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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Grave News and Other Pranks

One night a group of late-night revelers knocked over about seven hundred gravestones in the cemetery that lay behind the house at 51 Manson Street.  The news story was reported on the television and radio news and in the newspapers.  

A day or two later on September 1st, I was on the Interstate, driving Andrea and Bronwyn up north to spend a few days’ vacation at a dude ranch, when I turned on the radio, just in time for the news broadcast.  I almost ran the car off the road when I heard the first item. 

". . . the Schemmerhorn cemetery vandals have been arrested," said the announcer.  "Justin Parker and . . ."

"What?” I exclaimed loudly.  “That's Mamie's brother's name!"

". . . Mamie Parker of fifty-one Manson Street have been taken into police custody for the vandalism of . . ."

“Wow, Mom!  What are you going to do?” Bronwyn asked, her eyes wide on hearing the names of my tenants on the news.

Shaken, I drove the next few miles, my thoughts racing a mile a minute.

“I can’t do anything about it, right now,” I said, eventually.  “Your Auntie Frederica and I played some pretty naughty pranks when we were little.  But we were just kids.  Mamie and Justin are adults.  This was probably just a prank on a larger scale, but still . . . seven hundred gravestones?  Come on!”

“Mom, tell us about some of the things you and Auntie Frederica used to get up to,” Andrea asked after a few more miles had rolled by.

“Yeah, we’ve still got a ways to go,” Bronwyn put in, “and you know we’ll start fighting soon and asking ‘are we there yet?’  Tell us a story to keep us occupied.”

"Oh, all right,” I said, seeing the logic in this.  “Let’s see.  You know about the time we set the grass dump on fire, but did I ever tell you about the time when your Auntie Frederica and I pretended to be girl scouts collecting for a rummage sale?” 

“Ooh, no.”

“Tell us.”

"Okay.  Well, it goes like this . . ."

One Saturday, Frederica and I were messing about at home in our quiet South African suburb with nothing to do.  I was twelve years old at the time and was painfully shy, except around Frederica, whom I bossed mercilessly.  She, of course, even as a six-and-a-half year old, was very outgoing and, for some strange reason, totally worshiped the ground I walked on even though I regularly beat her up.

Being the ringleader of our little twosome, and thus in charge of coming up with ideas of things to do, I suggested we pretend to be girl scouts collecting clothes for a rummage sale.  It would mean knocking on doors in the neighborhood and talking to strangers – totally against the rules of our protective upbringing – and this awesome idea did give us pause for a moment but, hey, the danger was part of the fun.  Frederica, of course, was all for my idea.

We sauntered casually down the street, nerve endings jangling beneath our oh-so-cool exteriors.  The naughtiness of what we were about to do made me feel more alive.  The adrenalin was pumping and everything seemed to me to stand out in vivid relief, sharper than before, as if I were a shortsighted person wearing corrective eyeglasses for the first time.  I began to notice details, such as the pinkness of the bricks of the apartment block we were headed for, and the lacy, black iron patterns of the balconies. 

After the brightness of the day outside, the foyer of the #apartment building was dingy and felt damp.  Being the eldest, it was decided that I would do the talking, and after a whispered consultation on the stairs, we knocked on the first door we came to.

It was opened by a man of about fifty years old, wearing a greasy vest, dirty cotton pants, and badly in need of a shave.  Through the open door we caught a glimpse of a dark, stuffy apartment beyond, cluttered with small tables piled with knickknacks and tall lamps with fringed shades, more suited to a psychic maiden aunt than to the seedy character lounging before us.  

Not to be put off, however, and trying not to breathe in the acrid odor of sweat which wafted in our direction, I valiantly launched into my spiel in an artificially  bright and cheery voice, though I started to falter a little towards the end under the man’s bold stare.

He looked rather dubious on hearing the news that we were girl scouts on a good deed mission and shook his head. 

“Sorry, I don’t have nutt’n’,” he rasped in a hoarse voice, undoubtedly the result of too many cigarettes.  Frederica and I chose not to pursue the issue.  We were just thankful to get out of there.

A mite subdued by this first failure, but not to be swayed from our dangerous adventure, we knocked on the next door.  It was flung open with great ebullience by a middle-aged, blonde, housewife type.  

This was more like it!  

She cheerfully believed our story and invited us in while she searched for something to give us.   We chose to hover in the doorway, warnings about not going into strange houses too powerful to overcome. 

