CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Floods 'n Bugs . . .

That week, we received two more phone calls from Miz James in the middle of the night.  Wim was not amused.  The police might as well take up residence in Manson Street – one or other of her irate #neighbors called them to complain about Natasha just about every night, it seemed. 

“The cops smelled marijuana a couple of times,” Miz James gleefully informed me when I stopped by.  “And you should have seen the state of that place!  The cops had to climb over about twenty garbage bags to get into Natasha’s apartment by the back door.”

“Why’d they go in at the back?” I asked.

“No one was answering at the front.  They probably couldn’t hear ’em knocking wit all dat racket goin’ on.  I let ’em in the back, downstairs through the basement.  Natasha’s side was open down theah, so they could get to her apartment that way.”

“And you know about the garbage bags how?” I questioned.

“Well, I had to show ‘em the way, didn’t I?” 

Miz James sounded somewhat defensive, though she was obviously enjoying the drama. 

“An’, boy, was I sorry I did!" she continued.  "That place stank to high heaven!  There was people hangin’ out all over, drinkin’ and smokin’.  The place looked a real mess, from what I could see.  Stuff everywhere.  The cops went on in to break up the party, and I came back downstairs.  I could hear ‘em, though.  Clomping about, gett’n all those people outta theah.”

I was still regretting renewing Natasha's #lease, when Miz James phoned one Saturday afternoon.  Breathlessly hyper, she could hardly get the words out, so extreme was her anguish.

"There's water everywhere!" she gasped.  "It's running down the walls in the hall and flooding my bathroom."

Not again! 

I promised Miz James that Wim would be right over.

At the mention of flooding, longsuffering Wim leapt up off the couch and whizzed off to Schemmerhorn, hoping to catch Natasha in the act this time.  He was gone only five minutes when Miz James called again, more distraught than ever.

"Is Wim coming?" she asked, frantically.  "It's still pourin' in here."

"He’ll be there soon," I told her. “It does take twenty-five minutes to drive over to Schemmerhorn, you know.”    

Wim came home an hour or so later, looking somewhat triumphant. 

"I got her," he announced.  "She had her washing machine going.  It was draining into the kitchen sink, but the drain was so blocked up with macaroni that the sink just filled up and overflowed.  Natasha wasn't home, but she came back a bit later, and, yah, she couldn't deny it this time!"

I listened gloomily to the list of repairs required to fix the damage to Miz James’ kitchen: new ceiling tiles, painting, carpet cleaning . . .

"I’d say there’s about $425.00 worth of damage there," Wim added.  "And that's not all.  Two doors are broken upstairs - the front door and one of the bedroom doors kicked in.  These people, I tell you!  The place is absolutely filthy, too.  Worse, this time.  There's food everywhere, and the back landing’s still full of garbage bags.  Of course, that nosy Miz James had to come upstairs and take a look.  Just get rid of Natasha, Stacy.  She’s no good."

I sighed.  "I guess you're right.  Last time I was there, though, her apartment was clean and tidy.  She does seem to go from one extreme to the other, though, in a short amount of time."

To further add to my woes, Miz James phoned a few days later.

"Now there are cockroaches crawling down my walls," she reported.

I gasped.  "Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes.  They're coming from upstairs.  Every time I cook, they appear.  It's disgusting!"

"It is," I agreed.  "I must admit I've never seen a cockroach, but just the thought is horrible enough.  I’ll get it taken care of, don’t worry.

"Oh, and you'll be pleased to hear I'm evicting Natasha."

Miz James breathed heartily into my ear.  “Good.  I don't know how much more I can take, Stacy, and I've only been here a month!"

I sat down at my computer, there and then, and composed a three-day #eviction notice to Natasha.

The next day, I plucked up courage and delivered the notice to her in person.  The street door was unlocked, so I went upstairs and knocked on the door at the top – a mere formality, since it was swinging lopsidedly from one broken hinge. 

When Natasha appeared, I handed her the eviction notice, briefly told her what it was, and retreated hastily down the stairs.

I turned my car round at the dead end of the street, and when I drove back past 51 Manson Street again, Natasha was outside the house flagging me down.  I reluctantly stopped the car and rolled down the window.

"What is this?" Natasha demanded, waiving the eviction notice at me.

"I told you,” I said.  “It's a notice canceling your lease.  You have three days to move out."

"I can't move in three days!  I don'  ’ave no money to move, neither."

"I'll see you in Court, then."  Being a fan of crime dramas, as you know, I'd always wanted to say that line to someone!   

"I'm evicting you," I finished.

Natasha muttered something unprintable beneath her breath, turned her back on me, and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Three days later, at 6:00 p.m., Wim and I drove up to Schemmerhorn.  Natasha was nowhere to be seen, though Miz James reported that she had left shortly before we arrived.

"Hmm, avoiding us, no doubt," I said.  "Come on, Wim.  Let's take a look upstairs."