CHAPTER SIXTY: Criminals!

Giselle called me the next morning, shortly after I arrived at work.  “I’m on the corner, and I’ve just been talking to Wim on the phone," she said. "I thought you should know.  Someone’s been raped ... either in your #house, or behind it.”

“What!”

“Yeah. It happened last night.  The cops were  all over it.  You know, Stace, there’s probably crack dealers and dope dealers goin’ in and out all the time, now the house is empty.”

For a moment I was at a loss for words. “Shit, I left the back door open for the electric company to turn the gas back on so the pipes wouldn’t freeze.”

“Yeah, well, they're gonna get in anyways,” Giselle proclaimed, knowingly.

“And I was planning on going there tonight to turn the pilot lights on.”

“Don't go at night," Giselle warned. "Too dangerous.” 

“Believe me, I'd rather not," I said. "Hey, where are you living now? Can Wim get his stepladder back?"

“Yes he can. I told 'im he can fetch it any time.” Giselle rattled off her new address.

“Thanks. Well, er, goodbye then. Keep in touch,” I said, as people do without meaning it. I wouldn’t mind receiving a large overdue-rent check from her, though.

I called Shirley to get the neighbor’s eye view.  She told me that a naked girl had been seen running across the street to the house opposite mine, and someone had called the police. 

“They came and searched the area behind all the houses,” she told me. “Then the cops went into your house to take a look around.”

“My house? How did they get in?”

“The front window was wide open."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. We told the police the house is supposed to be closed up, so they said they had to check it out.  They dove right in through the window.”

“Did they find anything?”

“To be honest, Stace, I don’t know.” Shirley sounded disappointed that she wasn't in the know.  “You’ll have to find that out from the police station.”

Feeling emotionally drained, I stifled a yawn. “Okay, Shirley. If anything else happens, keep me posted, will you?” 

“Okay,” she chirped brightly, thriving on being the bearer of bad news. 

I called Wim and he answered on the first ring.

“You spoke to Giselle?” I said.

“Yah. Some girl got raped, but I don’t know if it was in the house or not.  Whatever, it’s got nothing to do with you.  I’ll go up to there this afternoon and check things out.”

A little while later, a man called from the Electro utility company.  “We’re headed for 51 Manson Street now,” his gravelly voice informed me.  “Is anyone home?”

“It’s vacant,” I told him, “but I left the back door open for you.”  I neglected to warn him that the place might be swarming with cops.  I didn’t want to put him off, now I finally had a live utility worker on the phone.

“I’ll turn the pilot lights on too, okay?” the man said.

“Great. I was going to ask you if you could do that. Thanks so much.  I really appreciate it.”

The unexpected fervency of my gratitude prompted a kind of awkward silence, then the man grunted something and hung up.

An hour later, he called again.  “I’ve turned the gas on and lit all the pilots.  They’re on low.  Where’s the second water heater, though?”

“Up in the attic.”

“Oh. Well, did you know you’ve got a leak downstairs in the basement? I noticed one upstairs too, in one of the bedrooms.”

“Damn," I said glumly, visions of burst pipes and patches of mold dancing in my head. "I knew about the upstairs leak, but I didn’t know about the one in the basement.”  

“Yeah, you should get it checked out.  I’m just telling you.” The Electro man hung up before I could be over-effusive in my thanks again. At least he hadn’t mentioned cops.

That afternoon, Wim went over to Schemmerhorn, half-expecting to find a window broken. I couldn’t remember whether Shirley had said the police dove or stove through the front window.  Apparently, they dove because Wim found no evidence of breakage.  He checked the pilot lights, did a spot of soldering in the basement and upstairs bedroom, and locked the place up tight. This was probably a useless precaution since someone had almost certainly pocketed the keys Giselle claimed she had left on the kitchen counter but were nowhere to be found.

The next day, Wim and a burly African American worker from one of his other jobs went to the house and put all the remaining furniture and junk onto the street for the garbage man.  We planned to go back later in the week to blow the remaining water out of the pipes, turn off the gas again, and board up the first-floor windows.  Meanwhile, I called the #mortgage company to find out the status of things.

“Everything’s going as scheduled,” a woman told me.  “The papers have gone out to our attorneys. You'll be notified any day.” 

That day couldn’t come soon enough, as far as I was concerned.

