever.  Go ahead.”

                                                              * * * * * * *

            It had been a while and I'd seen neither hide nor hair of Diane. However, in October, November, and December, the Department of Social Services had been sending me notices that they were either terminating or reducing her rental payments.  These had been quickly followed by more notices stating that she had been reinstated.  Clearly, something was going on with Diane’s case but at least #D.S.S. was still sending me the full rent.

In January, however, Social Services paid only $300.00 of Diane’s rent. I had the feeling this did not bode well for the future.  Indeed, I soon received another notice advising me that, as of February first, D.S.S. would be closing Diane's case, once and for all.  

Goodbye security deposit. Yet again. 

Without much hope,  I wrote Diane a letter, asking her to pay the balance of January's rent.

February was fast approaching, and Diane still hadn’t responded to my letter. I sent her a second letter requesting the rent and asking her to get in touch with me.  On February 9th, I sent a third letter, advising her that if she didn’t pay up by February 16th, I would have to serve eviction papers on her.  I sent Giselle a copy of the letter in the hope that she might have some influence over her errant cousin.  Maybe it worked because Diane called soon afterwards. She told me her sister had just died and that she would try to pay me the balance of her rent as soon as she could.  

Funny ... Giselle never mentioned anything about a cousin dying.

Meanwhile, I had to do something about Charmayne.  I asked one of the lawyers at work for advice.  

"I believe my #tenant has a personal injury lawsuit on the go," I told him.  "Is there some way I can put a #lien on any #settlement she might receive?"

Friendly Lawyer scratched his chin, thoughtfully.  "Hm, let me think.  Yes, I think you can serve her lawyer with a Restraining Notice to Garnishee.  Then, if she receives a settlement check, your judgment and his fees will come out of that first before she gets any money."

"Okay," I nodded.  "I've got some of those forms."

"First, you need to look in the file at the court house to see what papers have been filed," Friendly Lawyer reminded me.

"Will do.  Thanks." 

That evening, I drafted a letter to the Schemmerhorn County Clerk, asking if there was any action on file brought by Charmayne Brown.  A few days later, the answer came back.  Yes, there was an action pending but the Clerk’s Office required $5.00 to make copies for me.  I duly sent the money and received a copy of the Summons and Complaint.  Charmayne and another girl were suing the driver and the manufacturer of the car for personal injury damages caused by the motor vehicle accident.  

Great.  Now I had something to go on.   

I called the attorney listed for the plaintiff, Charmayne Brown.  A woman answered the phone. 

"Can I speak to Mr. Pecker?"

"He's not in at the moment.  Can I help you with something?"

"I'm calling about Brown vs. Monster Bins Motors." 

"Where are you calling from?" 

I gave her the name of my employer, thinking it might get me a bit further. You know. Like in a legal-secretary-buddy-network-we're-all-in-this-funny-law-business-together kind of thing.  I did add, however, that this matter was personal. 

"Can you tell me the name of the attorney for the defendant?" I asked.

Sounding somewhat suspicious, the woman gave me the name of some outfit located south of St. Albans.

"And the co-defendants?" I asked.

"Why, you are," the woman answered, sounding surprised that I didn’t know this. 

"Oh … um … okay.  Well, this is a very large firm. It's probably in another department."  I thanked her quickly and hung up.

"Gawd," as Diane would say.  Now what should I do?  I had a feeling that my firm wouldn’t be able to help me now – conflict of interest, and all that.  When I told Friendly Lawyer what I’d learned, he was surprised too.  Ours was a very large firm, though, employing more than twenty attorneys.

"Sorry I can't help you," he said, ruefully.  "You'll have to handle it on your own."

"I hate to serve my own employer with a restraining notice," I said. "They might fire me. Maybe I could just go after the defendant and leave the co-defendants alone?” 

"I think you can go ahead,” said Friendly Lawyer. “Don’t worry about being fired. You can't help it that you work here.  It ‘s just a conflict of interest if I help you. You're not allowed to peek in the file, of course."

"Of course."

"If the action just started,” he continued, “there'll be depositions and discovery going on. You know how long those can take.  I’d say you've got some time."

* * * * * * *

Around the middle of February, Wally called and told me that another realtor had a client who was expressing interest in the house. “I’ll call you when I have more info,” he said.

The next day he called back.  “Sorry, they decided the house was too small.  The client has three grandchildren and a sister living with her.”

I sighed. “I’m beginning to think I’m never going to sell this damn place.”

“You might want to consider . . .” Wally began.

