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 FIFTY-FIVE: Arrest and Assumption

On June 1st, I received a call from Giselle.  "I'm sorry to do this to you, Stace, but I hafta move out."

I couldn't think of anything to say, except, "Why?" 

"It's not you," Giselle hastened to assure me.  "It's Wim.  The walls in my daughter's bedroom are cracking like crazy now, there's no insulation, and I just can't afford to pay the heating bills next winter like I did last winter.  I've told Wim over and over, but he don't do nutt'n about it."

"I didn't know about the walls in your daughter's bedroom," I said. 

"You see?  There you go.  Wim don't tell you nothin'.  He's supposed to look after this place, an' he doesn't.  I tell you, it's because of Wim I'm movin' out, not you."

 Giselle proceeded to rant and rave in my ear about Wim this and Wim that.  I could see there was no point in trying to talk her out of it.  She had made up her mind to go, and that was that.  I would be kind of sorry to lose her.  She was basically a good #tenant, albeit giving me a few hassles now and then.  Compared to the succession of upstairs tenants, however, she was an angel! 

I sank onto my couch in utter despair. 

The next day, I called her back.  "Giselle, I've been thinking.  I never told you this because I didn’t want to alarm you, but I’ve had the #house on the market for some time.  I was wondering … would you be interested in buying it?"

There was an astonished silence from Giselle.  "Uh, I couldn't afford it," she said after a moment.  "I mean, how could I pay the down-payment, to start with?  I ain't got money like that."

"Well, if you assumed my #mortgage, you wouldn't have to pay any money down," I told her.  "Except maybe some miscellaneous #assumption costs.  You'd also be making a few hundred dollars a month in rent from the upstairs #apartment because the mortgage isn’t much more than the rent you’re paying now."

Giselle was silent for another moment. “This is, like, a shock, you know?" she said finally.  "You've really caught me by surprise with this one.  Umm ... No. I really don't think I'm in a position to buy a house right now."

"Well," I said, "It's something to think about, at least. Why don't you talk it over with Marvin and let me know if you change your mind?"

The next day, Giselle called me back.  "We did think about it, Marvin and me, and we would like to try and buy the house, so long as we wouldn't have to make any down-payment or nutt'n.  What do we have to do?"

"I'll call the mortgage company and get back to you," I told her eagerly.

I put down the phone and skipped into my parents’ living room in gay abandon.  "Giselle wants to buy the house!" I yelled, dancing around the furniture. Mummy and Wim looked on in amusement.

I got right on to the mortgage company. They told me Giselle and I both needed to sign a letter requesting an assumption packet.  I sat down at my computer, there and then, and dashed off a short request for an assumption packet, with an extra signature line for Giselle.  I mailed it to her the next day with instructions to sign it and send it back to me as soon as possible.  When she returned the letter a few days later, I dated it and sent it off to the mortgage company.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

June 4th rolled around and, not surprisingly, Charmayne didn’t show up for #Court.  I was rather pleased at this because her absence meant she couldn’t complain to the #judge that I had served the information #subpoena on her via her mother, which the judge might deem invalid service.

My case was fourth in line that morning.  Judge Grazziano dispatched the first two matters quite quickly, but the third one dragged on and on.  After much watch-glancing and biting of nails, I was relieved when the judge called for a break.     

"This is going to take a while," he said to the room at large, then glanced at his clerk.  "Let's go through a couple of quick cases and get some of these people out of here.” 

The court clerk intoned the name of my case.

I stood up and smiled at Judge Grazziano.  "It’s me again, Judge.  You must be getting sick of seeing me in your court room every other minute."

He crinkled his luxuriant moustache at me in return.  "Hello, Ms. Scuttlebutt. I’m glad to be of help to you.  That's what we’re here for."  He frowned at the motion papers lying before him.  "Is the respondent here? Charmayne Brown?"

"Nope," I answered.  "Can I get a default?"

"Not yet. I'm afraid we have to wait til the hour’s up to give her a chance to appear," the judge said.

