CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Grave News and Other Pranks

One night a group of late-night revelers knocked over about seven hundred gravestones in the cemetery that lay behind the house at 51 Manson Street.  The news story was reported on the television and radio news and in the newspapers.  

A day or two later on September 1st, I was on the Interstate, driving Andrea and Bronwyn up north to spend a few days’ vacation at a dude ranch, when I turned on the radio, just in time for the news broadcast.  I almost ran the car off the road when I heard the first item. 

". . . the Schemmerhorn cemetery vandals have been arrested," said the announcer.  "Justin Parker and . . ."

"What?” I exclaimed loudly.  “That's Mamie's brother's name!"

". . . Mamie Parker of fifty-one Manson Street have been taken into police custody for the vandalism of . . ."

“Wow, Mom!  What are you going to do?” Bronwyn asked, her eyes wide on hearing the names of my tenants on the news.

Shaken, I drove the next few miles, my thoughts racing a mile a minute.

“I can’t do anything about it, right now,” I said, eventually.  “Your Auntie Frederica and I played some pretty naughty pranks when we were little.  But we were just kids.  Mamie and Justin are adults.  This was probably just a prank on a larger scale, but still . . . seven hundred gravestones?  Come on!”

“Mom, tell us about some of the things you and Auntie Frederica used to get up to,” Andrea asked after a few more miles had rolled by.

“Yeah, we’ve still got a ways to go,” Bronwyn put in, “and you know we’ll start fighting soon and asking ‘are we there yet?’  Tell us a story to keep us occupied.”

"Oh, all right,” I said, seeing the logic in this.  “Let’s see.  You know about the time we set the grass dump on fire, but did I ever tell you about the time when your Auntie Frederica and I pretended to be girl scouts collecting for a rummage sale?” 

“Ooh, no.”

“Tell us.”

"Okay.  Well, it goes like this . . ."

One Saturday, Frederica and I were messing about at home in our quiet South African suburb with nothing to do.  I was twelve years old at the time and was painfully shy, except around Frederica, whom I bossed mercilessly.  She, of course, even as a six-and-a-half year old, was very outgoing and, for some strange reason, totally worshiped the ground I walked on even though I regularly beat her up.

Being the ringleader of our little twosome, and thus in charge of coming up with ideas of things to do, I suggested we pretend to be girl scouts collecting clothes for a rummage sale.  It would mean knocking on doors in the neighborhood and talking to strangers – totally against the rules of our protective upbringing – and this awesome idea did give us pause for a moment but, hey, the danger was part of the fun.  Frederica, of course, was all for my idea.

We sauntered casually down the street, nerve endings jangling beneath our oh-so-cool exteriors.  The naughtiness of what we were about to do made me feel more alive.  The adrenalin was pumping and everything seemed to me to stand out in vivid relief, sharper than before, as if I were a shortsighted person wearing corrective eyeglasses for the first time.  I began to notice details, such as the pinkness of the bricks of the apartment block we were headed for, and the lacy, black iron patterns of the balconies. 

After the brightness of the day outside, the foyer of the #apartment building was dingy and felt damp.  Being the eldest, it was decided that I would do the talking, and after a whispered consultation on the stairs, we knocked on the first door we came to.

It was opened by a man of about fifty years old, wearing a greasy vest, dirty cotton pants, and badly in need of a shave.  Through the open door we caught a glimpse of a dark, stuffy apartment beyond, cluttered with small tables piled with knickknacks and tall lamps with fringed shades, more suited to a psychic maiden aunt than to the seedy character lounging before us.  

Not to be put off, however, and trying not to breathe in the acrid odor of sweat which wafted in our direction, I valiantly launched into my spiel in an artificially  bright and cheery voice, though I started to falter a little towards the end under the man’s bold stare.

He looked rather dubious on hearing the news that we were girl scouts on a good deed mission and shook his head. 

