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.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: Delayed Diane / Delivery Dilemma

I returned to work a few days after my sister's death, needing to keep busy and to escape my dismal thoughts.  Also, the dismal life of being a #landlord had to go on.  After another week  without hide nor hair of Diane, Wim stopped by Manson Street to investigate. He returned to report that Diane had still not moved into the upstairs #apartment.

I called Giselle to find out what was going on.

"Her #landlord made a huge fuss about getting less than a month's notice," Giselle explained, "so she ain't able to move in til next month.  She one mad mama. She she all packed."

Nice of her to let me know! Bummer!  Another month of no #rent for the upstairs apartment!

Meanwhile, Mr. Catcher inspected the apartment with Wim, and exclaimed over how good it looked.  “After all the filth and decay, the scummy #tenants and landlords I see day in and day out,” he apparently opined to my Dutch stepfather, "a decent landlord taking pride in her building like Anastasia does is a pleasant treat.”

Ron, Wim's #building #inspector buddy, had already inspected the place a few days previously and pronounced it fit for human #habitation. I therefore delivered the duly-issued #rental #certificate to the Department of Social Services, attention Mrs. Shoebox, Diane’s #caseworker. With it, I included a description of Diane’s unhealthy rat problem.

* * * * * * * *

That night, I had another delivery to make. In hindsight, it turned into quite a humorous event which I recorded later in my journal:

“English Girl on a Mission.” 

9:30 p.m.  Last-minute, grade-dependent poetry assignment delivery must be made to professor Josh.  Tell Allen to take a turn.  We're lost.  Spooky country roads winding back and forth, doubling back on themselves like sinuous, tree-shrouded eels.  We want to go left; the road bends right.  After twenty minutes, we finally emerge a few blocks farther on from where we started. Well, at least the scenery's nice from what we can see of it in the gloom.

It's getting late.  By the time we get to Prof’s house, it’s 10:00 p.m. - not really the done thing, knocking on people’s doors at this time of night.  A dim light glows in the living room window, but there's no sign of life, no cars in the driveway. 

Knock on the door, anyway.  No answer. 

Back up the driveway to the street.  Open mailbox to insert large envelope, but it's already occupied. The flag is up.  Don’t like to risk mailmen taking my envelope along with Josh’s mail.  Don't want to fail this assignment. Consider taking Josh's mail and posting it someplace else, but I'm pretty sure that's a federal offense.  Don’t want to upset Josh, who’ll wonder where his mail’s gone.

Head back down the driveway to the house.  Leave the envelope in the doorway. 

No doormat with which to weigh it down. 

Stones?  Driveway’s covered in ‘em.  Only thing is, they’re embedded. 

Crazy British girl on hands and knees in professor’s driveway, attempting to pry out large pebbles with her fingernails. 

No luck.

 Ah hah! -- a few un-embedded pebbles!  

Prop envelope on little ledge next to front door with said pebbles to prevent it from sliding off. Place a plant pot or two in front for good measure.  Don’t know how long Josh is going to be gone. Who knows? It's not beyond the realm of possibility that a hurricane or some other natural disaster could be brewing somewhere out there in the expectant air of the night.

Leave the vicinity at 10:20 p.m., hoping Prof. Josh finds the envelope before wind or rain can find it first. Gotta get that grade!

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: The Waif and the Wrestler

I stormed across the street, beckoning vigorously to Allen, who was lounging back against our car, arms akimbo.  He un-lounged himself and loped lankily after me.

Ignoring protests from the scruffy brats, my impetus carried me up the steps of the porch and through the doorway.  I pounded up the stairs, flung open the door at the top, and stopped short on the threshold as a scene of total devastation met my gaze.

A thin waif-of-a-girl rushed over from the front room.  She had matted orange hair curling around a pale, freckled face and was dressed in dirty sweats. 

"Who are you?" she demanded, startled by my sudden appearance.

"This is my #house!" I told her.  "Who are you?  What are you doing here?"

I looked around me in disbelief.  Clothes and belongings were strewn over every spare inch of floor space.

"Look at this mess!" I shrieked.  "I've got people coming to look at the #apartment any minute.  I can't show it to them like this!"

"I got burnt outta my house," the girl ventured, wide eyed.  "Mamie said we could stay here, seein' as how her #rent is paid up 'n everything.  She'll be back in a coupla weeks."

"Well, I've got news for you," I said.  "Mamie's gone to Florida, and she's not coming back.  She's done a moonlight flit."

"Oh.  I wish she'd told me that," the girl said, wringing her hands.

