CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Chasin' Charmayne

About a month later, I decided it was time to take Charmayne to #Court to try and #collect the #rent she still owed me from October through February.  The total sum only amounted to $116.02, but I'd also spent about $500.00 in repairs, so I was determined to get what I could. Charmayne had been ignoring all my letters and phone calls, so I went ahead and filed a #petition in Small Claims Court. The City Clerk mailed it to Charmayne's mother's house on Knife Street, which was the only Charmayne-related address I had. I soon received a frantic phone call from said mother.

"What's this petition thing come in the mail?" she demanded.

"Overdue rent,” I told her. “It's all explained in the petition."

"Why's my name on it, though?” she practically screamed in my ear. “I have to go to court too?  I don't owe you no rent. You ain’t gett'n nutt'n from me. I've never even met you."

"Don't worry," I assured her. "Your name's only included on the petition because you're the ‘care of’ address. You don't have to go to court. Just Charmayne."

"Humph," Ma grunted and slammed the phone down in my ear.

Charmayne called soon afterwards.  "Why're you taking me to Court?  I said I'd pay you when I can."

"You did say that,” I agreed, “but that was ages ago and nothing's happened. You've been ignoring all my letters and phone calls. The only option I have is to take you to court."

"I never got no letters from you," Charmayne protested.

"Oh yes you did," I told her. "I sent it certified mail, care of your mother, and she signed for it."

"Oh."

"lf you want, I can send you a copy of the return receipt," I offered. "If you pay me before the tenth of the month, you won't have to to go court. But if you don't pay me, then I have to go to court to protect my interests."

Charmayne spluttered loudly into the phone, then, like her parent before her, hung up loudly in my ear.

I sent her a copy of the return receipt, signed by her mother. As expected, no payment was forthcoming.  I kind of hoped Charmayne wouldn't show up in Court so I could get a default judgment against her, but when the day arrived, the #Judge was delayed, and Charmayne slipped into the courtroom a minute later.

After sitting through the first few cases, it was my turn to be heard. Charmayne and her Ma, a hard-bitten, young-old woman, followed me up the aisle to the front of the courtroom to stand before none other than the mustachioed Judge Grazziano.

He recited my petition out loud. Then, eyeing Charmayne over the tops of his spectacles, her asked her if, in her opinion, the dollar amount stated in the petition was accurate.

"I guess," she reluctantly conceded.

"And do you intend to pay this amount?" 

"I told her I'll pay her when I can," Charmayne answered.

"Your Honor," I broke in. "She's been promising that for months but it never materializes."

Judge Grazziano looked back at Charmayne.  "Do you have a job?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Fun World."

"She's been there since last November," I put in.

"Address?" the Judge asked. Charmayne remained stoically silent.

"Worthington Street Extension," I answered in her stead. "I've tried contacting them but they won't take my calls and they return all my letters."

Judge Grazziano frowned.  "Where do you live now, Charmayne?"

"Main Street."

"Number?"

"One one one one."

"Apartment number?"

"Two."

The Judge raised his gavel.  "Judgment for the #claimant."

"Your Honor," I said quickly.  "She's got a lawsuit pending for personal injury.  Can I at least get her social security number?"

"Very well," the jurist agreed. "What's your social security number, Charmayne?"

"It's on the lease," was her answer.

"No it's not," I said.

"What is your social security number?" Judge Grazziano repeated, a little testily.

Charmayne gabbled something and was made to repeat her answer, which she did in slightly slower gabbles.

I scribbled the social security number down on my file folder next to where I'd written her equally-garbled response as to her current address.

The Judge looked at me. "We done here?"

I nodded.

"Rule for the #petitioner."  Bang went the gavel.

Driving back to my office, I felt emboldened by my small victory and decided to stop by 51 Manson Street to see if Giselle could pay me the two months' rent I was also owed by her.  The background to this circumstance was as follows: 

Claiming that Social Services was late in paying her check to her, Giselle had promised to send me a money order as soon as the check arrived. Some days later, she apparently mailed me the money order but when it failed to arrive, opined that the post office must have lost it and that she would investigate. Two days later, she called to say that she’d erroneously mailed the money order to her sister in Florida instead of to me, but that her sister was returning it by return post, and as soon as it arrived, Giselle would mail it on to me. A week later, when it still failed to materialize, I called Giselle to find out what was going on. She apologized profusely for forgetting to mail it and assured me that she would mail it the next day. To date, no money order. 

Marvin opened the door to my knock and asked me to wait whilst he rummaged through Giselle's dresser for the money order.  To my relief, he came back with two money orders for two months' rent.

As I turned to leave, Marvin called me back. "You see what Shirley and Jerry put up?" he asked, indicating a tall wooden fence separating the neighbors' #property from mine. "Giselle was wonderin' if you could put a fence up on the other side of the yard? The fence we have now is all loose an' everything, and the dog can get out. Giselle wants to let him run loose in the back yard."

"Let's take a look," I offered.  We tramped up the alley to the back yard where the chain-link fence was indeed looking very sorry for itself.

"Jerry got his wood real cheap," Marvin continued.  "If you buy the wood, I can put the fence up for you.  No charge."

