CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: Just Give it Back

House Account: $352.41

* * * * * * * * * * 

September arrived but rental payments from Giselle and her upstairs friend did not.

Needless to say, I wasn’t really surprised when two weeks later the #mortgage company's bank rejected Jerry and Shirley’s application to buy the #house.  Apparently Jerry earned too little to take on another mortgage.

After commiserating with Shirley about the bad news, I sought out Head Honcho for some commiseration of my own.

“I really don’t want to declare #bankruptcy,” I lamented in his office. “It seems like such a drastic measure. But what am I to do? I just can’t take this anymore!” 

How many times over the past five years had I uttered that last sentence? 

“I don’t have the energy or the money to keep taking people to Court,” I continued plaintively.  “It’s like every other minute I’m sending threatening letters to my #tenants by certified mail, I’m up to my ears in subpoenas, income executions, petitions, motions, warrants ... I'm paying umpteen filing fees and service fees ... I’ve got no #rent coming in ... I’m down to my last cent ... and it’s not like I haven’t tried to sell the house.  I had it on the market for eighteen months, and no one wanted to buy it, except for my tenant and a neighbor, but the bank turned them both down.  Don’t they know how hard it is to sell a house in Schemmerhorn?”

“Whoa, kiddo, calm down,” soothed Head Honcho in his usually calm manner.  “There's no need to declare bankruptcy.  Just do a deed in lieu of #foreclosure.”

“What’s that?” I gulped, blowing my nose and mopping at my running mascara.

“Give the house back to the bank.”

“I can do that?”

“Yes. Call the bank, tell them you want to do a deed in lieu of foreclosure, they’ll send you the paperwork, you fill it out, send it back ... and that’ll be that.”

“Hm.”  I couldn’t really believe it was that simple.  “What will happen to my credit?”

“You might find it difficult getting a new credit card for a while, but foreclosure’s not considered as bad as a bankruptcy.  If you wait seven years, your credit will be clear again.”

I could live with that.  It would be so worth it not to have the aggravation all the time.  I determined to call the mortgage company that very day when I went home for lunch.             

And it really was that simple.  I couldn’t believe it! 

Attractive Mortgages had sold my mortgage some time ago to a company called Southwest Mortgage Company.  Pleased that I didn't have to deal with Un-Attractive Mortgages, who'd pissed me off royally when I first bought the house, I called Southwest Mortgage Company and told them I could no longer take the strain of being a #landlord and didn’t have enough money to continue paying the mortgage. 

"And," I declared to the gentleman who'd answered the phone, "since you've turned down every prospective buyer I’ve introduced to you, I am now forced to either request a deed in lieu of foreclosure or commit myself to a mental hospital!" 

The man took my mild display of histrionics in stride, merely stating that he was sorry to hear about my situation and would send out the paperwork that very day.  

And that really was that! 

Of course, then I started wishing I’d done this earlier and not waited until my bank account was almost exhausted.  I always was a willing casualty of buyer’s remorse.

“Is there anything I should be doing to the house?” I asked.  “Like giving my tenants notice, painting and stuff?”

“We'd obviously appreciate it if the #premises was left in as good condition as possible,” the man answered rather formally. “And with no tenants in residence. But you don’t need to paint if you don’t want to.”

I drove back to my office in a euphoric mood, wondering if Head Honcho would grant me permission to kiss his feet.

Speaking of kissing, I still hadn't received September’s rent from Giselle, or her nameless friend. And now that I had to give them notice, I could probably kiss all past-due rents goodbye too. 

I called Giselle and told her I was giving the house back to the bank and that she would have to move out.  When I intimated, rather forcefully, that the main reason I was in this predicament was because of all the unpaid rents, she spun me some tale about the electric company mixing up her account ... Social Services ... etc., etc. I think her mother’s death played a part in it somewhere as well. 

“And now," Giselle added, "how’m I supposed to pay you, when I gotta pay a deposit on another apartment?”

She then proceeded to recite a litany of accusations: 

"You don’t know what it's like living paycheck to paycheck." 

"You don't understand what it's like to be poor like me." 

"You don't know how lucky you are to have a good payin' job, wit' savings in the bank. We got nutt'n." 

All I could do was listen. 

Eventually, Giselle ran out of steam and I managed to extract a promise from her that she would go down to Social Services the next day to seek help with her overdue rent.  I also urged her to try and collect some rent from her upstairs friend.

On September 25th, I followed up with a letter:

Dear Giselle:

As you know, the bank is making arrangements to #repossess the house.  You are asked to vacate the premises by October 31st.  Please leave the apartment in as neat and clean condition as you can.  I am also giving your friend upstairs notice to move out.  You have still not sent me September’s rent.  Please do so immediately.  Also, by the time you get this letter, it will be just about time for October’s rent too.  As we discussed, please see your caseworker at #DSS about helping with the $1,100.00 you still owe me for June and July plus two Augusts ago.  You can tell her you are being evicted and show her the enclosed letters I have sent you about the overdue rents.  I’m sorry it has come to this. 

                                                                  Yours truly,

                                                                 Anastasia Scuttlebutt

           

A form arrived from the mortgage company.  It consisted of one xeroxed sheet of paper and contained several typos:

the information requested below is very important each point is needed to consider you loan for a voluntary conveyance of the deed in lieu of a foreclosure suit.  Consideration for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be based on the fact that each point is answered below if any points are unanswered your request for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be denied . . . 

The form went on to request the reason for the default and why it could not be cured. 

I wrote: “Difficulty collecting rent from tenants, who either refuse to pay or pay late.  Numerous lawsuits, evictions and judgments.”

I answered a few more questions about resources I'd exhausted in trying to keep my loan current; tenants in residence, if any; monthly income and expenses; and whether the property had ever been listed for sale. I gleefully appended Wally’s listing agreement and notices of failed showing appointments, signed on the dotted line labeled “Borrower,” and mailed the form back to the mortgage company.

Giselle soon found a place to live and moved out in mid-October.  I was happy to give her a reference just to get rid of her.  Apart from occasionally not paying rent, she had been a reasonably good tenant.  The upstairs friend, on the other hand -- whose name I never did discover -- very kindly performed a moonlight flit, having paid not one cent in rent.

I cleaned the house as best I could, turned off the utilities, contacted Greatest Pest Control to cancel the monthly maintenance, and didn’t look back as Wim and I cheerfully drove away from 51 Manson Street for what we thought was the last time. 

A week later, the weather turned very cold, and I began to worry about freezing pipes.  I was also visualizing the last line of the xeroxed form from the mortgage company, which stated: “The property must not be damaged in any way for Southwest Mortgage Company to complete the Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure.”  

After several phone calls to the utility company, I managed to get the gas turned back on. The pilot lights could warm the apartments a little until Wim had time to blow out the pipes.

            I hung up the phone, thinking that this was the end of my sorry tale. 

Not so. 

To the long list of evictions, vandalism, suspected drug trafficking, prostitution, murder threats, and bug infestations, rape was about to be added to the list.  

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.