“Sorry, I don’t have nutt’n’,” he rasped in a hoarse voice, undoubtedly the result of too many cigarettes.  Frederica and I chose not to pursue the issue.  We were just thankful to get out of there.

A mite subdued by this first failure, but not to be swayed from our dangerous adventure, we knocked on the next door.  It was flung open with great ebullience by a middle-aged, blonde, housewife type.  

This was more like it!  

She cheerfully believed our story and invited us in while she searched for something to give us.   We chose to hover in the doorway, warnings about not going into strange houses too powerful to overcome. 

The housewife returned in a moment and handed us a man’s tweed jacket!  

Frederica and I looked at each other in unspoken agreement, stammered our thank yous, and dashed for the stairs.

Once outside on the street, we wrestled with our consciences, feeling incredibly guilty.  The more we thought about that nice woman giving us the jacket under false pretenses, the worse we felt.  It was awful!  What in God’s name were we going to do with the jacket?  We obviously couldn’t take it home.  We also didn’t want to throw it away because that would be even more guilt-provoking.  Frederica suggested we give the jacket to the first poor African we saw who looked cold.  I leapt at the idea as a good way to assuage my guilt.

The first African we came to didn’t appear to be either poor or cold.  However, he would have to do.  He was astonished when two young, white girls waylaid him and offered him a free jacket, out of the blue.  He accepted it in pleased surprise, put it on, thanked us effusively, though somewhat suspiciously, and went swinging away down the street, singing.

His happiness didn’t do much to lessen our guilt, but it was an experience to reminisce and laugh over to this day. 

Andrea and Bronwyn were suitably impressed by my story, and I must admit I was feeling a little less stressed by the end of it.

“You guys were pretty naughty, weren’t you, Mom?” said Anthea.  “Deceiving little old ladies, burning up the yard . . . whatever next?  We’re not nearly that bad.” 

We had reached the dude ranch by this time, and as soon as we checked in I phoned my parents and Allen to tell them the news about my gravestone-tipping tenant’s arrest.  There was nothing I could do, of course.  Allen promised to keep an eye on things at 51 Manson Street, but I knew it was going to pray on my mind for the duration of my mini-vacation.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

When the girls and I returned home after a somewhat relaxing few days, albeit sore in the rump from horse riding, I rushed over to Schemmerhorn as soon as I could to learn the latest on the gravestone-tipping saga.

Bryan answered the door and laughed at my anxious questions. 

"It's okay," he assured me.  "The police let Mamie go.  They only charged her with trespassing."

"Phew!" I breathed.  "What does she weigh, anyway?  All of ninety pounds?  I thought it was a bit strange that she could be responsible for knocking over seven hundred gravestones."

"Right.  Her brother's doing some time for it, though.  Look, Mamie's not in, right now.  Was there anything else?"

"Yes, well, uh, I apparently haven’t received a voucher for September's rent."

"Oh, er, I dunno.  Maybe you should call Social Services?"

"Do you have your portion of the rent for me?"

"Nooooo, not right now.  Can you come back in a few days?"

As Bryan disappeared inside, Giselle came out of her apartment.

"I hear you had a nice welcome to Manson Street, hey?" I said ruefully.

"Oh!"  Giselle rolled her eyes.  "I came here with all my stuff, ready to move in, and there was police and TV cameras and God knows what else outside the house.  I didn't know what was goin' on!"

“Well, thankfully this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day,” I said.  “By the way, do you have the @rent for me?” 

“Oh, yeah.  Here you go."  Giselle handed me a money order.  “How do you want to work out getting the rent in future?”

 “I’ll come by on the first of every month between five and six p.m., to collect it. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

When I phoned the #Department of #Social #Services the next day, I was told that as Bryan had been promoted at his job, Mamie was no longer covered by Social Services.  

According to Bryan, he had been promoted, but the very next day he was laid off.  

Would Social Services listen?  No.  They said they would resume covering part of the rent the following month, but gave me some story about Mamie not having enough money in her account to cover the rent for this month. 