"Oh."  I sat down again, resigned to wait another half-hour or so and worrying about how much longer my employer was going to put up with my frequent absences.

Judge Grazziano dispensed a few more quickies before turning his attention back to the interrupted third case, whose parties appeared to be growing slightly restless.

Another half-hour passed.  Okay, this was long enough; the hour was up.  The court clerk seemed to think so too because she loudly cleared her throat during an appropriate pause.  Judge Grazziano took the hint and had the third case take another break while he granted a judgment for default on my case. 

I left the court room with a spring in my step.  Now we were getting somewhere. 

Back at the office, yet another Friendly Lawyer helped me draft an Order for the judge to sign. It stated that if Charmayne failed to respond to the information subpoena within thirty days, a #warrant would be issued for her #arrest.  

Surely, when faced with arrest, she would pay up, rather than go to jail. 

                                                             * * * * * * * *

A week later, I received a large packet of forms from the mortgage company for Giselle and Marvin to fill out as prospective co-purchasers.  I made an extra copy for my file and sent the originals to Giselle.

Not surprisingly, Diane did not pay her rent for June, nor did she seem to be making any plans for moving out.  I wrote her a letter demanding rent and threatening to have the #Sheriff evict her.  I also hadn’t received any word or rent from Giselle, so I sent her a letter too, asking her to pay the rent and to contact me about filling out the forms I'd just sent her.  She called a few days later and informed me in a dull-sounding voice that she couldn’t even think about filling them out right now.

“My mother's real sick,” she went on to explain. “She lives an hour-and-a-half away, and she’s actually in the hospital there, dyin'.  I'm gonna be spending most of my time theah, so I can't be thinkin' about buying no house."

"Jeez, I'm sorry," I told her.  "Keep me posted, okay? I’ll be thinking of you."  

I put down the phone.  Damn, I’d forgotten to ask Giselle about the overdue rent!  I couldn’t very well do that now, could I?  Not after she'd told me her mother was dying.

The threat of imminent eviction prompted one of Diane's rare phone calls. 

"I sorted things out with Social Services," she announced.  "If you write to my #caseworker, tell her how much rent I owe, they'll pay you the whole amount.  They’re gonna start paying my rent from now on too."

"You're kidding!"  I exclaimed.  "Are you sure?  Why would they start paying now?"

" ‘cause they wasn't s'posed to drop me in the first place," Diane said. "They only dropped me ‘cause they thought I had a second job. But I don't. So they're gonna take me back again.”

"Hm."  I was still dubious.  "Okay, I'll write to your caseworker and see what happens."

I wrote to Diane’s caseworker the next day, telling her that Diane owed $1,250.00 in back-rent and enclosing a copy of the eviction petition to verify my claim.  How did I ever let Diane get so deep into debt, I mused as I penned the letter.  Intermittent reinforcement ... that was it:  promises and little payments every now and then to keep me pacified and hopeful.  Meanwhile, her debt to me had grown and grown. Had I also felt obliged to be more lenient with her because she was Giselle’s cousin? Maybe.

A week later, I received a standard form from the Department of Social Services. In big, bold letters, it stated baldly that Diane Tanner was not eligible for shelter assistance.

What a surprise. 

I called Diane at her job.  "What's going on, Diane?  I just got a notice from your caseworker that you are not eligible for any assistance."

"Er, I din't get my mail yet," Diane said.  "I'll look into it and find out what's goin' on."

"You'd better,” I told her. “I'm getting sick of this.  If you don't come up with some rent soon, I'm going to have to tell the Sheriff to throw your ass out on the street."

"Yeah ... uh," Diane stammered, sounding flustered. “I'll go see my caseworker tomorrow an' call you back."

For once, she stayed true to her word and called me back a couple days later.  I took the receiver from my mother, who’d answered the phone, and waited to hear what the excuse was now.

"I saw my caseworker," Diane began, "but she said D.S.S. can't help me after all. She told me to go see the Division of Human Rights.  Maybe they can help.  I went down there and got an appointment for the twenty-fourth."