The housewife returned in a moment and handed us a man’s tweed jacket!  

Frederica and I looked at each other in unspoken agreement, stammered our thank yous, and dashed for the stairs.

Once outside on the street, we wrestled with our consciences, feeling incredibly guilty.  The more we thought about that nice woman giving us the jacket under false pretenses, the worse we felt.  It was awful!  What in God’s name were we going to do with the jacket?  We obviously couldn’t take it home.  We also didn’t want to throw it away because that would be even more guilt-provoking.  Frederica suggested we give the jacket to the first poor African we saw who looked cold.  I leapt at the idea as a good way to assuage my guilt.

The first African we came to didn’t appear to be either poor or cold.  However, he would have to do.  He was astonished when two young, white girls waylaid him and offered him a free jacket, out of the blue.  He accepted it in pleased surprise, put it on, thanked us effusively, though somewhat suspiciously, and went swinging away down the street, singing.

His happiness didn’t do much to lessen our guilt, but it was an experience to reminisce and laugh over to this day. 

Andrea and Bronwyn were suitably impressed by my story, and I must admit I was feeling a little less stressed by the end of it.

“You guys were pretty naughty, weren’t you, Mom?” said Anthea.  “Deceiving little old ladies, burning up the yard . . . whatever next?  We’re not nearly that bad.” 

We had reached the dude ranch by this time, and as soon as we checked in I phoned my parents and Allen to tell them the news about my gravestone-tipping tenant’s arrest.  There was nothing I could do, of course.  Allen promised to keep an eye on things at 51 Manson Street, but I knew it was going to pray on my mind for the duration of my mini-vacation.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

When the girls and I returned home after a somewhat relaxing few days, albeit sore in the rump from horse riding, I rushed over to Schemmerhorn as soon as I could to learn the latest on the gravestone-tipping saga.

Bryan answered the door and laughed at my anxious questions. 

"It's okay," he assured me.  "The police let Mamie go.  They only charged her with trespassing."

"Phew!" I breathed.  "What does she weigh, anyway?  All of ninety pounds?  I thought it was a bit strange that she could be responsible for knocking over seven hundred gravestones."

"Right.  Her brother's doing some time for it, though.  Look, Mamie's not in, right now.  Was there anything else?"

"Yes, well, uh, I apparently haven’t received a voucher for September's rent."

"Oh, er, I dunno.  Maybe you should call Social Services?"

"Do you have your portion of the rent for me?"

"Nooooo, not right now.  Can you come back in a few days?"

As Bryan disappeared inside, Giselle came out of her apartment.

"I hear you had a nice welcome to Manson Street, hey?" I said ruefully.

"Oh!"  Giselle rolled her eyes.  "I came here with all my stuff, ready to move in, and there was police and TV cameras and God knows what else outside the house.  I didn't know what was goin' on!"

“Well, thankfully this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day,” I said.  “By the way, do you have the @rent for me?” 

“Oh, yeah.  Here you go."  Giselle handed me a money order.  “How do you want to work out getting the rent in future?”

 “I’ll come by on the first of every month between five and six p.m., to collect it. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

When I phoned the #Department of #Social #Services the next day, I was told that as Bryan had been promoted at his job, Mamie was no longer covered by Social Services.  

According to Bryan, he had been promoted, but the very next day he was laid off.  

Would Social Services listen?  No.  They said they would resume covering part of the rent the following month, but gave me some story about Mamie not having enough money in her account to cover the rent for this month. 

What did that mean?

I never did receive September's rent, and in October, I only received $325.00 from D.S.S.  Mamie and Bryan, of course still claimed they couldn’t afford to pay the $150.00 balance, so I was relieved when Social Services suddenly declared that as of November they would be covering Mamie's rent in full.

I also had a frustrating time the first couple of months trying to collect rent from Giselle.  I stopped by the house on the first of the month as arranged, but she was never home.  After several wasted trips, twenty-five minutes' drive each way, Giselle agreed to send me a money order every month for the rent.  This proved to be a much better idea.  The money orders usually arrived a few days late, but at least they arrived.

The next four months at 51 Manson Street were generally peaceful, except for a leak in the attic, which resulted in Wim gingerly mounting a ladder to replace a portion of roof.  He has a great fear of heights, does Wim.   