What did that mean?

I never did receive September's rent, and in October, I only received $325.00 from D.S.S.  Mamie and Bryan, of course still claimed they couldn’t afford to pay the $150.00 balance, so I was relieved when Social Services suddenly declared that as of November they would be covering Mamie's rent in full.

I also had a frustrating time the first couple of months trying to collect rent from Giselle.  I stopped by the house on the first of the month as arranged, but she was never home.  After several wasted trips, twenty-five minutes' drive each way, Giselle agreed to send me a money order every month for the rent.  This proved to be a much better idea.  The money orders usually arrived a few days late, but at least they arrived.

The next four months at 51 Manson Street were generally peaceful, except for a leak in the attic, which resulted in Wim gingerly mounting a ladder to replace a portion of roof.  He has a great fear of heights, does Wim.   

Then Giselle called to complain that the front porch was crumbling.  She was right.  Wim had to basically jack up the house, replace the foundation, and construct a whole new front porch.  The total cost came to $806.76. 

Meanwhile Action Pest Control had not lived up to its name. The #cockroach #infestation, courtesy of Ray Molinard, wasn’t as bad as the one Natasha had caused, but  it took the Action Man five follow-up visits to completely eradicate the roaches.  The previous pest control company, Greatest Pest Control, had managed to get rid of them in three. 

What's more, Action Pest Control recommended that I continue with monthly visits indefinitely in order to prevent another infestation from occurring. 

“Monthly maintenance is a good idea,” the Action Man told me when we happened to meet one day at the house. “Especially in this neighborhood, with the type of tenants you have living here.  It only takes two roaches, and in no time you’re right back where you started from.  Prolific little buggers, they are.”  

He grinned at me with a lascivious leer. 

I was inclined to agree with him.  However, the man was just too smarmy for words, and I had heard that Greatest Pest Control had merged with another reputable company and was now charging only $29.96 for maintenance visits. 

Sorry, Action Pest Control, you ain’t gett’n no more action heah. 

“I’ll think about it,” I told him and then signed up with Greatest Pest Control for monthly maintenance.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

In April, Mamie finally gave Bryan his marching orders.  She also promised faithfully to pay me last September's rent, plus the balance of October’s rent, as soon as she received her tax refund.  I wasn’t too surprised when April turned into May and May turned into June, and still the money did not appear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Rattletrap Ray

"I'm phonin' ‘bout the #apartment," said a gruff voice, anxiously.  "Is it still 'vailable?"

"Yes."

"When can I look round?  C'n I come now?"

"Don't you want to hear about it, first?"

"Says in the paper it's got three bedrooms, right?"

"Yes.  It also –"

"So, c'n I come look at it?"

"Um, it'll take me about half-an-hour to get there.  It's number fifty-one Manson Street.  Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah, I know.  See you in a half-hour, then."

"What's your name?" I asked quickly before the caller hung up, since he sounded as if he was in a great hurry.

"Ray Molinard," he rasped and slammed the phone down in my ear.

I grabbed the car keys and headed for Schemmerhorn, arriving at the #house to find a large, mud-brown, run-down rattletrap of a station wagon parked outside. It had a distinct list to the left.  When I pulled up behind it, all four doors opened, and a man and three children erupted from the car.  The leftward list remained.

"Hey, I'm Ray," said the man in the same urgently harried manner as on the phone, earlier. 

I took one look at him, and my heart sank. 

He was tall and burly, and his skin was a dirty brown – either from a tan or from not bathing for a month, I couldn’t quite tell.  Since it was winter, I suspected the latter, though a few tentative sniffs in his direction did not reveal any unwashed body odor.  However, the lank, dark brown hair that hung down his back in a straggling ponytail had obviously not seen shampoo for quite a while.  It looked as if you could wring the grease out of it.  His clothes had also seen better days and looked as if they had not seen the inside of a washing machine for quite a while, nor the children's clothes, judging by the multitude of stains on the fronts of their sweatshirts.