"Hm," I muttered suspiciously.  I'd never heard of the Division of Human Rights helping people pay their rent. 

"What's the name of the person you're going to see there?" I asked.  "I want to call them, myself and find out what's going on."

"Uh, I have to look it up and call you back."

A few hours later, Diane called back with the name and phone number of the Human Rights caseworker.  I called the number the next day, but the worker was on vacation.  The woman who answered the phone, however, verified that Diane had indeed made an appointment.

"While I have you on the phone, could I get me some information?" I asked her.

"Sure."

"Does the Division of Human Rights really help people pay their #rent?  I never heard of that before."

"We do, but only a limited amount," the woman answered.

"What's the maximum you will pay?"

"Up to one month's rent, but only if the person shows us a check or money order for the balance of the overdue rent."

"Jeepers!" I exclaimed.  "One month's rent is four hundred and seventy-five dollars.  As of July first, my tenant will owe me two thousand and twenty-five dollars.  She's never going to come up with the balance!"

            After hanging up from the Division of Human Rights, I typed out yet another #eviction notice, ordering Diane to move out by July 31st. 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: Head Honcho Say, "No Go."

The next day, I left my troubles behind and flew down to Florida to embark on a cruise to the Bahamas with Allen. 

We set out with some trepidation, however. 

Snagged by a telemarketer, I’d signed up for a flower-delivery service in exchange for a free trip to the Bahamas and Florida.  All I had to pay was airfare, port taxes, and food. Knowing my luck, it would probably turn out to be a scam like you see on 20/20 or Dateline, where the “luxury” hotel is revealed to be a seedy motel in a bad part of town, miles from the ocean.  

When we tried to check into our hotel in Florida, it was late at night and their computers were down. We waited for several hours, jockeying for couch space with a large group of disgruntled fellow cruisers. When we got to the docks the next morning, the ship's agent did not have a ticket on file for Allen, so we had to pay $100 to buy him one. Not an auspicious start to our vacation. The cruise to the Bahamas was fun, however, and the food was good. We heaved sighs of relief when the hotel limo delivered us to a four-star hotel in the middle of an upscale tourist district, right by the ocean. 

After unpacking, Allen went downstairs to explore the bar -- it reputedly made great Bahama Mamas -- and I went over to the visitors’ desk to sign up for a sightseeing tour, a day trip to a neighboring desert island, complete with snorkeling and beach barbecue, and a magic/comedy dinner theater.

The sightseeing tour was great.  We started out with a banana-bread breakfast on a deserted beach, were bussed around the rich part of town to gawk at celebrity mansions, and ended up at a local street market where Allen tried conch.  Would it live up to its reputation as an aphrodisiac?  

The comic magician was amusing and clever.  I tried unsuccessfully to catch him out as he performed fantastic tricks right before our eyes at our dinner table. Allen laughed loudly and frequently at his jokes.

I enjoyed our snorkeling trip to the desert island, but Allen’s mask didn’t fit tight enough because of his beard. He nauseously called it quits after swallowing sea water one time too many. We were just sitting down to the beach barbecue, when a fellow barbecuer from a neighboring tour boat took one look at me and asked, “Is your name Scuttlebutt?” 

“Yes!” I exclaimed.  “How did you know?”

“You look just like my friend back in the States,” she said.  “Her name is Donna Scuttlebutt.”

She and I excitedly compared family histories, trying to make a connection between Donna and I and uncover some new ancestors.  When it was time to leave, we exchanged contact information and parted ways to our separate boats.

Four days later, sporting some beaded braids in my hair and a mauve coral ankle bracelet, I sadly bid farewell to the white sands and warm turquoise waters, not to mention a substantial number of Bahama Mamas. With Allen valiantly lugging a humongous bottle of rum, we flew back to a chilly St. Albans, filled with a new zest for living. It had been a great trip.

I did write to Donna Scuttlebutt, but she never wrote back.  Oh, well. It was probably just one of those freaky coincidences.

