CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: Gray 'n Grizzly

The Fraud and Investigations Department occupied a large room filled to capacity with partitioned cubicles. These housed a friendly bunch of men of various ages, all seemingly eager to help out a damsel in distress, especially a young one with a reasonably attractive face and a British accent.

A gentlemen accompanied me to my car armed with a coathanger, stuck it down the crack between the window glass and the door, and dug around a bit.  He managed to produce several ominous clicks from within the depths of the door, but that was it. The door remained stubbornly locked.

We trudged back to Fraud and Investigations where one of the men made a call to another department that apparently possessed tools for the opening of locked car doors. It was now 8:45 in the morning. They said they wouldn’t be able to send someone over until 10:00 o’clock.

"I’ll call A.A.A." I suggested.  "Maybe they'll get here sooner."  I dug the battered A.A.A. membership card out of my wallet and dialed the number. 

An ancient-sounding gent answered the phone. He appeared a little dense as he declared that, first, my membership number was invalid, and, second, that it had apparently been issued in Connecticut.  "What are you doing in New York?" he demanded.

"I live here,” I told him, “and I've never even been to Connecticut. I've been a member of A.A.A. for about ten years and use your service several times a year. Your computers must be screwed up."

After much mumbling and eventual "ah-hahs," the old fogey ascertained that I was in fact telling the truth and promised to send someone over to unlock my car.

I returned to the Commissioner's office and stationed myself by the window in the waiting area to keep an eye out for the locksmith. At that moment the #Commissioner was ushering a gentleman out of his office and shaking hands goodbye.

"Can I help you?" he asked me when the man had gone. 

The receptionist handed him my letter. "This lady's locked her keys in her car.  She's waiting for the locksmith."

The Commissioner was a slim, shortish old man with a kindly face and full head of white hair. He nodded and stood there, reading my letter.

"That's from me," I mentioned from the window.

"What, this?"  He waved the letter at me.

"Yes.  It's all explained in there.  I'm in a real bind.  I hope you can help me out."

The Commissioner finished reading.  "Hm."  He went across the hall to Fraud and Investigations, opened the door and hollered for Mr. Catcher.  "Jack?  See me when you've got a chance, will you?” He crossed the hall again. “We'll see what we can do," he told me with a smile.  "I hope your locksmith comes soon."  And with that he disappeared into his office.

Just then a panel truck pulled into the parking lot, "Schemmerhorn Locksmiths" emblazoned on the side.

"They’re here," I said to the secretary.  "Thanks for your help."

I dashed out to the parking lot to where the van was waiting beside my car.

As I approached, a tall, rural-looking man with an immensely bushy mustache and flowing grizzled beard positively leaped out of the van.  Tons of long, wiry, brown hair, liberally streaked with gray, flopped around his craggy, wind-beaten face as a pair of bright blue eyes twinkled at me from amidst a myriad of wrinkles. 

"Mornin’ " he cried, joyfully.  "This your car?"

"Yeah," I sighed.  "I can't believe I locked myself out again."

"Tell me," Grizzly said, "has anyone tried to open this door?"

"Some guys from #D.S.S but they couldn't get it open."

"Stuck something down between the door and the glass, did they?"

"Yes.  A coat hanger."

"Uh oh.  Hope they didn't break nothin’. These sideways locks ... easy to do if you don't know what you're doin'.  Let's see what we got here."

Grizzly reached into his van and produced a flat strip of metal.  He slid it into the car door between the door panel and the glass and moved it sideways. The lock gave an obedient click.

"There you go," he beamed at me. “Easy peasy.”

"Thanks very much," I said.  "I really should be learning my lesson by now.  I've locked myself out often enough.  I even bought one of those magnetic things to hide under the car with a spare key in it. Of course I haven't gotten around to putting it on yet, but ..."

"Careful where you put that,” Grizzly advised. “ If you go over a bump or A pothole, they can fall off."

I nodded and got into my car, rolling down the window to say goodbye.

Grizzly stuck his head through the opening, wafting nicotine in my face.  "I’ll wait til you start it, to see that you're all right."

I turned the key and the car started right up.

"Just a tip," Grizzly added. "Take out those keys.  I wanna show you something." 

Although I was late for work, I obediently turned off the engine and handed him my key ring.  He peered at it closely. "Just as I thought.  You see this crack?"  He pointed to the ignition key with a grubby finger.

"Uh huh."

"You got too much stuff hangin' on this keyring. The weight’s puttin' a strain on the driver’s key."  He handed my keys back, and I started the engine again. 

"You'll be all right," Grizzly proclaimed with an angelic beam.  He slapped the roof hard and stepped back to allow me to pull out of my parking space.

"Goodbye. Thanks again," I called.

Grizzly waved a vigorous farewell. The last I saw of him, he was ferociously scratching his beard with one hand, while hauling his large frame into the van with the other.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

Two days later, I called the Commissioner to see if he’d made a decision about Diane.

The kindly man breathed gustily into the phone.  "Yes, well, I’m afraid, it seems Ms. Tanner has been leading you on because she didn't tell her #landlord she was moving out til a week ago.”

“Oh.”

“But, she can move out on April thirty-first,” he continued. “The voucher’s being processed and should be going out to you today."

“For real?" I exclaimed.  "Oh, that's great news!  Thank you!  Are you stopping the rent to the other landlord?"

"It's too late for that, but don't worry, you'll get yours."

I thanked him again with enthusiasm. "I won!  I won!" I yelled to all and sundry after hanging up the phone.  "I won my battle against #Social #Services!  I can't believe it!"