She waved vaguely at the mess.  "I'm busy sorting these out.  I'll be gone tomorrow.  I'm goin' to Washington State to live with my mom.  I've had it here."

I felt the same way. 

"Where are the keys to the apartment?"

"My ex-husband's got 'em."

"Where’s he?"

"Repairin' my car."

“Where?”

“At the garage.”

"What's the phone number?"

"I dunno."

I stared with exasperation into her older-than-her-years, defeated face.

"When is your ex-husband coming back?" I tried again, trying to be patient.

"Prob'ly soon."

At that moment, we heard footsteps mounting the stairs, and a man and woman peered tentatively around the front door.

"Come in," I said.  "I'll show you around.  Sorry about the mess.  I didn't know anyone was here until just now.  It was supposed to be empty.  Anyway, I understand the people who are here will be out of here in a day or two."

The couple looked dumbstruck at the scene of clothing devastation which stretched as far as the eye could see.  I couldn’t blame them.

We toured the apartment, weaving our way gingerly through the scattering of garments.  The husband, a burly black fellow, did the talking; his contrasting wife, a short, delicate-featured Indian woman, tiptoed silently behind with big, dark eyes and expressionless face.

After I’d shown them around and assured them once again that the apartment would be neat and clean and free of squatters by the first of the month, the couple beat a hasty retreat with a quick, "Goodbye. We'll let you know," the wife following her husband's broad back, ever-faithfully, down the stairs.

I watched them go, heaved a sigh, and turned to the waif. 

"Well, thanks to you, they probably won't be taking the apartment."

She started in again with her story about the fire that had burned her out of house and home.  I guess I should have been more sympathetic but I was finding it very difficult.  I mean, couldn’t she have put all the clothing in neat piles instead of strewing it all over every square inch of floor space from wall to wall. 

Allen, my own, ever-faithful counterpart, had remained silent thus far, but now he began to sympathize with the waif.

I cut across his pleasant tones with my more strident ones, adopted especially for recalcitrant children and occasions such as this. 

"You say you'll be out by tomorrow?"

The waif nodded.

"Fine.  I'll let you stay here until then, but I want the keys now.  We'll wait for your husband to return."

I turned and went downstairs in search of Giselle.  She had ignored several letters from me regarding renewing her lease, so I had brought a form with me.  Her children were playing outside but she didn’t answer her doorbell.

As I stood on the porch, wondering what to do, I heard Giselle's dog barking in the back yard and Giselle yelling at it to shut up.

I moseyed on up the alley, prepared to do battle with my unresponsive tenant.  However, she greeted me amiably enough and signed the new lease there and then, pleased to hear that I was keeping the rent at $475.00.

"I'll tell you something, Stacy," she said, handing the form back to me.  "You don't want those people upstairs."

"I know," I agreed.  "But apparently they're leaving tomorrow." 

At that moment, the waif's ex-husband arrived, a beefy man with brown, shoulder-length, greasy hair, balding on top, and a walrus mustache plastered across his purple top lip.  He reminded me of a much dirtier version of Hulk Hogan, the wrestler.

He blustered up the alley toward us. 

"You the landlord?" he demanded gruffly.

"Yes.  I presume you're the ex-husband?"

He grunted.

"So, you'll be out of the apartment by tomorrow?" I said.

The waif had obviously apprised him of the situation because he fingered his mustache and looked shifty.

"She will, but I'm gonna hafta wait 'til Mondy."

"Oh?  Well, I still want the keys."

Hulk sneered at me, the walrus mustache crawling up one side of his doughy face.          

“You're welcome to the keys but I'd rather not give them to you 'til Mondy."

Short of manhandling them off, I chose to give in.

"Okay.  But I'm coming back on Monday night, and if you're not gone, I'm calling the police."

"Okey doke," he grinned leerily and breezed off back down the alley, pausing halfway to scratch at his backside. An ample amount of butt crack was visible above the waistband of his droopy jeans.  A delightful sight.

I turned back to Giselle.  "You heard that?"

She nodded.

"You be sure to collect the keys if they leave before I get here, won't you?"

She nodded again, obviously glad that they were leaving.  A week of #neighbors like that over one’s head was enough.

I followed the Hulk's scent down the alley.

Allen was standing on the porch, chatting to him and the waif about the fire; being nice to them!

I yanked on his arm.  "Let's get out of here."

As we left, I called back over my shoulder.  "Remember . . . Monday . . . out."

In the car, I attacked Allen.