Two days after my return to the States, my spirits sank slightly when Diane failed to show up for Court.  Judge Grazziano duly granted me a #default, and I returned to the office where I wrote up the #judgment and #warrant and sent them off to the judge to be signed.  When they came back by return mail, a process server served the judgment upon Diane.  I decided to hold off for now on giving the warrant to the Sheriff. Why spend the $71.00 charge until I needed to?  When faced with the judgment, Diane would probably move out on her own.

Meanwhile, responses began coming in from Schemmerhornian banks in response to my information #subpoenas.  I eagerly opened each envelope, hoping that this one would be the one. Unfortunately, none of the twelve banks had any record of Charmayne Brown. 

What now?

I thought for a bit.  When I was down at the legal supply store picking out the information subpoena, I seemed to remember noticing a form for motion for contempt for failing to answer an information subpoena.  I determined to go down to the store the next day to investigate.  They opened early, so I could go before work. 

I got up rather late the next morning, so I drove to the legal supply store in a big hurry, quickly picked out the forms -- again, the store only sold them in triplicate – paid, and dashed off to the office.  But … “Haste makes waste,” as my grandmother used to say, and for once she was right.  Later that day, I discovered I’d bought the wrong forms and would have to waste another day, swapping them for the right ones. 

The thing was, the form contained an #affirmation that an attorney had to sign.  I approached my office manager and explained the situation to him.  He advised me to speak to one of the head honchos of the firm.  Said head honcho happened to be on vacation, so I asked my old Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice, and she offered to speak to another head honcho for me. She came back with the sad news that a conflict of interest still existed, and the firm could not help me.

I called another law firm I’d once temped for over the Christmas period to see if one of the lawyers there would sign the affirmation for me.  

Not surprisingly, the one lawyer in the office at the time didn’t feel comfortable signing the affirmation, but he did have a suggestion: “Recreate the form on the computer and change the affirmation to an #affidavit signed by you,” he said. 

“I can do that?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Great. Thanks.”

That night, I stayed late at work and typed out the notice of motion, converting the affirmation into an affidavit.  The next day I signed it, one of the secretaries notarized it, and I mailed it to the Clerk’s Office, requesting a hearing date of May 17th.  

I then asked my process servers to serve a copy on Charmayne. "If she doesn't live at the address on Main Street, serve her mother," was my instruction to them.

The next day, process server Ally called me at work.

"I went to Main Street," she said, "but the girl who answered the door said Charmayne doesn’t live there, so I went to the mother's address on Knife Street.  She lives on the second floor.  I gave the papers to her when she answered the door, but she threw them right back in my face and screamed at me, 'You can't serve me!' 'I ain't takin' them!’ "

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Just handed them back and told her, ‘You can't give them back to me, Ma’am.  You're served.'  Then I walked down the stairs.  I'd just gotten into my car, when she leaned over the balcony and threw the papers in through my sun roof, yelling and screaming.  I got out the car, threw the papers back onto the balcony, and shouted, “Madam, you are served.'  Then I drove quickly away before she could throw them back again."

"Phew," I said.  "I'm not surprised, though.  They don't like me, that family. You'll send me an affidavit of service, right? That you served Charmayne's mother?"

"I'll put it in the mail, today," Ally promised.

I groaned when the affidavit of service arrived the next day.  It was the wrong one.  I needed one that stated that the individual who'd been served (Charmayne's mom) was a responsible person, capable of accepting service on behalf of the intended party (Charmayne). Ally's affidavit did not say that.  I discussed the problem with Friendly Lawyer Number Two. She expressed some doubt that the Court would accept service on Charmayne’s mother as being valid service on Charmayne.

"The problem being," she explained, "that when another party is served on behalf of the party for whom the subpoena is intended, it’s presumed they both live at the same address."

I had just a couple of days in which to file an affidavit of service with the Court, so I drafted one for Ally to sign.  It stated that she had attempted to serve the motion papers on Charmayne but was told that she had moved.  She had then served the papers upon Charmayne's mother, who lived at one of the two addresses listed on the original information subpoena that the Sheriff had previously served on Charmayne. 

