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.