"Stacy, maybe they're just poor and don't have money for laundry," I reminded myself.  "Imagine if you couldn't afford to pay for hot water or to wash your clothes?"

Ray's children were two girls and a boy, ranging in age from about eight to eleven years old.  They all had long, glossy, black hair and dark eyes and were quite exotic-looking.

The eldest girl came up to me and plaintively asked, "Are you going to be our new #landlord?"

"We'll see," I said with a smile and led them up the stairs to the apartment. 

When I opened the door at the top, the children instantly disappeared into various rooms to explore, calling excitedly to one another. 

Ray quickly walked from room to room, barely looking at anything. 

Once in the kitchen, he turned to me and said, "So you're asking four-fifty, is that right?"

On the spur of the moment, I said, "No, the rent is actually four seventy-five," implying that the amount listed in the newspaper ad was an error.

"Well, that's okay," Ray said, seemingly unfazed by the increase.  "Social Services will pay that much ‘cause I got four kids.  My oldest girl, Jenny, is in a children's home.  I had to put her there 'cause she kept tryin' to run away."

The fact that Ray had cared enough to put his daughter into therapy couldn't help moving him up a couple of notches in my estimation.

"Well, Ray," I said, "my last #tenant was a real slob.  I had to have the place fumigated for cockroaches.  I finally got rid of them, so I wouldn't want to see any here again."

"Oh, no, I hate them things," Ray agreed.  "I don't want none a them, neither."

"So you’d keep the place clean and tidy?"

"Oh yeah."  Ray nodded vigorously.  "The girls help with the dishes, you know, and –"

"Yes, the children.  I've got a fussy tenant downstairs, who really wouldn’t appreciate hearing a lot of noise above her head from rowdy kids."

"No, no, I'll keep 'em quiet," Ray said, earnestly.  "They can get a bit wild sometimes, but if you get any complaints, you just tell me."

"Can you give me any references?" I asked.  "Why are you moving, anyway?"

"Well, my landlord and me, we don't get on too good, and he keeps comin' in my place without tellin' me.  He wants to rent it out to some other people he knows, so he'll be glad I'm goin'.  You can call him for a #reference, if you like."

"Okay, good.  You can give me the number when you fill out this application." 

I handed Ray a #rental application and a pen, and he filled it out in laborious capital letters. 

I eyed him furtively as he concentrated on his task.  I had grave doubts about renting to Ray.  His whole air and appearance was one of low-down, dirty sleaze.  No matter how much he might promise to keep the place clean and control his kids, that could be just talk.

Just then, the three children joined us.

"It's nice here," the boy said, flicking a shock of shiny, black hair off of his forehead.

"Can we live here, Dad?" the older girl asked.

Her younger sister came to stand next to me, gazing up at me soulfully with huge, dark eyes. 

"We're half Red Indian and half French." she announced.

"Yeah, my wife was an American Indian," Ray put in.  "I'm mostly French, though."

"Oh," I said. 

The three children stood around, looking at us.

"Our mother died," the boy volunteered then, his mischievous dimples disappearing for a brief moment, hair drooping in his eyes again.

"Oh, no.  Really?  I'm sorry."

"Yeah.  Few years ago, now," said Ray.  "I'm on disability ‘cause I got a bad heart, so I stay home with the kids."

"Are there any kids living downstairs?" asked the youngest daughter.

"Yes," I answered.  "The lady downstairs has two children, just about your age.  If you come and live here, maybe you can be friends."

"Hooray!" whooped the boy, and dashed off to the front of the apartment, his sisters running along behind.

"Um, could you fill out a landlord statement for Social Services, just in case we do move in?" Ray asked, pulling a crumpled form from his pocket and smoothing it out on the counter.

I quickly filled in the form, dodging a spatter of grease spots. 