I hoped this would prove acceptable to the Court.

The next morning, I delivered the affidavit of service to the process servers’ offices.  I also included a copy of the information subpoena to satisfy Ally that the statement she was signing was true.  I picked up her signed affidavit of service in my lunch hour and dashed over to Schemmerhorn to file it with the Clerk. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, property values were still dropping. 

I was getting desperate.  “I can’t take this anymore,” I moaned on the phone to Wally.  “I seem to spend all my time in and out of Court and trying to get money out of my tenants, both past and present.  Drop the price another five thousand, will you?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Wally promised.

The sale price of the house sank to forty thousand dollars the next day.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: Plain Jane and the Lengthy Lunch

We waited and waited, but no judge appeared.  Eventually, at about twenty minutes past ten o’clock, a side door opened and two official-looking women entered the court room. They conducted a hasty discussion in hushed tones just inside the door, and then one of them, a plain specimen with long, gray hair and ugly spectacles, came over to stand before the motley assemblage of petitioners, respondents, children, and counsel.

"Sorry," she began, pushing her glasses further up her nose and looking faintly apologetic. "Judge Grazziano has been delayed at another hearing.  He'll probably be here by eleven if you want to wait.  For those of you with #evictions, if the other party hasn’t shown up, default judgments can be issued, or you can reschedule for another day.  I'll read out the cases in order, and you can decide what you want to do."          

I looked at Diane.  "I know you say you're going to pay me more on May first, but I still have to reschedule for my own protection.  You understand, don’t you?"

Diane tut-tutted and heaved a hefty sigh. "Agh. We took time off work for nothin', and now we have to come back?” She shook her head in disgust. 

At that moment, our case was announced, and we went up to the front of the court room. 

"Eviction for non-payment of #rent?" Plain Jane asked. 

"Yes," I answered.  "We might be able to work something out, but I still want to go ahead and reschedule.  I'm going on vacation May second, so …"

"How long will you be gone?"

"Til May seventh."

"Okay."  The woman leafed through a large diary and pounced on a page.  "May ninth?"

"Fine," I said.  Diane looked on, but didn’t disagree.

"See you on the ninth, then."   Plain Jane made an entry in her diary and began reading out the name of the next case.

In the lofty, echoing marble hallway outside the court room, Diane patted me on the arm.  "I'll get right on that money order," she told me cheerfully.  "And I'll have four hundred ready for you, May first."

I looked doubtful. “I'm going on vacation the next day, so  . . ."

". . . so you need the money," Diane finished.  "That's why I'll make sure to have it ready for you."

"Okay," I said.  "And when you hear about the job, we need to work out a payment schedule for the overdue rent.  You owe me thirteen hundred now, for January through this month.”

"I know.  It’s a lot."

"I'll be busy packing, so Wim’ll pick up the rent.”

"Mommy, Mommy."  Diane’s little girl was tugging on her mother’s arm. 

Diane shook her off in practiced fashion and glanced at her watch.  "I gotta git back to work."

"Me too."  We headed toward the stairs.  "May first, don't forget?  If you make an effort to pay  me more in the next two weeks, we'll see, but for now, we 're back in Court May ninth, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Diane gave me a wave, and we went our separate ways.

I had planned to deal with the information subpoenas after court but my office was short-handed that day, so it would have to wait until tomorrow. 

When the clock struck noon the next day, I was out of the office like a shot and racing over to Schemmerhorn. It took twenty minutes to get there and twenty minutes to get back, which meant I only had twenty minutes to spare at the Clerk's Office.  I arrived, out of breath, weighed down with restraining notices, already-addressed envelopes, and stamped-addressed envelopes for return of the subpoenas. 

The Clerk’s counter was unmanned, but at the sound of my whirlwind arrival, a large lady breezed into the room from a side office.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes.  I've come to collect an information #subpoena."

The woman looked at me with a blank expression on her face.  "A what?"

"An information subpoena.  I spoke to the Clerk.  Apparently Small Claims have their own information subpoenas for service on banks in the area.  I have to pay, like, a dollar for it?"