Wim went back to Manson Street the next week to blow out the pipes and found that the locks had been changed.  A notice nailed to the front door stated that the building had been foreclosed and was the property of the bank.  When I called the mortgage company to tell them we'd been planning to blow out the pipes, a woman confirmed that the house did now belong to the bank and, what's more, had officially belonged to the bank for the past few weeks!  This meant that I, Wim, Wim's burly helper, even the man from the utility company, had, in effect, been trespassers! We were criminals!

“We appreciate your continued care of the property, though,” the woman hastened to assure me when I complained about not being notified. 

On December 10th, I cheerfully signed a bargain-and-sale deed to the effect that:

. . . Anastasia Scuttlebutt, party of the first part, and Attractive Mortgages, party of the second part, witnesseth, that the party of the first part, in consideration of Ten Dollars and other valuable consideration paid by the party of the second part, did hereby grant and release unto the party of the second part, the heirs or successors and assigns of the party of the second part forever, all that certain plot, piece or parcel of land, with the building and improvements thereon erected, situate, lying and being in the City of Schemmerhorn . . .

Of course, I never did receive the ten dollars.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: Just Give it Back

House Account: $352.41

* * * * * * * * * * 

September arrived but rental payments from Giselle and her upstairs friend did not.

Needless to say, I wasn’t really surprised when two weeks later the #mortgage company's bank rejected Jerry and Shirley’s application to buy the #house.  Apparently Jerry earned too little to take on another mortgage.

After commiserating with Shirley about the bad news, I sought out Head Honcho for some commiseration of my own.

“I really don’t want to declare #bankruptcy,” I lamented in his office. “It seems like such a drastic measure. But what am I to do? I just can’t take this anymore!” 

How many times over the past five years had I uttered that last sentence? 

“I don’t have the energy or the money to keep taking people to Court,” I continued plaintively.  “It’s like every other minute I’m sending threatening letters to my #tenants by certified mail, I’m up to my ears in subpoenas, income executions, petitions, motions, warrants ... I'm paying umpteen filing fees and service fees ... I’ve got no #rent coming in ... I’m down to my last cent ... and it’s not like I haven’t tried to sell the house.  I had it on the market for eighteen months, and no one wanted to buy it, except for my tenant and a neighbor, but the bank turned them both down.  Don’t they know how hard it is to sell a house in Schemmerhorn?”

“Whoa, kiddo, calm down,” soothed Head Honcho in his usually calm manner.  “There's no need to declare bankruptcy.  Just do a deed in lieu of #foreclosure.”

“What’s that?” I gulped, blowing my nose and mopping at my running mascara.

“Give the house back to the bank.”

“I can do that?”

“Yes. Call the bank, tell them you want to do a deed in lieu of foreclosure, they’ll send you the paperwork, you fill it out, send it back ... and that’ll be that.”

“Hm.”  I couldn’t really believe it was that simple.  “What will happen to my credit?”

“You might find it difficult getting a new credit card for a while, but foreclosure’s not considered as bad as a bankruptcy.  If you wait seven years, your credit will be clear again.”

I could live with that.  It would be so worth it not to have the aggravation all the time.  I determined to call the mortgage company that very day when I went home for lunch.             

And it really was that simple.  I couldn’t believe it! 

Attractive Mortgages had sold my mortgage some time ago to a company called Southwest Mortgage Company.  Pleased that I didn't have to deal with Un-Attractive Mortgages, who'd pissed me off royally when I first bought the house, I called Southwest Mortgage Company and told them I could no longer take the strain of being a #landlord and didn’t have enough money to continue paying the mortgage. 

"And," I declared to the gentleman who'd answered the phone, "since you've turned down every prospective buyer I’ve introduced to you, I am now forced to either request a deed in lieu of foreclosure or commit myself to a mental hospital!" 

The man took my mild display of histrionics in stride, merely stating that he was sorry to hear about my situation and would send out the paperwork that very day.  

And that really was that! 

Of course, then I started wishing I’d done this earlier and not waited until my bank account was almost exhausted.  I always was a willing casualty of buyer’s remorse.

“Is there anything I should be doing to the house?” I asked.  “Like giving my tenants notice, painting and stuff?”

“We'd obviously appreciate it if the #premises was left in as good condition as possible,” the man answered rather formally. “And with no tenants in residence. But you don’t need to paint if you don’t want to.”