"Well, I think that's it for now, Ray," I said.  "I'll call your landlord tonight and let you know, okay?"

"Please do it soon," Ray urged.  "I really have to get out of that place." 

With difficulty, he collected his reluctant children from the balcony, loaded them into the station wagon, and rattled off down the street.

On the drive home, my mind churned with indecision. 

Should I? 

Shouldn't I? 

In my heart, I knew the answer should be a resounding no.  But Ray was the first taker in two months, and I really needed to rent out the apartment soon. 

After supper, I dialed the number for Ray’s landlord.

" ‘ello?" a man shouted into the phone.  I could hear a television blaring in the background. 

"Wait just a minute, please.  Hey!  Turn that thing down!" he yelled, and the television sound grew somewhat muted. 

"Right, now, who d'you want?"

"I'm looking for Ray Molinard's landlord," I ventured.

"Yup, that's me.  What can I do for you?"

"Ray's interested in renting my apartment and gave me your phone number.  Could you give me a reference for him?"

"Oh, yeah.  Well . . . Ray's okay."

"Did you have any problems with him?"

"Noooo.  Well, yeah, we had some arguin' about the recyclin'.  Ray wouldn't sort things into the recyclin' bins properly.  But, you know . . . little things like that.  Nothing major or nuth’n."

"What about the children?"

"They're just kids, you know?"

"Yes.  Well, it's rather short notice.  Would you be comfortable with Ray moving out now?  I mean, not getting his rent for next month?"

"Oh, tha’s okay.  I got some other folks wanting to move in, anyhow.  Ray can move out any time he wants to."

"Okay, then.  Thanks very much.  Goodbye."

I decided I would #rent the apartment to Ray, albeit on a six-month trial at first.  I hung up the phone and made a note to myself to call the #Department of #Social #Services in the morning to let them know about the change in landlord and to arrange for them send February's voucher to me instead.  I also had to call Mr. Catcher to come and write up the #security #agreement.  Unfortunately, he proved to be booked solid until March 2nd.

When I called Ray to tell him he could take the apartment, he was very pleased to hear the news.

"But you've got to do the recycling bit," I warned him, and he promised me he would.  As the first of the month was a Tuesday, I also told Ray I would give him the keys on the evening of Friday the 28th, so he could move in over the weekend, for which he was profoundly grateful.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Shocked by the Sheriff

Several cases were scheduled to be heard ahead of my case, so I decided that, while I was waiting, I would try to get the police report for last week's disturbance, in case Natasha tried to deny it all.

I slipped out the back door of the court room where a heated discussion was raging between the opposing parties as to whether a certain carpet had or had not been properly laid. 

The city court clerk let me use the phone in an adjacent office-cum-junk-room.  Perched amidst dusty, discarded file cabinets and unidentifiable pieces of dismantled office furniture, I called the police station.  When I eventually reached the appropriate department, the woman at the other end was at first reluctant to help me.

"We don’t give out incident reports over the phone," she told me.  "You will need to file a Freedom of Information request."

I explained the situation to her. 

"I'm at city court right now, waiting for my case to be heard.  If you could just give me the names of the #police officers who responded to the call, that would be something.  You see, my #tenant is probably going to deny everything, and I thought I should get some ammunition to prove my case to the #judge.”

The woman unbent a little as she sympathized with my plight. 

"I'd like to help," she said, "but . . .

"Oh well, seeing as you're about to go into court, I'll read the incident report to you over the phone." 

She proceeded to read the names of the officers who had responded and related that they had arrived at the #apartment and removed seven people from the #premises.  The name of the person allegedly responsible for holding the party meant nothing to me.  Natasha wasn’t even  mentioned.

I scribbled down the details on a scrap of paper and thanked the woman profusely.

When I returned to the courtroom, I didn’t have long to wait until the clerk was sonorously intoning the name of my case.

"Scuttlebutt v. Fluff?"