"I don't know."  The woman began to look harassed.  "Um, maybe they're in this drawer?  The Clerk's out to lunch right now.  Can you come back?"

"No.  I'm on my lunch hour too. I drove over from St. Albans, and it takes twenty minutes to get here, so I can't come back."

The woman halfheartedly shuffled through some forms in the drawer.  "I don’t see anything like that in here."

I glanced at the clock."What time does the Clerk get back from lunch?"

The woman also looked at the clock.  "Around twelve forty-five.  It's twelve-thirty now."

"Okay. I'll go over to the post office and get some stamps on these?" I said, motioning to my armful of envelopes. "Then I'll be back."

The woman smiled, obviously relieved that she could stop looking for the elusive forms.  "All right. The post office is just across the street."

Faced with four entrances on each point of the compass by which to exit City Hall, it took me a few minutes to find said post office.  Luckily there was no line, and I walked right up to the counter.  I bought stamps for twelve certified letters and twelve return envelopes and returned to the Clerk's Office, loaded down with green return receipts and tracking slips.

I had to wait a few minutes for the Clerk to return from lunch, so I occupied myself in filling out the tracking slips and corresponding green postcards and sticking stamps on the envelopes.  I had just finished the last one, when the Clerk bustled in.

"Hello," she said, remembering me.  "You're here for the information subpoena?"

"Yes."

Rummaging in the very same drawer the other woman had searched, she produced a form with ease.  "Here it is.  I'll give you one, and you can make copies and fill them out. Then bring them back to me to stamp.  It's safer to stamp them all because you can't be certain which banks require it."

"I'll go to the library and make copies and fill them out right now," I told her.  "I just need to get this done.  My office will have to put up with me getting back a bit late."

I took all my paperwork out another entrance, across another street, and into the public library.  After making copies of the subpoena, I sat down at a table and proceeded to fill them out.  It didn’t take long. The forms were really basic -- much simpler than the information subpoenas I’d used before for Supreme Court.

When I’d finished, I hauled the papers back to City Hall, and the Clerk stamped them for me.  I sat in my car, stuffing and licking the envelopes.  The glue tasted very nasty and was probably toxic. I hoped I wasn’t going to keel over and die from envelope-glue poisoning like George Costanza’s fiancée did in “Seinfeld.”  When I was finished, I shoved the envelopes though the slot at the post office with heartfelt relief.  Phew, that was over with.  Now I just had to wait.

The next day -- surprise, surprise -- the mailman delivered a money order for $300.00.  Diane actually phoned me that night to check that I received it.

The mail also included a note from my realtor, Wally. Fifty-one Manson Street was now listed for sale at $45,000.00.  Big whoop.

Wim went over to Schemmerhorn on May 1st to collect the additional $400.00 Diane had promised.  Upon his arrival, he was treated to an earful from Giselle because one of the beams that supported the porch had a crack in it.  According to her, it was shameful that it was cracking already, since Wim had only recently replaced it.  In Giselle’s expert opinion, he must have used inferior materials and done a shitty job as usual.

He came home, quite shaken from the barrage of verbal abuse Giselle had subjected him to. She must have hopped straight on the phone to me after he left because she was still complaining in my ear when Wim returned home twenty minutes later.

"Phew!" I sighed, as I eventually hung up the phone.  "What's the story, Wim?  Giselle's been bending my ear about the porch and going on and on about the shitty work you do.  She said you refused to listen to her and just stood there, shaking your head."

Wim exploded in a rare display of fury.  "Agh, that woman just has to have something to complain about!  Yah, the beam is a little cracked, but I told her it's normal.  It's just surface-cracking.  That porch is solid.  I laid cement under it and it's not going anywhere.  I tried to tell her that, but she wouldn't listen, yelling and screaming and cursing at me like some mad woman! I told her I wasn't going to listen anymore, and just got in my car and drove away."

Fortunately, despite the earful, Wim had remembered to collect the $400.00 money order from Diane.  Her #debt to me now stood at $1,250.00.