I drove back to my office in a euphoric mood, wondering if Head Honcho would grant me permission to kiss his feet.

Speaking of kissing, I still hadn't received September’s rent from Giselle, or her nameless friend. And now that I had to give them notice, I could probably kiss all past-due rents goodbye too. 

I called Giselle and told her I was giving the house back to the bank and that she would have to move out.  When I intimated, rather forcefully, that the main reason I was in this predicament was because of all the unpaid rents, she spun me some tale about the electric company mixing up her account ... Social Services ... etc., etc. I think her mother’s death played a part in it somewhere as well. 

“And now," Giselle added, "how’m I supposed to pay you, when I gotta pay a deposit on another apartment?”

She then proceeded to recite a litany of accusations: 

"You don’t know what it's like living paycheck to paycheck." 

"You don't understand what it's like to be poor like me." 

"You don't know how lucky you are to have a good payin' job, wit' savings in the bank. We got nutt'n." 

All I could do was listen. 

Eventually, Giselle ran out of steam and I managed to extract a promise from her that she would go down to Social Services the next day to seek help with her overdue rent.  I also urged her to try and collect some rent from her upstairs friend.

On September 25th, I followed up with a letter:

Dear Giselle:

As you know, the bank is making arrangements to #repossess the house.  You are asked to vacate the premises by October 31st.  Please leave the apartment in as neat and clean condition as you can.  I am also giving your friend upstairs notice to move out.  You have still not sent me September’s rent.  Please do so immediately.  Also, by the time you get this letter, it will be just about time for October’s rent too.  As we discussed, please see your caseworker at #DSS about helping with the $1,100.00 you still owe me for June and July plus two Augusts ago.  You can tell her you are being evicted and show her the enclosed letters I have sent you about the overdue rents.  I’m sorry it has come to this. 

                                                                  Yours truly,

                                                                 Anastasia Scuttlebutt

           

A form arrived from the mortgage company.  It consisted of one xeroxed sheet of paper and contained several typos:

the information requested below is very important each point is needed to consider you loan for a voluntary conveyance of the deed in lieu of a foreclosure suit.  Consideration for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be based on the fact that each point is answered below if any points are unanswered your request for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be denied . . . 

The form went on to request the reason for the default and why it could not be cured. 

I wrote: “Difficulty collecting rent from tenants, who either refuse to pay or pay late.  Numerous lawsuits, evictions and judgments.”

I answered a few more questions about resources I'd exhausted in trying to keep my loan current; tenants in residence, if any; monthly income and expenses; and whether the property had ever been listed for sale. I gleefully appended Wally’s listing agreement and notices of failed showing appointments, signed on the dotted line labeled “Borrower,” and mailed the form back to the mortgage company.

Giselle soon found a place to live and moved out in mid-October.  I was happy to give her a reference just to get rid of her.  Apart from occasionally not paying rent, she had been a reasonably good tenant.  The upstairs friend, on the other hand -- whose name I never did discover -- very kindly performed a moonlight flit, having paid not one cent in rent.

I cleaned the house as best I could, turned off the utilities, contacted Greatest Pest Control to cancel the monthly maintenance, and didn’t look back as Wim and I cheerfully drove away from 51 Manson Street for what we thought was the last time. 

A week later, the weather turned very cold, and I began to worry about freezing pipes.  I was also visualizing the last line of the xeroxed form from the mortgage company, which stated: “The property must not be damaged in any way for Southwest Mortgage Company to complete the Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure.”  

After several phone calls to the utility company, I managed to get the gas turned back on. The pilot lights could warm the apartments a little until Wim had time to blow out the pipes.

            I hung up the phone, thinking that this was the end of my sorry tale. 

Not so. 

To the long list of evictions, vandalism, suspected drug trafficking, prostitution, murder threats, and bug infestations, rape was about to be added to the list.  

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: Clause Confusion

Shirley called me a few days later to ask if there was any news about Marvin and Giselle being approved to buy the #house.  I distinctly remembered telling her that I probably wouldn’t hear anything for about a month. However, I restrained myself, very nicely told her not yet, and reiterated my promise to let her and Jerry know as soon as I knew.

