CHAPTER TEN: Rental Relief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Call back tomorrow,” I was told.

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

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

Three-thirty strikes. 

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

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

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

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

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

"A W-9?  What's a W-9?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ka-ching!

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

CHAPTER NINE: Dinner Date

It was the middle of April, and I was just starting to look forward to another round of reports from Community Singles Group when I received a letter from a man named Allen.  His accompanying report looked promising.  He didn’t smoke, claimed to like children, was six feet tall, and held a respectable job as a chemistry professor at a local university.  I called the number he gave in his letter and reached an answering machine. 

The message piqued my interest immediately.  After introductory remarks and inviting the caller to leave a message, Allen added, “I just bought this new answering machine, but you have to be a damned college professor to work out how – ”

The beep cut him off in mid-sentence. 

The voice was deep and very sexy, and Allen obviously had a sense of humor.  Being a college professor, he had to be intelligent and earn a good wage too.  This compensated for the fact that he was six years older than me.  Jim was nine years older than I was, and the age difference had always bothered me.

I left a message.

Allen called back the next day.  After a few minutes of small talk, I asked him, “So, would you like to meet somewhere for coffee?”

“Not so fast,” he replied.  “I’d like to talk some more and get to know you a little, first.”

I was game for this but quickly found out that Allen’s idea of getting to know me was to ask me a long series of questions.  He actually went so far as to tell me that this was to be a kind of test; the answers I gave would determine whether or not he wanted to meet me.

I seemed to be doing okay until a question about movies came up. 

“What did you think of Silence of the Lambs?” he asked.

“I loved it,” I said.  “I’m a big horror movie fan.”  I realized I’d failed miserably when Allen informed me that he hated horror movies, especially ones involving violence toward women.

The second question I failed was: “Do you like the singer, Leonard Cohen?”

“I love his songs,” I said, “especially the one about ‘Suzanne takes me down to her place by the river, where she feeds me tea and oranges that come all the way from China.’  I have an L.P. of his.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Allen said.  “I went out with a woman recently who also liked Leonard Cohen.  I think he’s so depressing.  I don’t get what people see in him.”

“Oh,” I said.  “I guess I failed that test too, then, didn’t I?”

After nearly an hour of back and forth, Allen finally invited me out; but not for coffee.  He wanted to go on a dinner date so we could relax and talk.  Apparently my two miserable failures weren’t enough to deem me totally ineligible for a second chance.  

“Could you tell me a bit about what you look like?” I asked.  “All I know is you don’t weigh a ton, and you’re six feet tall.”

“Well, I think I’m okay-looking,” Allen said.  “I’m not really good-looking, but I’m pleasant enough to look at, and I keep myself in pretty good shape.  I do have a beard, but I keep it neatly trimmed.”

My heart sank at the word “beard.”  As I mentioned previously, I hate the things.  They do nothing for me, interfere with kissing, and food gets stuck in them.  However, we had come this far, I was pretty interested, and his voice was so sexy.  I decided to meet the beard and see what happened.  We set up a date for a few days later at a Chinese restaurant. 

When I told Andrea and Bronwyn about my date, they good-naturedly resigned themselves to another stay at Grandma’s house.  This wasn’t too great a hardship for them because Grandma kept a candy tin in her kitchen cupboard.  Firm, but fair, she spoiled them quite a lot. 

Grandma was also a Star Trek fan.  On the trips to school in the morning, her little red Geo Metro became a space craft.  She and the girls took turns shooting at marauding aliens with a dashboard-mounted contraption that made various space-age noises.  Since yellow school buses were deemed to be enemy Ferengi, the trip to school was a very noisy affair. 

Being a novice Trekkie myself, I was quite unaccomplished at using the noise machine.  As a passenger on one of the school runs in the Geo spacecraft, I hit the wrong button when I spied an approaching school bus.  Instead of laser gun whoops, a ringing noise issued forth. 

“Mom, you just phoned the Ferengi!” the girls admonished me.  We almost wet our pants, it was so funny. 

As my date with Allen approached, I dressed in form-hugging pants and top, fluffed out my hair, and painted my fingernails red.  I never, ever paint my nails but I wanted to look sexy and attractive.  First impressions mattered and this date did show some promise.