“I know, I know … dropping it another five thousand.  If nothing happens by the end of March, why don’t we make it forty-five?  Sounds like a nice round figure.”

                                                             * * * * * * * *

I still had not heard from Diane, and since she still didn’t have a phone, I called Giselle.  She told me that Diane had found a job at the same place where she herself was working.  She also told me Social Services shouldn't have cut her off from rental assistance, since she had four children to support. Giselle had only two.  She promised to tell Diane to phone me as soon as possible. 

“Of course she didn't,” I reported to Allen, later that Friday evening, “but after I served her with a three-day eviction notice, she did send me a money order for three hundred dollars and promised to pay more soon.”

We were on our way to the skating rink where Allen played ice hockey with a team from the local university’s Biology Department.  This left me several hours in which to amuse myself before going to the rink to watch him play the last half-hour or so.  Usually, I went to see a movie that Allen didn’t care to see — horror or suspense – at the old, run-down theater complex where Allen and I had seen Wayne’s World on our first date. The air conditioning sometimes didn’t work, and you never knew which seats were going to be covered with plastic because the roof had leaked. All the movies had been playing on the circuit for a while before ending up at the old complex, and the film was sometimes rather scratched as a result. But, they only cost $2.99, which suited my stingy pocket just fine.  Afterwards, I’d go to my nearby gym, or go to the gym first and then see the movie if the timing worked out that way.

That Friday I saw the 6:35 p.m. showing of Deep Impact and thoroughly enjoyed it.  Another movie I wanted to see was starting soon after Deep Impact ended, and I was tempted to make it a double-feature and forget about working out. I dutifully got into my car and pointed it in the direction of the gym. Once I got there, I’d feel virtuous at having resisted temptation.  When I realized my gym shorts weren’t in my bag, it didn’t take me long to decide that this must be an omen.  Obviously I was meant to return to the theater. With good intentions of making it to the gym the next day, I watched Disturbing Behavior about a wicked psychiatrist implanting things in rebellious teenagers’ brains to make them “good.”

Afterwards, I went to the ice rink to watch the last of the hockey game.  I should really go at the beginning if I wanted to catch Allen making enthusiastic saves and goals.  By the last half-hour, he was usually so tired, he could hardly drag himself around the ice. 

Seated on the top row of the uncomfortable metal bleachers beneath a feeble heat lamp, I couldn’t help wondering at how much the team had improved.  Of course, there were the young guys who’d played hockey in school and were good and fast, but the rest of the players were a mix of students and professors, most of whom had never played hockey before until forming the Lab Rats league. 

Indeed, when they first started playing a year-and-a-half ago, they were pretty awful.  Half of them couldn’t skate forwards very well, so skating backwards was out of the question.  Instead, some of them would skate forwards while looking over their shoulder at the approaching puck, then swipe vigorously at it as it slid past them. Half the time the puck would sail on by, untouched, and the skater would land on his or her butt on the ice.  Being a college-hockey fan, and thus used to a higher level of play, I found it very funny watching this lot and was reduced to giggles a lot of the time.  I guess they would have laughed too if they’d had occasion to observe my geriatric ballet classes.

                                                                * * * * * *

March arrived but Diane’s rent did not.  As the middle of the month approached, I sent her a letter requesting the rent for March and reminding her of her promise to pay more for January and February.  

She didn’t respond.  

At the end of March, I asked Friendly Lawyer to sign an official-looking letter on the firm's letterhead, demanding rent pursuant to Real Property Action and Proceeding Law, Section 711(2).  Then I served another three-day #eviction notice on her via process server. 

When I spoke to Giselle about it, she claimed that Diane could definitely afford the rent because she was now receiving monthly disability checks for one of her children.

            I’d had enough.  Just pay the frickin’ rent already!

CHAPTER FIFTY: The Dismal Dorm

My weekend course and fellow students were great, but my dorm experience left a lot to be desired.  There was definitely material here worthy of a journal entry. I began writing notes as events unfolded and read them out to the group as we gathered for a summing-up session on the last day:

Arrived at the dorm Friday evening in trepidation at the prospect of meeting roommates: Dezzie (a little older than me) and Sherry (some years younger).  In order to check in, security guard requests we sign forms. On perusing said forms, we discover that the college is not responsible for injuries sustained through negligence of college staff.  Show this clause to security guard. He's never read the form but agrees we shouldn’t sign.

First of all, none of the doors are labeled. We try keys in each door we come to.  Finally find one that fits. Dorm encompasses a ‘sitting area’ surrounded by five bedrooms inhabited by plastic-clad bunks, several species of bugs and creepy crawlies, and a central bathroom-cum-shower.