Meanwhile, I was still awaiting the signed order from Judge Grazziano authorizing the #warrant for Charmayne’s #arrest.  I wrote to him and enclosed another copy in case he’d lost the first one. 

Two days later the City Clerk called me.  "Judge Grazziano has looked over your Order, and everything looks fine," she said.  "He just wanted me to tell you that before he can sign it, you have to include a clause about perjury."

This didn’t make any sense whatsoever. "Perjury? What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

"The judge said it’s standard language for Orders of this type," the Clerk replied. "As I said, it's about perjury."

This shed no more light on the matter.  "Can you tell me where to find this language?" I asked.

"I'm looking at an example right now."

"Can you read it to me?"

"No.  We're not allowed to give legal advice."

"Okay. Well, I did leave some room at the bottom of the Order in case the judge wanted to add anything," I said. "I've often seen judges do that with Supreme Court Orders.  Can't Judge Grazziano do that?"

"I don't know about Supreme Court, but it's different in this Court," was the reply.  "Again, it's not our job to give legal advice."

"But I still don't understand." I complained.  “Perjury means to lie under oath. It doesn't make ...”  

A thought suddenly struck me.  "Oh, do you mean purge?  Like the respondent has to have a chance to purge herself of the charges?"

" ‘swat I said.  Perjury."

I gave up.  "Okay, I'll add some language to the Order and resubmit it.  Are you sure everything else is all right?  Even the part about the respondent being arrested?"

"Everything's fine.  It's just that one phrase he needs."

With a slightly lighter heart, I turned to Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice.  She actually called the Clerk’s Office to try to get some clarification but eventually hung up, none the wiser. When a spot of legal research failed to reveal any type of standard clause such as the Clerk had mentioned, Friendly Lawyer Number Two kindly drafted a few sentences herself. I added them to the Order and resubmitted it to Judge Grazziano for his signature. 

I received the signed Order back from the Judge two weeks later. Charmayne had until August 30th to purge herself of the contempt charge, at which point the Sheriff would be directed to arrest her. 

I served the Order upon Charmayne by unmarked mail, care of her mother, and filed an affidavit of service to that effect with the Clerk’s Office.  By this time, I didn’t even care about the money Charmayne owed me.  Rather, it was the principle of the thing.

My next project was to go after Diane for her unpaid #rent.  Lord, give me strength!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

My contract with Wally was due to expire on August 1st.  By then, the house at 51 Manson Street would have been on the market for four hundred and ninety-seven long days. 

Wally called to ask me if I wanted to renew the listing.

I listened to the obvious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.  “No, let’s drop it," I told him. "My #tenants are actually thinking of buying the house.”

“Oh.”  Wally’s voice perked up a little.  He was undoubtedly relieved to be ridding himself of such a hopeless listing.  “Well, thank you for your business . . .”

“. . . or lack thereof, don’t you mean?”

“Yeah, well . . . No, no, it’s tough being a #landlord.  I hope the deal with your #tenants works out.  If I can be of any assistance in the future, you know where to find me.”

“Sure do. Thanks.”

                                                             * * * * * * * *

That night, I received a phone call from Giselle.

"The bank called," she said in a belligerent tone.  "How come you told us you was in trouble wit your #mortgage?  They say your #loan is up to date and you ain't in no trouble.  Why'd you say dat?"

"Wh-what?”  I stammered, taken aback. Since when did banks divulge such confidential information to a third-party? Even though Giselle was trying to buy the house, it didn’t seem right. 

“I think I told you I would be in trouble if you didn't start paying rent again,” I protested.  “Why'd they call you, anyway?"

"They said we don't earn enough, 'specially with Marvin bein' out on disability. They said if Marvin gets a job, they'll consider us again in six months."

“Shit,” I swore glumly.  " I don't want to wait six months!  I wanna be rid of the house now."

"I know," Giselle said.  "Diane's movin' out.  She's upstairs cleaning. Seein' as we ain't getting the house yet, a friend of mine wants to move in upstairs.  What’s the rent up there?"

"Four seventy-five," I told her. "Same as yours.”

"Okay.  Well, she can only afford four hundred a month to start with ‘til she gets on Social Services. Marvin and I plan to fix up the place an’ do some paintin'.  At least you'll have something coming in for upstairs but you'll have to wait ‘til September to get it."

“Hm,” I said, dubiously.  “You mean like retroactive rent?”