When I pulled up at the Chinese restaurant in my sporty Chevy Cavalier, Allen was waiting on the steps.  I looked him over as I climbed the steps to meet him.  True to his word, he did seem about six feet tall and quite slim, with long, mid-brown hair swept off of his forehead, and deep-set, greenish-hazel eyes.  His nose was a bit big, and of course there was the beard, but from what I could make out, he had nice lips and a good chin. 

He smiled hello, revealing an over-white, slightly protruding front tooth, which I later learned was the result of a lacrosse accident.  It gave him a friendly chipmunk look.  My first impression from the ample laugh lines at the corners of his eyes was one of kind cheerfulness.

I preceded Allen into the restaurant in my tight pants, wondering if he was checking out my bubble-butt. I gave it a few extra wiggles, just in case.  Over dinner, we exchanged background details and general getting-to-know-you information.  He grew up in Canada and moved to the area a couple of years ago.  He hadn’t had a girlfriend for the past year.  Being a rather nerdy science type, he spent a lot of time in his lab and seemed the last person I would expect to do something like joining a dating service. 

As the date progressed, however, I revised my opinion of Allen.  He wasn’t as nerdy as I’d initially thought.  Wacky scientist was a more apt description.  He was full of fun, very witty, and couldn’t stay serious for more than a few minutes, but when I regaled him with the story of my tenant woes and Johnny, the belligerent brother, he proved to be a good listener and was suitably sympathetic.  Over all, he was a very satisfactory dinner companion.

I could see myself reflected in his eyes: a thin five-foot-seven, who, like every good anorexic personality, thought she was fat;  mid-brown, shoulder-length hair bearing the remnants of a perm; a reasonably attractive face with a bump in the middle of my nose, courtesy of my mother, and a lump at the end, courtesy of my father; topped off by a pair of blue eyes that changed color according to my mood, the weather, or that day’s outfit. 

Wackiness aside, Allen didn’t appear to be a man who was easily fooled.  Maybe he discerned the real me beneath the teased hair and red fingernails and liked what he saw, because after dinner he suggested we go on to a movie. 

Now, this could be a risky proposition because of our different taste in movies, but maybe it was to be another test.  Looking up at the list of movies at the local mall, I redeemed myself in Allen’s eyes one hundred and ten percent when I announced I wouldn’t mind seeing Wayne’s World. 

We both enjoyed the movie and enjoyed each other enjoying the movie.  Allen laughed frequently and very loudly, but at least his laugh wasn’t as raucous as Wim’s laugh, which sounds like a wounded sea lion barking, much to my mother’s embarrassment. 

A successful date, I decided as I drove home that night.  No sparks of infatuation or romance, but Allen seemed to be one of those rare breeds of genuinely nice men.  He was kind, generous, and caring, and I needed that.  I looked forward to describing my date to the fearless Ferengi annihilators when I picked them up from my mom’s house the next day.

CHAPTER EIGHT: Closing Complaints

Meanwhile, I was still fuming at the thought of the extra half-percent interest I was paying.  According to my calculations, it would add up to closer to $6,000 over the life of the loan.  To make matters worse, I had to call Attractive Mortgages twice to get the check sent to me.  The first time I called, I was informed that Mr. Smug had gone on vacation the day after the closing and had forgotten to inform anyone--apart from his secretary who had quickly typed the note I’d requested--of his promise to me.

“We’ll look into it,” I was told.

Ten days after the closing, I again called Attractive Mortgages.

"We can't issue you any check until he gets back," they said.

"When will that be?"

"Three weeks," was the reply. 

Three weeks! 

I wasn’t prepared to wait that long.  I complained forcefully to various high-up people, and eventually they agreed that if I faxed them the note Mr. Smug had signed for me at the closing, they would issue the check.  I faxed the note, immediately.  A week later, just as I was about to call again, I received their check.

The whole closing experience, plus having to beg for the $175, made me feel like getting the hell in.  I decided to make an official complaint.  It probably wouldn’t affect Attractive Mortgages one bit, but it would make me feel a wee bit better.  At least I could express my opinion of that crooked company to the authorities, whoever they might be. 

Rita told me there was a State Banking Department that investigated complaints about banks and lending institutions.  I decided to write to them.  Wanting instant vengeance, I faxed them my complaint. 

Not much happened. 

“We have forwarded your complaint to Attractive Mortgages,” the Banking Department informed me by mail, “and have requested that it be investigated.”  Attractive Mortgages were given thirty days within which to inform the Banking Department of their findings.  This seemed really silly to me, because, of course, Attractive Mortgages wasn’t likely to find itself at fault. 