Toilet is blocked.

Roommates leave to find coffee.  I remain to tackle Security about the toilet.  The office is empty, except for young girl in orange tee-shirt who gives me a form to fill out for maintenance.  

No good. Need toilet fixed tonight!

Like getting blood out of a stone:-

“Where’s the security guard?” 

“Making his rounds.”

“Can you call him?”

“He doesn’t have a phone.”

“Does he have a radio?”

“Yup.”

“Where is it?”

“There.” (Indicates radio on desk)

“Can I call him on the radio?”

“No.”

“Can you call him on the radio?”

“Yup.”

Girl calls Security on said radio. Reports blocked toilet.  Security heard to say, “We don’t unblock toilets. Tell them to buy a plunger.”

Visions of making trip to unfamiliar nearby town to purchase plunger at late-night hardware store or supermarket, the whereabouts of which are unknown, float through my head. We paid eighteen dollars for this!

“Just get him down here,” I order imperiously.

“Can’t,” says the girl. “If he doesn’t want to come down, I can’t make him.”

I persist. 

Finally Security says he’ll open up the third floor so we can use a bathroom there.

Return to the dorm.  Suddenly spy plunger in shower room beneath sink.  Ah hah!  Try plunger. Toilet works. Hooray!

Sit down in 'sitting room' to await return of coffee-searching roommates. Have ample time to survey the scene.

It’s not pretty: couch and chairs covered in suspicious stains. The carpet is gross. Afraid to remove my shoes, lest something should crawl across my feet. Oh, for a bright, clean motel room! 

Where are those dratted roommates?  It’s lonely by myself.

Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. Seeming hordes of elephants are thundering up the stairs. Floorboards protest overhead. For a women’s dorm, those sound very much like male voices.

Security guard arrives, no doubt bracing himself for female histrionics. Moustache twitching, he listens to my explanation that the toilet is now unblocked, thanks to the plunger.  Asks me if I’m from England. 

Sit down to wait some more and write it all down. 

Sherry and Dezzie arrive with welcome coffee.

One o’clock a.m., getting ready for bed.  Dezzie’s looking through a photo album in her room. Suddenly there’s a security guard in the 'sitting room,' striding through our palatial suite.

Dezzie, being scantily clad in preparation for shower and bed, asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“Security,” he announces.  “I come through every night.”

Recovering from being momentarily stunned, Dezzie mentions the bugs.

“Yup, there’s critters,” comes the cheerful refrain.

I exit the bathroom to find a tall, gangly security guard, complete with hick accent and too-long trousers drooping over his shoes, lounging in the hallway. Hands on on hips, he's informing Dezzie of his custom to walk through the dorm every couple of hours.

Aghast at this, we gaze back, mouths agape.  Is this guy for real?

Jokingly, I remark, “Well, don’t jingle your keys too loudly when you walk through in the middle of the night, will you?”

To which he replies, “No, but they can’t help making some noise." Holds up a large bunch of keys for our inspection.

" 'Cause, if we hadn’t known you’d be coming through, we’d be pretty scared,” I continue. “I’d have to come out here with my karate chop.”

“That wouldn’t scare me,” the hick guard laughs, preparing to leave. “I’ll be back around three o’clock … two more times tonight.”  He departs, leaving us still wondering whether he’s serious about the nightly walk-throughs.

Dezzie checks with the noisy upstairs neighbors, who confirm this fact. 

“He’s one weird security guard,” a student pipes up. “Lock your bedroom doors.”

Great.  We have to lock ourselves in to protect ourselves from roaming security guards.  What next?

Six, a.m..  A blaring siren awakes us from our fitful slumber.

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

What’s going on? 

Dopey-eyed we emerge from our respective bedrooms into the 'sitting room' to have eyeballs assailed by searing flashes from a fire alarm. 

Hastily get dressed. 

Go downstairs to gather with other students in the frigid outdoor air.

False alarm.

Return to bed. 

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

Not again!

It stops.

Silence.

Then, BAAP!  BAAP! BAAP!

Someone comes to inform us there’s an issue in “B Block." They’re trying to fix the problem. 

We sit, hands over ears, waiting it out and popping headache pills.  Dezzie’s pain is over her left eye.  Mine’s over the right.

Three minutes later, blessed silence descends once more.

No point going back to bed. It’s almost time to get up. 