"How could you be so nice to them?  Whose side are you on?"

"Well, they have lost a lot," he answered in his usual, reasonable tone.  "They'll be gone by Monday.  What's the point in being nasty?"

I slumped back in my seat in a huff.  I knew he was right; his kindness is one of the reasons I love him so.  But I still couldn’t help feeling a wee bit betrayed.  I allowed myself a few minutes' indulgence in self-pity.  By the time we reached home, I felt somewhat recovered and quite enjoyed relating the morning's happenings to a satisfyingly-indignant Mummy and Wim.

On Monday, Mr. Catcher phoned me at the office.

"I've looked in the file," he said, "and I see no record of Mamie ever having a security agreement with the Department of Social Services."

"Jeepers!"  I scratched my head for a moment, trying to remember back then.  

“I guess I was thinking that when you came to do Ray Molinard's damage report, you did Mamie's security agreement at the same time.  Mamie did pay me some money when they signed the #lease, but I figured that could take care of September's rent, which they never gave me.  Is there anything you can do about getting me some payment for the damage they've done?  Please, pretty please?"

"I may be able to get you a partial payment, depending on how much money Mamie paid you at the beginning of her lease term.  How much was it?"

"I don't remember off the top of my head.  I'll have to check my records."

"Okay.  Let me know how much, and I'll see what I can do."

Shirley phoned that night during dinner.

"I just wanted to tell you, those people's son threw a rock at my son.  He's got a gash in his head and Jerry's taken ‘im to the hospital.  I've called the cops."

“Oh, Shirley,” I sighed.  “It never ends, does it?  I’ll be over soon.”

Half an hour later, Allen and I left for Schemmerhorn.

The waif was busy loading bags, boxes, and two of the scruffy waifettes into her car.

"I'm surprised to find you still here," I said.

"Yeah, well, I didn't get my car fixed in time," she explained.

“Hm.” 

I turned on my heel and went next door to Shirley's.

She answered the door with a grimace. 

"The cops haven't come yet."

"Let me call them again," I offered.

Shirley showed me where the phone was, and I called the police station. 

"We already put the call out," I was told.

"Well, not only did the son of the people next door hurt the neighbor's son," I told the policeman, "but they’re not even supposed to be in my house in the first place.  They're not paying #tenants. I want them out now, but I'm afraid if I try to get them to leave, the ex-husband might turn violent."

A series of questions from the desk sergeant ensued, and I explained the situation.  The Hulk was probably leaving now, anyway, but I wanted the police to come over, just in case.  Maybe the mention of impending violence would hurry them up a bit. 

Fat chance. 

An hour later, the cops still hadn’t arrived.  Hulk and the waif, meanwhile, looked to be on the point of leaving.  Cleared of clothing, the apartment didn’t actually seem much the worse for wear.

Downstairs, the waif was bidding a tearful goodbye to her son, who was to stay behind with his father, poor thing.  Then she and the two waifettes trundled off down the street in her rusty heap of a car.  It didn’t look or sound healthy enough to get them across town, let alone across country to Washington State.

A few minutes later, Hulk struggled out with a couple of boxes, presumably stuffed with more clothes, judging by the number of errant garments poking out of every opening.

He balanced the boxes precariously on one massive hip while he rummaged in the pocket of his dirty jeans with his free hand.  He came out with the keys and thrust them at Allen.

"S'all yours," he sneered.  "C'mon!" he yelled at his son and staggered off down the street with his load, the boy trotting along behind.

"I've had enough for one day," I told Allen.  "Let's go home.  No use waiting for the cops now."

We waved goodbye to Shirley and headed on home in Allen's car.  On the way, he told me the waif had asked him if he thought Jerry and Shirley would press charges. 

"What did you say?" 

"I said I didn't know," he replied, "but I told her the faster they got out of there, the less likelihood there would be of having charges brought against them."

I felt slightly mollified and decided to forgive him for being nice to them on Saturday.

A few days later I left a message for Mr. Catcher that Mamie had actually paid a month's rent as a security deposit, but I’d knocked off $150.00 to compensate for the balance of last October’s rent. 

Mr. Catcher responded with a short note which read:  "Due to the amount you received from our client, you are not eligible for payment from the Department of Social Services." 

It appeared I would have to resign myself to forking out for the cost of repairs and do the painting myself.  With parts and labor, Wim’s estimate came to $1,605.00.  I determined that from now on, for welfare tenants, I would always get the #security agreement from #D.S.S., even if the tenants wanted to pay for it themselves.