My spirits remained high for the rest of the day. Diane and Giselle were delighted when I called to tell them the news.

A week later, however, I still hadn’t received the #rental voucher, so I placed a call to Mrs. Shoebox. Ignoring her audible sigh on hearing the sound of my voice, I inquired as to when I could expect to receive the voucher.

"It’s on the supervisor's desk," she advised, "but it's not priority.  All I can tell you is, we'll get to it."

"I would have thought that having a roof over ones clients' heads was a priority," I muttered beneath my breath.

"Hold on," Mrs. Shoebox huffed.  I heard her say something to her supervisor in a muffled voice -- something like “Get this woman off my back!" or words to that effect -- because the next minute she came back on the line with the announcement that her supervisor had just that minute signed the voucher. “It's going out in the mail, today," she advised in an overly-sugary voice.

"Thank you," I gushed, just as sweetly, and a few days later Diane was ensconced in Apartment #2, 51 Manson Street. 

A week later, I received a call from Giselle.

"Diane says her toilet's leakin' and there’s pee comin' out the bottom."

"I'll tell Wim," I promised. 

Wim went to Schemmerhorn that night and soon returned in an indignant frame of mind.

"That toilet doesn't leak," he said.  "Yah, there's pee all around it, but I figure it's the little boy's bad aim that’s causing it.  The place stinks.  There was a sopping wet rag in the puddle on the floor.  I had to mop it up before I could check the toilet.  Disgusting job.  I told Diane the toilet’s fine and she should teach her little boy to aim better.  Waste of time, bein' called out to clean up someone else's pee!"

I groaned. Hopefully, this didn’t bode ill to come."

A few days later, Giselle called again, this time to report that a patched-up hole in the wall of her first bedroom had gradually reopened, and now pieces of plaster were falling off the wall around it.  Two other walls in the room were cracking too, so it would probably be a good idea to replace all four, she suggested. 

Wim went to Manson Street to take a look-see and decided that only three walls needed replacing because the fourth one seemed fine.

He bought sheet rock and put up the walls himself within a couple of days.  No sweat.  I was surprised it only cost me $213.94.  Giselle hovered over Wim while he was doing the work, annoyed that he wasn’t replacing the fourth wall too. She did however offer to paint the walls herself when the job was finished.  I sent over a can of white paint, and for a while nothing more was said regarding the walls.

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."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: Delayed Diane / Delivery Dilemma

I returned to work a few days after my sister's death, needing to keep busy and to escape my dismal thoughts.  Also, the dismal life of being a #landlord had to go on.  After another week  without hide nor hair of Diane, Wim stopped by Manson Street to investigate. He returned to report that Diane had still not moved into the upstairs #apartment.

I called Giselle to find out what was going on.

"Her #landlord made a huge fuss about getting less than a month's notice," Giselle explained, "so she ain't able to move in til next month.  She one mad mama. She she all packed."

Nice of her to let me know! Bummer!  Another month of no #rent for the upstairs apartment!

Meanwhile, Mr. Catcher inspected the apartment with Wim, and exclaimed over how good it looked.  “After all the filth and decay, the scummy #tenants and landlords I see day in and day out,” he apparently opined to my Dutch stepfather, "a decent landlord taking pride in her building like Anastasia does is a pleasant treat.”

Ron, Wim's #building #inspector buddy, had already inspected the place a few days previously and pronounced it fit for human #habitation. I therefore delivered the duly-issued #rental #certificate to the Department of Social Services, attention Mrs. Shoebox, Diane’s #caseworker. With it, I included a description of Diane’s unhealthy rat problem.

* * * * * * * *

That night, I had another delivery to make. In hindsight, it turned into quite a humorous event which I recorded later in my journal:

“English Girl on a Mission.” 

9:30 p.m.  Last-minute, grade-dependent poetry assignment delivery must be made to professor Josh.  Tell Allen to take a turn.  We're lost.  Spooky country roads winding back and forth, doubling back on themselves like sinuous, tree-shrouded eels.  We want to go left; the road bends right.  After twenty minutes, we finally emerge a few blocks farther on from where we started. Well, at least the scenery's nice from what we can see of it in the gloom.

It's getting late.  By the time we get to Prof’s house, it’s 10:00 p.m. - not really the done thing, knocking on people’s doors at this time of night.  A dim light glows in the living room window, but there's no sign of life, no cars in the driveway. 

Knock on the door, anyway.  No answer. 

Back up the driveway to the street.  Open mailbox to insert large envelope, but it's already occupied. The flag is up.  Don’t like to risk mailmen taking my envelope along with Josh’s mail.  Don't want to fail this assignment. Consider taking Josh's mail and posting it someplace else, but I'm pretty sure that's a federal offense.  Don’t want to upset Josh, who’ll wonder where his mail’s gone.

Head back down the driveway to the house.  Leave the envelope in the doorway. 

No doormat with which to weigh it down. 

Stones?  Driveway’s covered in ‘em.  Only thing is, they’re embedded. 

Crazy British girl on hands and knees in professor’s driveway, attempting to pry out large pebbles with her fingernails. 

No luck.

 Ah hah! -- a few un-embedded pebbles!  

Prop envelope on little ledge next to front door with said pebbles to prevent it from sliding off. Place a plant pot or two in front for good measure.  Don’t know how long Josh is going to be gone. Who knows? It's not beyond the realm of possibility that a hurricane or some other natural disaster could be brewing somewhere out there in the expectant air of the night.

Leave the vicinity at 10:20 p.m., hoping Prof. Josh finds the envelope before wind or rain can find it first. Gotta get that grade!