Oh, God!  Wish we’d stayed in a motel!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

I drove home in the middle of a torrential wind and rain storm. It was raining so hard that all the traffic on the two-lane country road was forced to pull off to the side to wait it out. Sheets of water cascaded down the windshield as powerful gusts of wind buffeted my little Geo Metro from side to side. 

When the storm moved on, I continued home, trying to decide whether I felt refreshed or exhausted after my dorm experience. As I pulled into the driveway, Mummy came running out, practically sobbing and wringing her apron. She engulfed me in a big hug and didn’t seem to want to let go. 

“I thought you were dead,” she gulped.

“What?”

“We were watching TV, and a message flashed across the bottom of the screen saying a tornado had just passed through Bellingham, just about the time you left. Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe!”  She engulfed me in another mammoth hug and rained kisses on my cheeks.

“So that’s why it was raining and blowing so hard,” I said. “We had to pull off to the side of the road. An actual tornado, though?  Cool!”

“Not cool at all,” Mummy retorted, indignantly.  “I was very worried.  Come in and have dinner.”

Over dinner, I asked Wim about the status of the ceiling situation in Schemmerhorn.        

“ ’S’okay,” he drawled.  My friend Tim came and helped me.  He’s an expert in ceiling installation, so, between the two of us, it only took an hour or so. Ya, Giselle was hovering around, taking photos and grumbling, going on about how we’re gonna be in trouble for not getting a #permit, blah, blah, blah. We just ignored her. There was a basketball lying on the floor. I reckon Giselle’s son was bouncing it against the ceiling over and over and that's what made it fall down.

The next day, as Wim and Tim were finishing up the job, Giselle was still pondering painting the walls, which she hadn’t yet gotten around to doing.

"Trouble is, they get dirty so quick from the kids puttin' their hands on 'em all the time," she moaned.

Wim suggested she paint them white and let the kids fingerpaint them. Giselle thought that was a great idea and actually cracked a smile.

On Monday, I received the promised notice from the #building #inspector advising me I needed a permit in order to install the ceiling.

With his usual "Agh!" Wim picked up the phone and called his building inspector buddy, Ron. When he told him that he and a ceiling installation expert had already put up the ceiling, Ron said that was fine and confirmed that a permit was not required for renovating walls. "Whoever inspected the fallen-down ceiling shouldn’t have talked like he did with your tenant.” he added. Then he waived the need for the ceiling permit and agreed it was doubtful that the fallen ceiling had had anything to do with the walls because they'd been "solid as a rock" last time he checked. 

During my lunch hour a few weeks later, I delivered a brand new, huge recycling bin to 51 Manson Street. As Marvin handed me that month's rent, he told me they’d be using the recycling bin for papers and would need two more bins for plastic and glass. I sighed and promised to deliver them soon.

Meanwhile, #Social #Services had suddenly decided to increase Giselle's #rental assistance by $200.00. Giselle told me to keep the extra money to help pay off her debt to me, which was a nice surprise; I’d expected that debt to drag on forever.

When I delivered two new, plastic garbage cans the next week, the ever-present Marvin again mentioned the fence. 

"As I told you before, get me an estimate," I told him as I got into my car.

                                                              * * * * * * *

Every couple of months, Wally the realtor had been sending me printouts of market activity in the surrounding #neighborhood. #Selling #prices ranged wildly and didn’t seem to correspond with the condition of the #properties: A #house listed as being in “very good condition” sold for a measly $50.00, while a house in “poor condition” went for $4,500.00.  The “fair” to “very-goods” ranged from a measly $5,250.00 up to $45,000.00. Only two were listed as being in “excellent condition” and sold for $39,000.00 and $45,000.00  My house was listed as “very-good.” 

The printouts were always accompanied by a form letter, the final paragraph stating in big, bold letters: REMEMBER: Price is the most critical factor in getting your #home sold.  Buyers always buy what they perceive as the “best buy.”

I was gloomily perusing the report for August when Wally phoned.  “Someone’s interested in your house,” he announced.  “They’d like to view it in a few days.”

“Really?” I said, excitedly.

“Yup.  Can you arrange it with your tenants?”

“Oh, er, yeah. I guess they’ll know the house is for #sale now, won’t they?”

“Can’t be helped,” Wally said. “If your #tenants are going to be absent, you’ll need to get the keys to me and advise them there’ll be strangers walking around their #apartments … supervised, of course.”

"Okay." 

Yes!” I yelled as I put down the phone.  “Oh . . . just someone interested in buying my house,” I explained as some nearby secretaries were startled out of their word-processing reveries by my outburst.

I put off telling Giselle and Diane the news that night and was glad I did, because Wally informed me the next day that the prospective buyer had decided on another #property. 

