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!
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