I walked sprightly up the aisle to stand before the judge by a table on the left of the aisle.  Natasha shuffled along behind and came to rest, lounging against a table on the right.

Judge Grazziano read aloud the clerk’s report and fixed Natasha with a disapproving frown. 

"I understand you have violated my Order," he said in a grave voice.

Natasha scowled. 

"I dunno what you talkin' about.  Theah was nutt'n goin' on.  I weren't even home."

"Your Honor," I ventured politely.  "I just got off the phone with the police station." 

I waved my scrap of paper at him. 

"It says that Officers Smith and Jones were called to fifty-one Manson Street at eleven p.m.  A loud party was in progress, and the police removed seven people from the premises.  My downstairs tenant says that shortly after the police left, the people all came back again and continued the party, though they did reduce the noise level somewhat.”

I shook my head in exasperation. 

“Judge, last week you told Natasha not to cause any more disturbances, and that very same night . . .

I gave a heavy sigh.

"I just want her out of my house, your Honor."

Judge Grazziano directed his gaze at the sullen Natasha. 

"I must say, I was hoping not to see you back in court again so soon."

"S’not fair!" Natasha protested.  "I weren't even there!"

"Whether you were or were not present at the time," said the judge, "is not important.  There were unauthorized persons in your apartment creating a disturbance.  This case is referred to the #Sheriff for a three-day #eviction of the respondent."

Bang went the gavel.

Natasha stormed out of the court room, muttering obscenities under her breath. 

"What do I do now?" I whispered to the judge's clerk, an ancient old biddy with a full head of white hair.

"You must prepare an order and warrant for the judge's signature.  Once he's signed them, you must deliver them to the Sheriff for service," the old biddy whispered back obligingly.

The Sheriff's office was located in the Schemmerhorn County Jail.  As I’d never had cause to visit a jail before, it was with some trepidation that a few days later, armed with a warrant signed by the judge, I pushed open the huge glass door and entered that lofty establishment.  I didn’t know quite what to expect – maybe rows of cells, with prisoners gazing despondently out through the bars, as in the movies?

The reality was disappointing.  Not one prisoner in sight.  The glass door simply opened onto a large, empty waiting room with a small glassed-in office to one side, labeled "Sheriff."

A woman with a blond rinse wrinkled plump, powdered cheeks at me through the glass above the counter.  Her disembodied voice floated hollowly from a speaker on my side of the glass.

"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yes," I answered.  "I have here a #warrant for eviction for the Sheriff to serve on my tenant." 

I pushed the form under the glass.

The woman checked that it had been signed by the judge. 

"There's a seventy-one dollar fee for the service of the warrant," she told me.

I gulped at the news.

"Will the warrant be served today or tomorrow?  There’s only ten days until the end of the month, and the warrant gives my tenant three days to move out.  I want her out by the end of this month."

"Oh, it'll probably be served tomorrow," the woman said with a nod, "but the Sheriff is very busy.  He won't be able to schedule the physical eviction until about the second week of December." 

She appeared to take pity at the sight of my crestfallen face. 

"Usually the tenant doesn't know the Sheriff is too busy to actually throw them out at the three-day point.  It'll probably be all right."

I sighed. 

"Well, assuming the worst, what happens if she isn't gone by the time the Sheriff comes to evict her?  I mean, do you put all her furniture out on the street, or something?”

"If she hasn’t moved out, the landlord is responsible for transporting the tenant's furniture to a storage facility, where it can be stored for up to two months," came the reply.

"What!" I gasped.  "It's my responsibility?  And who pays for this?"

"You do."

"Let me check I've got this right," I said.  "Because I’m evicting my tenant for creating disturbances, infesting the house with cockroaches, and generally making my life and the neighbors' lives hell, I have to pay the Sheriff seventy-one dollars to serve the eviction papers? 

"And then, if she doesn't move out, I have to pay for her furniture to be removed and stored for two months?"

The woman shrugged.  "That's how it is."