Bummer.

“It’s coming up four months now,” the realtor said. “You wanna renew your listing?”

“Yes.”

“You know, it might not be a bad idea to think about reducing the price.”

I sighed.  “What would you suggest?”

We dropped the #listing price $5,000.00 to $54,900.00.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: Ceilin' and Cussin'

Soon after Daddy and Brenda had returned to the sunny climes of South Africa, Giselle called me at work.  "I just wanted to let you know," she said, "that my son’s bedroom ceilin' has fallen down on top of him, and I'm goin' downtown to report it to the authorities."

"Wait, what?" I said, surprised.  "Is he okay? Why are you reporting it, though?  Wim will come and fix it."

“It ain’t safe, and they should know.”  Before I could answer, Giselle hung up in my ear.

I called Wim at his maintenance job at Vacationer's Inn.  He promised he would go over to Schemmerhorn straight after work.

When I arrived home that night, Mummy told me Wim had gone to Schemmerhorn at about 4:30 p.m. but no one had been at home.

"He did peer in the window, though," she said. "The ceiling fell down in two parts. One was resting on a computer-game-type thing.  He doesn't think it would have hit Giselle's son if he was in bed, but it had nothing to do with the walls he just put up."

Giselle called later on, very upset.  "I phoned you this morning at ten o'clock and Wim didn't even come!" she yelled into the phone.

I tried to remain calm.  "Giselle, he went to your place straight after work but you weren't home.  He did look in the window, though, and saw the ceiling."

"He can't see anythin' through that window,” Giselle retorted. “The ceilin's in the way."  She'd  obviously forgotten that Wim was six foot four and could easily see in the window.

"Anyway," she continued. "How come he came so late? This is serious.  I had to take my son to the hospital an’ now he's scared to go in his room again. Wim has to come over now. I reported it to the building inspector, and they came and looked at it and said you should’ve got a #permit to put those walls up."

"Not for #renovation and #repair."

"Uh, huh, yes you do.  They'll be sending you a notice pretty soon 'bout the violation."

"Okay, whatever. Wim will call you when he gets home."

"Fine, but he needs to come first thing in the morning and get this mess straightened out!"

"He won't be able to til he’s finished work.  He just started a new job.  He can't just take time off --"

"I don't give a f___ what Wim's got.  I want him ova heah first thing!" Giselle screamed hysterically.  "This is all Wim's fault! He was the one put them walls up an’ did a f__g job!  The ceilin's just layin' theah, and . . ."  A string of expletives followed, every other word beginning with the letter "F."

I held the phone away from my ear while Giselle ranted on.

When she eventually paused for breath, I broke in, ever so calmly.  "Does it make you feel better to swear at me like that?"

"Wh . . . what?  Let me tell you somethin'!  It's the #landlord's responsibility to provide a safe place to live.  Well, this ain't safe!  I tol' you, my son's scared to death to sleep in that room. Ever again!"

"Maybe he should see a psychiatrist," I suggested.

Giselle fairly exploded.  "A psychiatrist!  My son don' need no psy-chi-a-trist!  He needs a safe place to live!  You in big trouble, Lady!"

"Why am I in trouble?"  Still oh-so-calmly.

"Wh . . . what?  Because-the-ceiling-fell-down!"

"So, we'll fix it.  It's an old #house.  These things happen."

"Yeah, but it's Wim's shit job putting the walls up that made the ceilin' fall down."

"He says the walls have nothing to do with it."

"Well, he's lying to you, Stace, 'cause they do."

"As I said," I repeated, "I will have Wim call you when he gets home."

"Fine!" And with a few more choice expletives, my angry #tenant hung up the phone.

By now I was shaking uncontrollably.  Mummy tried to comfort me, but I was seeing visions of red dollar signs and lawsuits floating before my eyes.

Wim came home and called Giselle, who treated him to another incoherent, expletive-interspersed barrage of dialogue.

He told her firmly that he would be over at five o’clock the next evening and no sooner. After warning her she'd better be there this time, he hung up the phone and turned to me.

"Agh, she's just trying to scare you," he said in his usual, dismissive manner.  "Being all dramatic and hysterical.  Her son didn't get hurt.  She's always taking him to the hospital for migraine headaches."

"Yes, well, she's probably going to sue me," I said. "You know what people are like … any chance to make a quick buck. Anyway, I have to go pack."

The next day I escaped to a rural college, an hour’s drive away, looking forward to a weekend of poetry and creative writing and my very first stay in a college dorm.