“Yeah. Just until she gets her benefits sorted out, though.  Then she’ll probably pay you more to make up for it.”

"I guess that would be okay.  How's it going to work? She pays you and then you pay me ..."

"Yeah.  She'll give me a hundred dollars each week. Then I'll send you the whole thing at the end of the month."

When I put down the phone, I turned to Mummy and told her the news.  She thought the whole arrangement sounded fishy. 

“You know, I really don't want to wait 'til Marvin's been employed six months,” I said.  “Even then, the mortgage company could turn him down again.  I think I’m going to tell Jerry he can buy the house.  I'm tired of being Mr. Nice Guy."

"Darn right," my mother agreed.

I called Shirley. She was pleased to hear the news.  I told her I would mail a set of forms to Jerry to start working on so that we could get a head start.  They were blank copies of the forms that the bank had sent to Giselle and Marvin.  Meanwhile, I needed Jerry to sign and return the letter I was mailing out to him, so that I could request another #assumption packet from the mortgage company.

To my relief -- albeit a few days late – the rent for August arrived from Giselle.  Her friend, who turned out to be Diane’s sister, moved in upstairs, but I was so busy that I never made it over to Manson Street to get a #lease signed.  I never even found out what her name was.  I guess this was a sign that I just didn’t have the energy to care anymore.  For better or for worse, I had a feeling that this unpleasant phase in my life was finally coming to an end.

Shirley called me mid-August.  "How long are Giselle and Co. gonna stay next door?" she demanded brusquely.

"I don't know," I said.  "I've no plans to evict them. Of course, when Jerry owns the house, he can do what he likes.  Why?"

"I shouldn't really be bothering you with this," Shirley started, apologetically, "but I thought you should know.  Giselle just threatened to kill me."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: Service and Subpoenas

YEAR FIVE

House Account:  $1,970.95

#Mortgage: $565.26

Why was I not surprised when Diane ignored my #eviction notice? At the beginning of April, I drew up a #petition, got a court date assigned for April 22nd, and had a process server serve the petition upon Diane.  To Diane's surprise, the process server went to her place of employment, talked his way into the inner sanctum of the office, and duly served the petition on her.

Over the next two weeks, I continued to stew over what to do about my previous non-paying tenant, Charmayne.  Should I just give up and forget about getting any money out of her?  Before I even finished that thought, however, I sternly told myself, “No! Stick to your guns. Charmayne should be made to face the consequences of her actions . . . or lack thereof.” I filled in the restraining notices to garnishee.

During lunch, I drove to the Clerk’s Office in Schemmerhorn to look in Charmayne's personal injury court case file.  To my dismay, the folder now contained a Release and Stipulation of Discontinuance.  Charmayne and her pal had settled their case for $25,000.00 each!  I was too late.

In disgust, I tore up the restraining notices. Because of my hesitation to serve my own law firm employer with a restraining notice, I'd lost out.  Now I couldn’t serve the defendant, either. What a bummer!

Time for Plan B?

If I had $25,000.00, what would I do with it?  Maybe I could send information #subpoenas and restraining notices to all the banks in Schemmerhorn in the hope that Charmayne had deposited her settlement money in one of them.  She may not have had a bank account in the past but now with $25,000.00 burning a hole in her pocket, she had to put it somewhere.  I didn’t know then that the Department of Social Services would likely take a large chunk of it.  Public assistance is actually considered a loan, and #D.S.S. is always the first to be reimbursed, should one of their recipients receive a large settlement.  Come to think of it, that was probably what had happened to the $14,000.00 paid to my previous #tenant, Mamie.

I still had some restraining notices left over that I could use, and I bought some information subpoenas from the legal supply store. They only sold triplicates, and I made more copies at the office.  After dinner, I paged through the Yellow Pages and found twelve banks that had branches in Schemmerhorn.  I set to at once, filling out the information subpoenas and restraining notices in my best handwriting. My typewriter was still broken, and Rita's old typewriter, which I'd kept from my previous job, wasn't the most reliable of machines.

At the office the next day, I told another friendly lawyer about Plan B.  She agreed it was a good idea to explore the banks but suggested I call the Clerk’s office to check whether or not the information subpoenas had to be stamped by the Clerk before mailing them out.  I was glad for this advice because when I called the Clerk’s Office, they advised me that the Small Claims Department had its own information subpoenas, and some banks did require the Clerk's stamp.  As it happened,  my eviction proceeding with Diane was the next day.  I could kill two birds with one stone. 