"That's so unfair!" I exclaimed.  "Why should I have to pay to store her furniture if she refuses to obey the judge's Order and not move?  I mean, it looks as if she's got all the rights.  Where are my rights in all this?"

The woman just looked at me with pursed lips, and delicately nibbled on a red-painted fingernail.

I took a deep breath.  "Can I store the furniture myself?"

The woman paused mid-nibble.

"No, it has to be at an official storage facility.  We can't have angry #landlords storing their evicted tenants' furniture.  They might take their frustrations out on the furniture." 

Her voice began to sound a little impatient.  I’d had my moan.  She'd dispensed a modicum of sympathy.  There was nothing more she could do for me.  I must now get out of her face. 

She began patting at her blond rinse and looking over her shoulder, as if someone were calling her from a back room. 

I took the hint and left. 

After writing out a check, of course.

The $71.00 I paid to the Sheriff turned out to be a waste of money because Natasha moved out at the end of the month, and I called the Sheriff’s office to advise them of this fact.

I placed an advertisement in the Schemmerhorn Gazette -- #rent listed at $475.00 -- and implored Miz James to tell me if she knew of any friend or relative who might be looking to rent an apartment any time soon.

During the week, Mr. Catcher from #Social #Services came to inspect the upstairs apartment for my #damage #claim.  Wim and I had written up a list of the painting and repairs that needed to be done, and I was very happy to learn that I would be receiving the maximum amount allowed in the #security #agreement: two months rent! 

My happiness was short-lived, however, when I discovered that this would barely cover all of the #repair items and #labor fees.  Though greatly discounted, Wim needed to charge me for his labor.  For all the time he spent working at 51 Manson Street, he could be earning more money working for his own customers.

The next weekend, a man called about the apartment. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: . . . and Garbage Galore

There was no sign of impending removal from the #apartment. 

Wim was right; the place was an absolute mess, and there was food everywhere.

I gingerly picked up a paper plate that was lying upside-down on top of the fish tank.  Lots of disgusting #cockroaches scattered in all directions. 

Ugh! 

The paper plate had dried macaroni stuck to it.  I dropped it in a hurry.

The kitchen looked terrible.  The sink was full of dirty dishes encrusted with unidentifiable lumps; probably dried food, though it was difficult to tell because the lumps were hidden beneath a furry layer of whitish-turquoise mold. 

The stove was caked with its own crusty, burnt-on lumps and a layer of thick, brown grease. 

I didn't dare open the fridge or oven. 

An assortment of garments had been yanked half out of the washing machine and dryer.  More items of clothing were scattered all over the filthy floor or draped across the backs of chairs. 

The garbage bags on the back landing had increased in number and were now encroaching on the kitchen. Their suppurating contents were leaking out, so that each bag stood in its own little puddle of stinking liquid. 

The stench was palpable. 

 Cockroaches ambled about on every surface and wall, as if they had all the time in the world. 

I shivered in revulsion, suddenly experiencing a horrid, creepy sensation, as if the bugs were crawling all over me. 

Yuck!  I couldn’t wait to get out of there! 

"C'mon, Wim.  Let's leave," I said. 

He needed no encouragement.  Without further ado, we hot-footed it down the stairs.

Miz James was lying in wait on the front porch. 

"Found out something," she fussed importantly. 

"When Natasha weren't here, she were in jail.  Thas right.  J-A-I-L.  An' her kids have been taken away from her because she went to New York City one day and left them here alone.  Someone saw ’em wanderin’ the streets and called the cops."

I’d never met a real live jailbird before! 

"What was she in jail for?" I asked.

"Dunno," said Miz James, looking crestfallen that she hadn’t been able to discover this fact. 

However, she soon perked up again. 

"Apparently Natasha been inside a few times in the past coupla months.  Most likely for prostitution or drugs, I’d say.  That business still all goin' on.  People comin' an' goin'.  The guy working on the house next door told me he even saw some men comin’ in heah wit guns!"