Then Giselle called to complain that the front porch was crumbling.  She was right.  Wim had to basically jack up the house, replace the foundation, and construct a whole new front porch.  The total cost came to $806.76. 

Meanwhile Action Pest Control had not lived up to its name. The #cockroach #infestation, courtesy of Ray Molinard, wasn’t as bad as the one Natasha had caused, but  it took the Action Man five follow-up visits to completely eradicate the roaches.  The previous pest control company, Greatest Pest Control, had managed to get rid of them in three. 

What's more, Action Pest Control recommended that I continue with monthly visits indefinitely in order to prevent another infestation from occurring. 

“Monthly maintenance is a good idea,” the Action Man told me when we happened to meet one day at the house. “Especially in this neighborhood, with the type of tenants you have living here.  It only takes two roaches, and in no time you’re right back where you started from.  Prolific little buggers, they are.”  

He grinned at me with a lascivious leer. 

I was inclined to agree with him.  However, the man was just too smarmy for words, and I had heard that Greatest Pest Control had merged with another reputable company and was now charging only $29.96 for maintenance visits. 

Sorry, Action Pest Control, you ain’t gett’n no more action heah. 

“I’ll think about it,” I told him and then signed up with Greatest Pest Control for monthly maintenance.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

In April, Mamie finally gave Bryan his marching orders.  She also promised faithfully to pay me last September's rent, plus the balance of October’s rent, as soon as she received her tax refund.  I wasn’t too surprised when April turned into May and May turned into June, and still the money did not appear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: The Flimsy Fence

YEAR TWO

House Account:  $1,338.00

#Mortgage:  $513.48 - $547.29

The letter had little effect on Ray's children's behavior, but Miz James was somewhat mollified when Wim erected a fence so that only she, Princess and Desmond could use the back yard.  She grumbled a bit when Ray asked her if he could host a barbecue in the back yard for visiting friends and family on Memorial Day, but as she wasn't going to be home that day, she grudgingly agreed.

The fence wasn’t anything special: just wire chain-link with posts every few feet.  In no time, it was drooping tiredly between its supports as the neighboring children on the right side of the house – with whom Ray's kids seemed to be very friendly – yanked and leaned on it with a vengeance.

The owner of the next-door house, where said children resided on the second floor, was in the process of gutting the first-floor #apartment in order to #renovate it.  As a result, an alarming heap of trash and rubble was fast accumulating in the alleyway between the two #properties.  Miz James gleefully reported that "them kids" were playing in it and strewing garbage left, right and center.  This fact was borne out when I received a violation notice from the #Code #Enforcement #Bureau ordering me to clean up the mess in 72 hours, or else.  It wasn't even my mess! 

Indignantly, Wim and I went up to Manson Street and piled the mess onto the #renovating #landlord's side of the alley.  Then I wrote a stern letter to Ray, telling him to stop his children strewing trash all over the place.

The rumblings of discontent kept sounding from Miz James until they finally came to a head.  Ray had been living upstairs for five months when Miz James called one night to report that "them kids" had stolen her son's bicycle from her side of the basement, and that she had called the police.  The bike was found a little while later but, nonetheless, the fact remained that Ray and co. had violated their shared access to the basement. 

Thanking my lucky stars that I had only given him a six-month #lease, I wrote to Ray to tell him I would not be extending it and that I wanted him out of the apartment by the end of the month.  I heard not one word of argument from him.  Maybe he was used to being #evicted.

No sooner had I given Ray a month's notice, than Shirley telephoned from next door.  Her buddy Miz James had informed her that Ray was moving out, for which she was undeniably very grateful.  Shirley told me that her friend Bryan was once again interested in renting the place.  Apparently, his job was going well, and he could now afford the #rent; especially since the Department of Social Services had approved his girlfriend Mamie for partial rental assistance.

"Have Bryan call me," I told Shirley.  "It would be nice not to have to advertise and try to find a decent tenant.  He's a friend of yours, so I guess that's a pretty good reference, right?"

"Right," Shirley agreed.  "It'll be him and Mamie and their two young children.  I'll tell him to call you."

Bryan telephoned that afternoon.  "So, I hear you're looking for an upstairs #tenant again.  I'm still interested."

"Yes, I heard,” I said.  “By the way, why do you want to move, and when?"

"Soon as possible.  We’re living underneath Mamie's sister at her mom's right now.  Too close to family is like, you know . . ."

