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.