“Meanwhile,” the Banking Department advised, “keep in mind that the Mortgage Banking Division has no authority to arbitrate factual disputes or contractual matters.”

In other words, they weren’t much use. 

          A week later, I received another check from Attractive Mortgages.  This one was for $150.  No explanation accompanied the check, but I assumed it was meant to be some sort of further compensation.  They obviously hoped I would feel duly compensated and would shut up.  Since I had no proof of their crookedness, and one can’t just waltz into Court on gut feeling, I heaved a sigh, buttoned my pride, and went to the bank to deposit the check.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Belligerent Brother

YEAR ONE

 

House Bank Account: $600.00

Mortgage:  $507.00 - $513.48

 ***********************

 

I was sitting at home one evening, contemplating snuggling down in my soft bed, when the phone rang.

"Um . . . this is Greg . . . from Manson Street," a voice stammered.  It sounded as if the owner of the voice was having difficulty enunciating around a mouthful of mashed potato.

"Yes?" I ventured after a silence.

Interspersed with hems and haws and long pauses, Greg finally managed to choke out the information that he had just been beaten up by Natasha's brother, Johnny.  Johnny had then apparently proceeded to kick dents in both street doors.

At this early stage of the landlord game, the news alarmed me.  Later on, when I had grown  more wise as to the quirks and foibles of some inner city Schemmerhornians, I realized that beating up on people and property was not an unusual pastime in that neighborhood.

Resigning myself to the thought of the twenty-five minute journey to Schemmerhorn, and a delayed bedtime, I promised Greg I would be over soon.  Then I telephoned Wim. 

"Come on over.  We'll go together," he sighed in a tired voice. 

I went to uproot the girls from their sleep.  Fifteen minutes later, Mummy gathered her sleepy granddaughters inside, and Wim and I took off for Schemmerhorn.

Upon our arrival at 5 l Manson Street, we were greeted by the sight of two badly-dented front doors.  The dents added some character to the house.  The left-hand door opened, and a shadowy figure beckoned us into the murky hall.  Judging by the bulky form, it wasn’t Melissa.

We followed the bulk into the apartment and emerged into the somewhat brighter light of the dining room.  The bulk turned out to be Greg.  Otherwise, I experienced a sense of déjà vu;  although the exercise machines were missing, the oil marks on the beige carpet remained, and Melissa and Tom were still sitting on the couch.  Come to find out, the exercise machines were now gently dripping onto the pale blue carpet in the back bedroom.

After a few moments of silence, during which we took stock of one another, I said, "Well?  What happened?"

"Mm, y'see," Greg began, "those people upstairs have been making trouble for a while now, right?"  And between gulps and stutters, the story eventually came out.

It appeared that Natasha had a penchant for frequent, large, noisy parties.  Groups of her friends would sit on the balcony and drop cans and papers and such over the railing onto the heads of the unwary beneath.

"Yeah, we clean up all the time out front," Melissa piped up in a breathy whisper.  "We'll just have finished clearing up, and they'll drop a candy wrapper over just to bug us."

"Yeah!"  Tom came to life with a husky baritone.  "And their garbage stinks!  It's strewn everywhere."

Sure enough, when we went outside we could see and smell the garbage which littered the alley between number 51 and the next-door neighbor.

"We've even cleaned up their garbage for them," Melissa breathed, "but they just keep throwing their bags over the side, and they split open like that.  We’re tired of it."

We stood and looked at the rubbish - but not for long.  The stench was overpowering. 

“I’m sorry this happened,” I told Melissa, Tom and Greg.  “If you want, you can report Johnny to the police.  Meanwhile, I’ll speak to Natasha and advise her that her brother is no longer welcome on the property.  I don’t see what else I can do at this point.”

"Yeah, well, mmm, okaaay . . ." the threesome murmured in disconsolate tones.

I left them standing there in the dining room, hands in pockets, staring at one another.

The following day, I wrote to Natasha to inform her that her brother was not permitted on the premises, and that this landlord would not tolerate that kind of conduct.  I also told her about her downstairs neighbors' complaints about the garbage littering the alley and suggested she buy herself a garbage can. 

Was I naive, or what?

CHAPTER SIX: Closing Blues

The date of the #closing approached, along with a flurry of last minute details.  Rita and I, Gershwin, the seller, and various people from the title company, the banks, and Attractive Mortgages sat around a boardroom table at the Attractive Mortgages office.  Things were moving pretty smoothly until the A.M. representative announced that the #mortgage would be at the current rate of nine-and-a-half percent.