"I get the picture.  How about rent and #security?  The rent is four-seventy-five, as you know . . ."

"Social Services will pay most of it," Bryan told me,  "but we want to pay the security deposit ourselves, rather than do it through D.S.S."

"Okay," I agreed – stupidly, as it later turned out.  "When can we meet to sign the lease?"

We arranged that I would go over to their apartment in Schemmerhorn that evening. I found it quite easily.  Mamie, the girlfriend, turned out to be a pale, thin slip of a girl with a shy smile.  Whilst they perused lease, I looked around.  The room was neat and tidy and looked clean.  The two toddlers were nicely dressed.  All in all, it seemed as if Bryan and Mamie would be good tenants.

The next day I called the building inspector to inspect the upstairs apartment for the rental certificate.  Then I called Mr. Catcher to come and determine how much D.S.S. would pay for any repairs that needed doing.  Unfortunately, his next available appointment was not until the middle of August.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Miz James's lease was due to expire at the end of August.  Always diligent, she called me towards the end of July.

“Can I stay a little longer?” she asked, “I’m planning on buying a house within the next few months.”

I would be sorry to lose her – she wasn’t a bad #tenant – but I had to tell her I really didn’t want to look for a new tenant in the winter.   I knew from experience that not many people moved at that time of year.  Of course, the Jacuzzi was a good selling point, but I figured it would be easier to find a tenant in the late summer or fall.    I determined to place an advertisement in the Schemmerhorn Gazette, listing the apartment’s features and keeping the rent at four seventy-five per month.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Shocked by the Sheriff

Several cases were scheduled to be heard ahead of my case, so I decided that, while I was waiting, I would try to get the police report for last week's disturbance, in case Natasha tried to deny it all.

I slipped out the back door of the court room where a heated discussion was raging between the opposing parties as to whether a certain carpet had or had not been properly laid. 

The city court clerk let me use the phone in an adjacent office-cum-junk-room.  Perched amidst dusty, discarded file cabinets and unidentifiable pieces of dismantled office furniture, I called the police station.  When I eventually reached the appropriate department, the woman at the other end was at first reluctant to help me.

"We don’t give out incident reports over the phone," she told me.  "You will need to file a Freedom of Information request."

I explained the situation to her. 

"I'm at city court right now, waiting for my case to be heard.  If you could just give me the names of the #police officers who responded to the call, that would be something.  You see, my #tenant is probably going to deny everything, and I thought I should get some ammunition to prove my case to the #judge.”

The woman unbent a little as she sympathized with my plight. 

"I'd like to help," she said, "but . . .

"Oh well, seeing as you're about to go into court, I'll read the incident report to you over the phone." 

She proceeded to read the names of the officers who had responded and related that they had arrived at the #apartment and removed seven people from the #premises.  The name of the person allegedly responsible for holding the party meant nothing to me.  Natasha wasn’t even  mentioned.

I scribbled down the details on a scrap of paper and thanked the woman profusely.

When I returned to the courtroom, I didn’t have long to wait until the clerk was sonorously intoning the name of my case.

"Scuttlebutt v. Fluff?"

I walked sprightly up the aisle to stand before the judge by a table on the left of the aisle.  Natasha shuffled along behind and came to rest, lounging against a table on the right.

Judge Grazziano read aloud the clerk’s report and fixed Natasha with a disapproving frown. 

"I understand you have violated my Order," he said in a grave voice.

Natasha scowled. 

"I dunno what you talkin' about.  Theah was nutt'n goin' on.  I weren't even home."

"Your Honor," I ventured politely.  "I just got off the phone with the police station." 

I waved my scrap of paper at him. 

"It says that Officers Smith and Jones were called to fifty-one Manson Street at eleven p.m.  A loud party was in progress, and the police removed seven people from the premises.  My downstairs tenant says that shortly after the police left, the people all came back again and continued the party, though they did reduce the noise level somewhat.”

I shook my head in exasperation. 

“Judge, last week you told Natasha not to cause any more disturbances, and that very same night . . .

I gave a heavy sigh.

"I just want her out of my house, your Honor."

Judge Grazziano directed his gaze at the sullen Natasha. 

"I must say, I was hoping not to see you back in court again so soon."

"S’not fair!" Natasha protested.  "I weren't even there!"

"Whether you were or were not present at the time," said the judge, "is not important.  There were unauthorized persons in your apartment creating a disturbance.  This case is referred to the #Sheriff for a three-day #eviction of the respondent."