"Ooh," I said.  "That's scary."

"Darn right, Stace.  You know there's a drug house down the street?  They found syringes.  I heard Natasha often took her kids there. 

"An’ that motel at the end of the street?  Well, most a their clee-on-tell are prostitutes and johns.  Don’t know if they got no air-conditioning there, or they don’ ’ave no more vacancies, but quite a few a those prostitutes bring their johns past here to the graveyard.  I bet you a lotta kinky sex goes on behind those gravestones, whoo-eey!”

Miz James blew a gusty sigh of disgust. 

“What kinda place is this to bring kids up in, you know?  This neighborhood . . . I tell you!”

Shaking her head, she went back into her apartment and slammed the door.

The next day, I was sitting in my office, chewing over the wording of a #City #Court #petition for #eviction, when Miz James phoned.

"Natasha returned a few minutes after you left yesterday," she panted.  "Think you'd better get over here."

"Why?"

"Got a notice for you from the #Code #Enforcement Office.  They giving you seventy-two hours to #fumigate the house and exterminate these 'roaches.  Natasha must a reported you to the authorities."

"Great," I sighed.  "She's retaliating because of the three-day notice I gave her.  She should be responsible for paying for the #exterminators.  Not me."

I called Schemmerhorn’s #building #inspector and explained the situation to him. 

He could see where I was coming from.  After all, he probably saw this kind of thing every day. 

I told him I was in the process of evicting my upstairs tenant and asked if the extermination could wait until after Natasha had vacated the premises.

"After all, what's the point in doing it now if she's still living there, making the same mess and inviting more infestation?" I suggested. 

A reasonable request, I thought.

 A young, go-ahead-sounding Mr. Bray sounded sympathetic.

“I agree," he said. "If it wasn’t so bad, I could let it wait until your tenant moved out.  However, I inspected the place myself, and it's one of the worst cockroach infestations I've ever seen.  I mean, I’ve seen a lot of them, and this?  This . . . is . . . bad!  You really have to deal with it immediately."

 I had been growing steadily more upset as I listened to Mr. Bray.  It just wasn’t fair!

"According to the lease, Natasha's supposed to keep the apartment clean and pay for any pest control herself if the #infestation is her fault," I tried.

Mr. Bray laughed incredulously. 

"Good luck with that!  I doubt you'll ever get the money from her.  No, really, you gotta get this done now, within three days, and show us proof that a reputable company has performed the extermination.  Otherwise, we'll appoint a company on your behalf and send you the bill. 

“And as far as your tenant continuing to create the filthy conditions that brought the cockroaches in in the first place?  Well, she's probably gonna keep right on doing that til she moves.  You'll just have to keep exterminating every month until she's gone.  Probably long afterwards, too.  'Roaches are very hard to get rid of." 

By this time I was practically sobbing.  I felt an intense hatred toward Natasha at that moment.

After we said goodbye, I sniffed hard and tried to compose myself enough to return to my desk. 

One of the law partners, a portly gentleman named Larry, tried to comfort me and offered to call the building inspector himself. 

I declined.  It wouldn’t be any use.  His hands were tied.

I looked in the Yellow Pages and called some #pest #control companies.  Apparently the whole #house would have to be #fumigated, and it would require three or more follow-up visits to get a good handle on the #extermination process. 

The least expensive company I could find was an outfit called Greatest Pest Control.  They charged $96.30 for the initial visit and $42.80 for each follow-up. 

Wincing at the cost, I arranged with Greatest Pest Control to provide the service and faxed proof of their hiring to the Schemmerhorn Code Enforcement Bureau.

Then I phoned Miz James and Natasha to let them know that the exterminators were scheduled for the twenty-ninth of that month. 

While I had Miz James on the phone, I asked her to write a letter "To Whom it May Concern," stating that I was a good #landlord and Natasha was a bad #tenant. 

I wanted to gather as much ammunition as I could to take with me to Court.