CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: Statistics Stink!

With no #rent coming in from upstairs and still no rent from Giselle, I was getting pretty desperate.  Seeing as her mother was dying or dead, I hated to do it but felt I just had to write a stern letter to Giselle, demanding that she pay the rent and either fill out the assumption papers, or I would be selling the #house to somebody else. 

“I just don’t have the energy for this anymore,” I complained to the ever-sympathetic Allen. We were sitting at the dining room table, which was littered with masses of papers covered in incomprehensible formulas.  “And," I continued, "on top of trying to get rid of the house,this summer statistics course is killing me!"

It was July 4th.  While others were outside in the warm sunshine, enjoying sociable barbecues, I was stuck indoors, sweating and straining feverishly over statistics problems.  I was pretty much clueless about what was going on in the course. To make matters worse, the statistics teacher was a Russian doctoral student named Yuri, who didn’t speak English very well and was incapable of explaining concepts in a way that his confused students could understand.  He only succeeded in confusing us more than ever. 

One night, while he was sternly berating the class for doing poorly on a quiz, I couldn't take it anymore. I leaped up out of my seat, stormed out of the room, and started crying in the hallway. 

Yuri hastily followed me.  “What’s the matter?” he asked in his Russian-accented English.

“I just can’t do it,” I sobbed. “It’s not fair, you shouting at us.  I spend hours every night doing the homework and trying my best, but I just don’t understand.  Lots of us don’t.  And I need to get at least a C in this class, or I won't be allowed to to transfer the credits.  I’m going to fail!”

“You won’t fail,” Yuri said.  “Come back inside and I’ll try to explain things better.”

Red-eyed and sniffing, I followed him back into the room. My fellow classmates, half of whom were more than a decade younger than I was, shot me smiles of sympathy. We were all wallowing in the same boat.

“Now,” Yuri addressed the class.  “Whenever there is something you don’t understand, please stop me and I’ll try to explain better.  Before we go on, are there any questions about what we’ve covered so far?”

No one put up their hand.  We all felt so confused that we didn’t even know what it was we didn’t understand, or what questions to ask.  Each night after class, I’d show Allen the chapter we’d covered that day, and he would teach it to me.

So, anyway, here I was on the 4th of July,  struggling as usual to comprehend the material. My brain felt sluggish, like I was floundering in a persistent fog that refused to clear. Only with the aid of my eminently-brilliant and amiable chemistry-professor-boyfriend, Allen, did an occasional ray of sunshine break through.  

Even with his help, however, it took me seven long hours to work through the latest chapter. Engulfed in a state of dismal despair, I alternated between torrents of sobs as I acknowledged how stupid I was, or jags of maniacal laughter as Allen patiently tried to explain to me yet another totally incomprehensible concept for the umpteenth time. 

I think it's called hysterics.

“When I’m a grad student, I’m going to do my thesis on math anxiety,” I declared.  “Been there, done that.”  

I sped home after the final exam and ceremonially burned my notes, vowing never again to take another statistics class.  Later that night, still rejoicing in the fact that the horrific six weeks of statistics was finally over, I jotted down a couple of poems in my journal:

            Mathematically Challenged

            If there were a hell on earth,

            it would be an endless statistics class

            A Builder’s View of Math

            You begin with the foundation

            A big, deep hole beneath level zero

            Where negative integers live like ants.

            Massive blocks of concrete obstruct your view.

            You climb endless scaffolds,

            Only to slip back down.

            Girders give way beneath your grasp.

            You slap mortar between bricks

            But it soon crumbles.

            A helpful crane occasionally boosts you up

            To the upper level where you can almost see . . .

            Until the wrecking ball smashes the inkling.

                                                             

I couldn't believe it when I received a B in the course. Yuri must have performed an immense curving of grades.