Bang went the gavel.

Natasha stormed out of the court room, muttering obscenities under her breath. 

"What do I do now?" I whispered to the judge's clerk, an ancient old biddy with a full head of white hair.

"You must prepare an order and warrant for the judge's signature.  Once he's signed them, you must deliver them to the Sheriff for service," the old biddy whispered back obligingly.

The Sheriff's office was located in the Schemmerhorn County Jail.  As I’d never had cause to visit a jail before, it was with some trepidation that a few days later, armed with a warrant signed by the judge, I pushed open the huge glass door and entered that lofty establishment.  I didn’t know quite what to expect – maybe rows of cells, with prisoners gazing despondently out through the bars, as in the movies?

The reality was disappointing.  Not one prisoner in sight.  The glass door simply opened onto a large, empty waiting room with a small glassed-in office to one side, labeled "Sheriff."

A woman with a blond rinse wrinkled plump, powdered cheeks at me through the glass above the counter.  Her disembodied voice floated hollowly from a speaker on my side of the glass.

"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yes," I answered.  "I have here a #warrant for eviction for the Sheriff to serve on my tenant." 

I pushed the form under the glass.

The woman checked that it had been signed by the judge. 

"There's a seventy-one dollar fee for the service of the warrant," she told me.

I gulped at the news.

"Will the warrant be served today or tomorrow?  There’s only ten days until the end of the month, and the warrant gives my tenant three days to move out.  I want her out by the end of this month."

"Oh, it'll probably be served tomorrow," the woman said with a nod, "but the Sheriff is very busy.  He won't be able to schedule the physical eviction until about the second week of December." 

She appeared to take pity at the sight of my crestfallen face. 

"Usually the tenant doesn't know the Sheriff is too busy to actually throw them out at the three-day point.  It'll probably be all right."

I sighed. 

"Well, assuming the worst, what happens if she isn't gone by the time the Sheriff comes to evict her?  I mean, do you put all her furniture out on the street, or something?”

"If she hasn’t moved out, the landlord is responsible for transporting the tenant's furniture to a storage facility, where it can be stored for up to two months," came the reply.

"What!" I gasped.  "It's my responsibility?  And who pays for this?"

"You do."

"Let me check I've got this right," I said.  "Because I’m evicting my tenant for creating disturbances, infesting the house with cockroaches, and generally making my life and the neighbors' lives hell, I have to pay the Sheriff seventy-one dollars to serve the eviction papers? 

"And then, if she doesn't move out, I have to pay for her furniture to be removed and stored for two months?"

The woman shrugged.  "That's how it is."

"That's so unfair!" I exclaimed.  "Why should I have to pay to store her furniture if she refuses to obey the judge's Order and not move?  I mean, it looks as if she's got all the rights.  Where are my rights in all this?"

The woman just looked at me with pursed lips, and delicately nibbled on a red-painted fingernail.

I took a deep breath.  "Can I store the furniture myself?"

The woman paused mid-nibble.

"No, it has to be at an official storage facility.  We can't have angry #landlords storing their evicted tenants' furniture.  They might take their frustrations out on the furniture." 

Her voice began to sound a little impatient.  I’d had my moan.  She'd dispensed a modicum of sympathy.  There was nothing more she could do for me.  I must now get out of her face. 

She began patting at her blond rinse and looking over her shoulder, as if someone were calling her from a back room. 

I took the hint and left. 

After writing out a check, of course.

The $71.00 I paid to the Sheriff turned out to be a waste of money because Natasha moved out at the end of the month, and I called the Sheriff’s office to advise them of this fact.

I placed an advertisement in the Schemmerhorn Gazette -- #rent listed at $475.00 -- and implored Miz James to tell me if she knew of any friend or relative who might be looking to rent an apartment any time soon.

During the week, Mr. Catcher from #Social #Services came to inspect the upstairs apartment for my #damage #claim.  Wim and I had written up a list of the painting and repairs that needed to be done, and I was very happy to learn that I would be receiving the maximum amount allowed in the #security #agreement: two months rent! 

My happiness was short-lived, however, when I discovered that this would barely cover all of the #repair items and #labor fees.  Though greatly discounted, Wim needed to charge me for his labor.  For all the time he spent working at 51 Manson Street, he could be earning more money working for his own customers.

The next weekend, a man called about the apartment.