I arrived at City Hall a little early and sat down in the court room to await the morning's proceedings.  To my amazement, Diane actually showed up a few minutes later.  I don’t think she recognized me because she herded two young children over to where I was sitting and sat down right next to me.

"Diane," I said.  She jumped and turned to look at me, surprised.

"Do you have any #rent for me?" I asked bluntly.

She looked a little sheepish and began rummaging in the depths of her capacious purse.  "I sent you a money order a few weeks ago,” she said. “Three hunnerd dollars.  Din't you get it?"

“No. I only got the one for February."

"Oh, gawd. I got the receipt here somewhere."  She rummaged some more and finally produced a grubby yellow carbon copy of a money order.  She peered at it shortsightedly.  "If this bin lost, what can ah do?"

"Aren't there instructions in the small print?"  I joined her in peering at the smudged form.  "Yes, there."  I pointed at the appropriate phrase.

"Oh, yeah," Diane said.  "Okay, I'm gonna git down theah fust thing in the mornin' and complain.”

"Okay."

Diane's dark face took on an earnest expression.  "I can give you another four hunnerd on May first.  I'm workin' extra hours, an' I'm going on a interview next week.  Gawd, ah hope ah git da job.  Then I'll be able to pay you some more."

"You have to do something, Diane," I said. “I can't wait forever, and you never answer my letters or phone calls.  What am I supposed to think?  It seems the only way I can communicate with you is by taking you to Court.  It’s a waste of my time and yours, but it's the only way I can actually talk to you."

"Yeah, yeah.  I know," My errant tenant flashed a sheepish grin.  "I had to take time off work to come ‘ere today too.  Is hard, you know?

"Tell me about it!"

She patted my knee, conspiratorially.  "I sure hope I get dat job.  I really wanna pay you what I owe you."

I stifled a dubious grunt.  "Hm, well, our case is the first on the list this morning, so as soon as the judge shows up, we can get started."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: The Sarcastic Shoebox

A few days later, Diane’s #caseworker, Mrs. Shoebox, phoned from #D.S.S.

I took the call with no anticipation of the ill to come.  After all, the paperwork was in, and Diane was all set to move into my upstairs #apartment on May 1st.

"Ms. Scuttlebutt? This is Mrs. Shoebox," a crisp voice announced at the other end of the line.

"Yes, hello."

"You sent us a rental certificate for Diane Tanner?"

"Yes?"

"You say in your letter that Social Services should have a #landlord statement already, but I’ve not received one."

A glimmer of doom began to hover at the edge of my horizon.

"Wh . . . what?" I stammered.  "The landlord statement was personally handed in in March!"

"Not to me, it wasn't, and there isn't one in the file."

"I'll make a call right now, and get back to you," I told her.

I disconnected and dialed Giselle's number, since her cousin Diane didn’t possess a phone.

Giselle confirmed that she had indeed gone down to Social Services with Diane on Monday morning in the fourth week in March.  From there, however, things began to get a little sticky.  Apparently, Giselle had waited outside whilst Diane had gone in, so she hadn’t seen to whom Diane had handed over the form.

"She was in there quite a while, though," Giselle assured me, "so she didn't just drop it off with nobody."

I called Mrs. Shoebox back and told her I’d verified with Giselle that Diane had personally delivered the landlord statement to Social Services on Monday morning, the fourth week of March.

"If you still can’t find it,” I added, naively, "She can always bring in another one, right? First thing in the morning, if necessary."

"S’too late for that," Mrs. Shoebox replied. "The rental vouchers have already been prepared." 

"So, can't you put a hold on it?" I asked.  "Just until we sort this out?" 

As if realizing that here might be a landlord who wasn't going to give in without a fight, the caseworker’s cordial telephone manner began to slip slightly. "Nutt’n to sort out," she said with a hint of truculence. "I can't stop the voucher going out. We need to pay Diane's #rent for May to her current landlord.  He'd need at least a month's notice from Diane that she was vacating the apartment, and he hasn’t notified us that that's the case."

Boom!  That was it on my end.  No more Mr. Nice Guy!