"Hey, wait a minute!" I gulped.  "I'm locked in with a floating lock at nine percent.”  I looked to Rita for confirmation of the day I had gone into her office to tell her so.  Rita agreed that I had, indeed, done this.

 The Attractive Mortgages man hummed and hawed and ruffled his papers.  "First of all,” he said, “there’s no such thing as a ‘floating lock’ and, secondly, if you had been locked into anything, you should have had some paperwork sent to you and paid a point in advance.  Did you receive any paperwork, or pay a point?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t.  Kirsty did tell me it would cost a point when I first asked her about locking in.  And, by the way, she did call it a--I held up both hands with two fingers in a quote-unquote sign—‘floating lock’ because it would change as the interest rates varied.  When she told me a few days later that I’d been approved, she didn't tell me I needed to pay anything right then, nor did she send me any paperwork, so I assumed the point would be added on to the mortgage, or paid at the closing."

My protestations were to no avail.  I had no written proof.

The Attractive Mortgages man shrugged his shoulders.  "Well, since there’s no record of anything like that taking place, there's nothing I can do about it," he stated firmly, looking anything but concerned about his employee's alleged mistake.  "It will only cost you about five thousand dollars extra over the life of the loan."

I wasn’t going to give in so easily.  I demanded a phone to call Kirsty and find out what the hell was going on.

I fully expected to not be able to reach her, but to my surprise, I was successful.  However, when I questioned her about the lock-in, Kirsty as much as placed the blame at my doorstep for not requesting the paperwork to pay the point.  As to the apparent non-existence of a so-called ‘floating lock,’ she became very vague.   It occurred to me that this may have been a routine, deliberate mix-up on the part of Attractive Mortgages.

Rita took one look at my face and dragged me out of the boardroom for a private conference.

“Now we’ve come this far, if you don’t go through with the sale,” she whispered, “the seller could very well sue you.  We’ve no proof you spoke to Kirsty about the lock-in, and after all, the extra half-percent won't add up to that much over thirty years.”

Despite my fury, I knew I still wanted the house.  I didn’t have anything against Tony the seller, who was sitting worriedly in his corner watching the battle rage back and forth across the table.  It was the mortgage company I was mad at for ripping me off.

When Rita and I returned to the boardroom, the Attractive Mortgages representative showed no remorse.  Rather, he looked smug, as if mentally adding another gullible customer to his list.  He did, however, graciously condescend to compensate me somewhat for my mistake by letting me off the half-point I was supposed to pay at the closing.  Very grand of him; it came to a measly hundred and seventy-five bucks. 

“A check will be issued to you, tomorrow,” he promised. 

Needless to say, I requested the promise in writing.  

He motioned to a secretary to type up a quick note. The resulting note, however, stated that “Anastasia Scuttlebutt will be refunded $175 for the amount of the FHA appraisal.”  I didn’t know what this meant, but as the half-point had been deducted as promised, I didn’t argue.  As he signed the note with a flourish and added a title below his name, I saw that Mr. Smug was actually the Regional Manager of Attractive Mortgages.

After various costs and fees, such as the appraiser’s fee, the credit report, and points for loan discount had been calculated, the amount of my mortgage ended up being $39,850.00.  Tony handed me three checks: $600.00 for the downstairs tenants’ security deposit; $475.00 for the downstairs rent for April; and $400.00 for the upstairs tenant’s rent for April.  These instant profits quickly dwindled as I wrote my own checks for various closing costs: bank attorney’s fees, quarterly city and school taxes, state taxes, first escrow payment, first two months of hazard and mortgage insurance, and recording fees.

When the #bankers and mortgage people had left, I wrote a check to Tony for $10,000.00.  According to the settlement statement, he had made about $10,000.00 on the transaction.  I then wrote another check for $4,500.00 to the Bargain Registry.

The house at 51 Manson Street was now officially mine.

I drove back to the office in an agony of doubt.  It was very difficult to hand over all those checks.  It made the whole thing so final.  Now I had a #house, no savings, and I didn’t know if I’d made the right decision. 

But there was no going back. 

I’ll open a new bank account, just for the house, I decided, and endeavored to console myself with visions of small mortgage payments, large rental income, and a growing savings account. 

The trouble started a week after I bought the house. 

I had no idea then that it was a portent of the hell to come.