* * * * * * * * * *

Marvin and Giselle met with a lawyer and signed a contract, and I went over to Schemmerhorn that night to help them fill out the forms.  They wanted to start things moving as soon as possible and were full of ideas about things they wanted to do with the house and the upstairs apartment.  We worked on the forms for a bit, and I decided to type them up at the office, since their handwriting  -- Marvin’s especially – wasn’t very legible.  I also informed Giselle -- if she didn’t already know it -- that I was evicting Diane once and for all.  Although they were cousins, Giselle confided in me that she, herself, was growing tired of Diane's four bratty kids spoiling everything. Once she became Diane's landlord, she wasn't going to trust her to pay the rent either, especially since she was family. 

I typed out the forms and took them over to Schemmerhorn a few days later for Giselle and Marvin to sign.  We’d arranged to meet at 6:00 that evening but no one was home when I arrived at 51 Manson Street. Shirley was sitting on her porch next door watching her son playing, so I went over to sit with her and wait for Marvin and Giselle. I wanted so badly to sell the house and to get the hell out of the landlording business that I was prepared to wait.  They’d probably show up sooner or later.

"You sellin' the house to Giselle?" Shirley asked. 

“Yes, I am."

"Jerry's really interested in buying it if it doesn’t go through. Let us know, will you?"

"Sure," I said.  "I'm hopefully sending the papers to the mortgage company tomorrow. I guess it takes about a month to approve them. I'll let you know as soon as I know."

Shirley proceeded to bend my ear about all the goings-on next door: the noise, the terrible kids, the dogs, the trash, the language, on and on, until Marvin's old beaten-up brown car rattled up the street.

"Sorry to keep you wait'n," he called as he got out of the car.  Giselle and the kids erupted out the other side.

"You're half-an-hour late," I called back.  

Shirley gave me a meaningful look as I got up and followed Giselle and co. into their apartment.  Once inside, Giselle informed me that Diane had found another place to live just down the street. She'd be out of the apartment by July 31st.  Giselle and Marvin were looking forward to refurbishing and renting it out. 

"What happens if you do all the decorating and then the mortgage company doesn't approve you?" I asked.

Giselle gave me a reassuring smile.  "Don't worry, we'll still make it nice.  This house really doesn't need much done to it.  It won't take long to fix it up. There's nothing major needs doing."

I stifled an impulse to remind her of all her ranting and raving about cracking beams and walls and Wim’s apparently shoddy maintenance record.

"What about the rent you owe me for June and July?" I asked.  "I'm really hurting financially, Giselle, what with no rent coming in from upstairs and none from you these past two months."

Marvin leaned back in his chair, awkwardly favoring his bad back.  "Yeah, we're sorry ‘bout that. Seeing as we're buyin' the house, we was thinking we don't need to pay rent no more.  I guess we forgot you still have to pay the mortgage while we're wait'n.  Giselle's mom dyin', havin' to go over there all the time … it's bin hard, you know."

“Sure,” I said with a nod and paused for a moment to express my sympathy before continuing. 

“You also still owe me rent from August two years ago.  Giselle worked off a hundred bucks cleaning the fridge and painting when Charmayne moved out, and I got an extra two hundred when D.S.S. upped your payment last August, but that still leaves a hundred and fifty dollars.  Add that to the outstanding rents for June and July, and you owe me eleven hundred dollars.”

"Sure adds up quick,” Giselle said. “We ain't got it right now, but we'll pay this August's rent on the first of the month. I'm goin' to see about gettin' a loan so we can pay you the eleven hundred dollars, plus have some extra money to fix this place up.  We figure about five thousand should do it."

                                                             * * * * * * * *

It was exasperating.  Giselle and Marvin signed the application forms for assuming the mortgage but didn’t have their other papers ready, such as tax returns and wage statements.  Also, for some reason, Marvin never did begin employment at the Post Office.  He was still on disability, which hardly paid anything.  This fact certainly wasn’t going to help their case any.  They also refused to fork out $40.00 for a credit report. Instead, they wanted to try and get a  free one, which would take time. 

It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but the two of them eventually managed to come up with some reasonably-recent pay stubs, one tax return for Giselle, and copies of their licenses and social security cards.  I put everything in an envelope and sent it off to the #mortgage company.  In my cover letter, I explained that additional papers would be following under separate cover and expressed the hope that the mortgage company could get started on what I had sent them so far.