"Since when does a landlord have to notify Social Services that his tenant's moving out?" I demanded.  "I tell you again.  Diane gave notice to her landlord the last week of March but ended up not moving out in April because he complained she hadn’t give him enough notice.  Now he’s had over a months' notice, but because your department lost the landlord statement, I have to suffer by losing out on another month's rent?  Since the vouchers don’t go out til the last Thursday of the month, and that is still a few days away, can you not put a stop on it?"

"Madam," came the reply. "It is too late to stop the vouchers.  There is no landlord statement in my file, and I can't just just accept your word for it that it was, in fact, handed in.  If it was not delivered to me per--son--all--y, it does not count.  You cannot leave it with the receptionist or anyone else.  It…has…to…come…to…me!"

“You’re killing me," I wailed, trying not to sound too whiny. "One: Diane handed in the landlord statement. Two: the apartment has been inspected for the security agreement. Three: Mr. Catcher can verify that I told him Diane was moving in on April first. And, four: I sent you the rental certificate signed by the building inspector. What more could I possibly do?"

"You shouldn't take your tenant's word for it that she handed in the landlord statement," Mrs. Shoebox intoned, stubbornly.  "You should have called to make sure we received it."

"Oh, and I suppose I should hold Diane's hand every time she wants to go to the bathroom, too?" I retorted. "There’s no reason why she wouldn’t have handed in the landlord statement.  As I already told you in writing, she's desperate to move because the house she's living in is infested by rats, and her landlord refuses to do anything about it.

"I, on the other hand, am a decent landlord.  I keep my house nice, the apartment's newly painted throughout, I don't have rats, and yet, where are my rights?  Practically every tenant I’ve ever had has screwed me one way or another: moonlight flits while owing rent, tearing the place apart, messing up my life and getting away with it. And now you tell me landlords have to notify Social Services when their tenants are moving out?  Most of the time, the landlord doesn’t even know his tenants are leaving. Not until he finds the apartment empty and trashed, or gets a notice in the mail that Social Services is canceling the rental payments. Why do #tenants have all the rights and get away with shit like this, while the landlord has no rights--except, apparently, Diane’s current #slumlord. Why are you protecting him?"

During this verbal diatribe, Mrs. Shoebox had made several attempts to interrupt with a "but" this or "but" that, but, damn it, I intended to be heard, and nothing was about to stop me!  Each time she tried to break in, I simply raised my British-accented voice another notch and spoke faster and faster.  She didn't stand a chance. Those hateful elocution lessons I'd been forced to endure in my youth were coming in handy right now.

Of course, my verbal spate couldn’t last forever and the curmudgeonly caseworker was determined to have her revenge.  "As I told you before, Ma'am," she said, oh-so-politely when I eventually paused for breath, "the vouchers have been pre—pared al—ready. Plus, I can't discuss what may have happened in the past because I wasn't involved then."

"Okay, fine,” I said, “but how about this? Even if the voucher does go out, you don't have to send the rent check out after it, do you? I mean, if Diane's landlord signs the #voucher and returns it for payment when Diane is no longer living in his #house, that would be #fraud, wouldn’t it?"

"Again," Mrs. Shoebox said, her voice betraying the beginnings of desperation, "as I told you, Diane's landlord is entitled to rent for the month of May because, as far as we're concerned, he has not been given enough notice."

"And I told you," I persisted, "that Diane’s landlord has had one month and one week of notice. The only reason Diane is moving out in May now is because he kicked up a stink when she told him, in the third week of March, that she was moving out on April first.  Again, I'm being penalized because you lost a piece of paper!"

We both paused in mutual acknowledgment of the seeming impasse.

"Did she give her landlord written notice?" Mrs. Shoebox finally ventured in an “Ah-hah!” voice.

"Probably not," I said. "These Social Service types never give notice in writing.  At least, none of my tenants ever have.  I’m lucky to receive any notice at all."

"Well, then, Ma’am, there's nothing I can do," Mrs. Shoebox announced, triumphantly. “You’ve got no proof.”

With an exasperated “Rrrrrrgh!” I muttered a grudging “Goodbye. Thanks for nothing,” and slammed the receiver down in its cradle but not before Mrs. Shoebox snuck in a final “Have a nice day,” her words literally dripping with sarcasm.

I phoned Giselle.

"That’s ridiculous!" she exclaimed when I reported my conversation with Mrs. Shoebox.  "I've never given landlords written notice, and I often drop off papers at D.S.S. with the receptionist."

Not willing to concede defeat quite yet, I telephoned the office of the D.S.S. Commissioner. Unfortunately, he was out but his secretary suggested I speak to Mr. Catcher in the Fraud Department.  She put me through to his extension.

Mr. Catcher came on the line and I explained everything to him. “It's like I’m beating my head against a brick wall," I finished.

Mr. Catcher was his usual sympathetic self, especially since he remembered my telling him in the middle of March that Diane was moving in on April 1st. His advice was for Diane to go ahead and move in.  At least then I would have more ground to stand on in the eyes of D.S.S.

“I can’t say when you’ll get your rent for May, though,” he continued. “If her landlord signs the voucher and sends it in, we'll try to get the money back, but it’ll take a while.” Mr. Catcher then suggested I call a Mrs. Forester—a more senior member of the caseworker department—to see if she could offer some assistance.

After thanking Mr. Catcher and bidding him farewell, I called Mrs. Forester and received a cool reception.  Mrs. Shoebox's supervisor was obviously aware of the situation and simply repeated, practically verbatim, what her underling had already told me.  The fact that Mr. Catcher was on my side swayed her not one little bit. 

I’m sorry to say, I even tried turning on the waterworks.  "I've been screwed so badly for so long by D.S.S. and your horrible clients,” I sobbed pathetically. “The bank’s threatening to #repossess my house because I'm behind on my #mortgage, and …” 

My tears had no effect, but Mrs. Forester did concede that she would investigate the file further to see if there was anything she could do.  I suspected this meant she’d just repeat the same old shit but on a different day.

"Okay, but pleeeeease call me?" I wailed.

"I will," she promised.  But, of course, she never did.

I determined to lay out the whole story in a letter and deliver it personally to Mrs. Forester the next morning.  If I got to the Department of Social Services by 8:00 a.m., I’d have plenty of time to get to work by nine o’clock.  I spent my lunch hour composing the letter.  After much editing and rewriting, I figured it was about as good as it was going to get and printed the final copy.

Bright and early the next morning, I drove to Schemmerhorn, arriving a few minutes after 8:00 a.m. Mrs. Forester wasn't there yet but after searching through my purse for guns and other weaponry, the security guard suggested I drop off the letter at the Commissioner's office where Mrs. Forester was located.  I wasn’t too keen on the "dropping off" idea, but at least it would be inside the Commissioner's office.

The Commissioner secretary was a very friendly, pleasant woman with a Southern drawl. I gave her my letter and stressed that it was very important that Mrs. Forester get it as soon as she came in.  The woman smiled and assured me she would take care of it.

I walked around the outside of the building to the parking lot.  Once inside my car, however, a thought struck me. Why not give the Commissioner a copy of the letter too?  It might give me an edge.  I took out my copy marked "File Copy," crossed out the word "File," and added "cc: Commissioner" at the bottom.  Then I jumped out of the car and hurried back around the corner to the main doors of D.S.S.

Halfway there, I had a horrible thought.  Did I just lock my keys in my car?  A frantic search through pockets and purse revealed an absence of keys.  I ran back to the parking lot and peered in through the window of my car.  Sure enough, the keys were lying in plain sight on the passenger seat.  Naturally, both doors were locked.

I muttered an expletive, then added, “But first things first,” and hurried back to Social Services.

"I'm so glad you came back," the secretary gasped when I darted into her office, having succumbed to another search for the M16 I habitually lug around with me.  "Ms. Forester called. She won't be in til next week.  Her mother-in-law just died."

"Oh, I’m sorry," I said, attempting a rueful pout of sympathy.  “I just came back to give the Commissioner a copy of the letter I wrote to Mrs. Forester, but maybe he can deal with it now?"

"Sure," smiled Ms. Friendly. "He's in a meeting at the moment, but I'll be sure to give it to him just as soon as he's done."

I thanked her warmly.  "Oh, and I'm afraid I've done a very stupid thing. I’ve locked my keys in my car."

"Oh, dear," Ms. Friendly fussed, bouncing to her feet. "Let's see if one of the guys opposite can help you with that," and she escorted me across the hall to "Fraud and Investigations."