I thought for a moment.  "The thing is, even though I just got two months' worth of back rent from Giselle, she still owes me three hundred and seventy-five dollars from last August. I really don't want to spend any more of my own money til that's paid that off too."

"I don't know about that," Marvin said.  "I’m jes tellin' you about the fence, and the labor will be free."

"Why don't you get me an estimate?" I suggested, "and I'll think about it."

Marvin nodded. "Okay, an’ there's another thing.  We need recycle bins. The City's changed the rules. They're not going to pick up bags no more. We need a container."

"You don’t have your own garbage cans?"

"Yeah, but we need another one for recyclin'.  The landlord's supposed to provide those."

I sighed. "Anything else?"

Marvin pointed to a hole at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the house. "That there needs fixin'. I tried fillin’ it wit’ rocks and stuff, but the kids from upstairs ... they keep pickin' at it an' makin' it bigger."

"All right,” I said. “I'll find out about that, too.” 

At that moment, Diane popped her head over the balcony above our heads. “Diane?" I yelled to her. "You keep your kids away from that hole, you hear? I don't want someone suing me because they've broken their ankle." She giggled and disappeared back inside.

When I got back to the office, I called the City and learned that, yes, fixing the #sidewalk in front of the #house was indeed my responsibility. They also told me I could purchase any kind of garbage can for recyclables, so long as I put stickers on it, which the City would send to me.

I wrote to Giselle to let her know I'd be delivering a #recycling bin as soon as the stickers arrived.  As an afterthought, I added that she was welcome to pay off her debt to me by purchasing the wood.
No stickers arrived, but my father did, accompanied by his fourth wife, Brenda. She was a six-foot-tall Amazon-of-a-woman, with a weather-beaten face and a no-nonsense manner, but she had a fun, kind personality. Following Frederica's death, our family was drawing together.

They stayed with us for two weeks, and Daddy was barely moody at all. He particularly enjoyed getting reacquainted with Andrea and Bronwyn, who had grown quite a bit since he'd seen them last.  Bronwyn kept him entertained for hours with her endless chatter and funny impressions, while Andrea demonstrated the gymnastics prowess she'd undoubtedly inherited from her athletic grandpa. “These granddaughters of mine are quite delightful,” Daddy was heard to declare one day in a proud voice.  

In between Daddy and Brenda's sightseeing trips, I also enjoyed spending some quality time with my father. He was into New Age music, and one night we sat together in the living room watching my new Yanni video.  I remember sharing a glance of silent appreciation with him as the music surged to a crescendo at the end of a track. We both had tears in our eyes at the beauty of the soaring violins.  It was a special moment.  Mummy, Wim, and Brenda were outside on the back deck, no doubt wincing at the noise but they managed to endure the whole length of the music video without making any snide comments, which was very public-spirited of them.

Toward the end of Daddy’s stay, I asked him if he knew what time it was that Frederica had woken up from her semi-comatose state and spoken to Janie for the last time. I was amazed to learn that it was just about the exact moment that I’d been trying to connect with her via ESP, holding her hand in my mind and sending her my strength. I looked down at my sister's favorite cameo ring that Daddy had brought me from South Africa, and my heart swelled as I twisted it around on my finger.

I was having such a nice time with my father, that I forgot all about buying the recycling bin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Feast or Famine

Over the next few days, my mother received a few phone calls about the #apartment, but they didn’t amount to much. One was from the administrator of a local college looking for student #housing, but our conflicting schedules caused him to choose a #house elsewhere.   Another call was from a bunch of students.  They didn’t sound very keen when they heard the description and never got back to me.  Mummy’s strategy obviously was not having much effect.  I called the Schemmerhorn Gazette to lower the #rent to $450 per month.

On Friday, a woman was interested enough to call me at work, having been given the number by Mummy.  Her name was Linda Fletcher, she had two children, and was looking to move out of a two-bedroom apartment downtown into something larger.

We arranged to meet on Saturday, and to my amazement she said she would make sure she was there on time so I wouldn’t have to wait around for her.

I couldn’t believe it.  At last, a human!

I arrived in Schemmerhorn that Saturday, a little early as usual and alone.  Since it was such a nice day, my sister Frederica had opted to stay home to sunbathe on the deck. 

I hadn't been at the house for more than a few minutes when I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Hello?" someone called.

"Hello!" I yelled back.  "Come on in."

The door opened and in puffed a plump woman with an enormous amount of black hair.  It was long and crinkly, swept up on both sides into a large frizzy mound on the top of her head, from which cascaded an abundance of long, thick braids.

"Hi, I'm Linda," she announced buoyantly, hand outstretched.

I took her hand, mentally awarding her points for offering it to me first. 

"I'm Anastasia Scuttlebutt.  Let me show you around."

I went through the usual routine, and Linda seemed quite interested until we came to the bedrooms.

"Are they all this small?" she asked, as we stood in the first bedroom.

"This is the smallest," I told her.  "The other two are a little larger.  Why?  Is that a problem?"

"My bedroom furniture would never fit in here," Linda said.  "I've got a king size bed and big dressers."

I shifted into selling mode.  "Well, you could do what my tenant did downstairs.  She used the front room as her bedroom and the dining room as her living room.  The kitchen's big enough for a table and chairs, or you could use one of the bedrooms as a dining room."

"Hm," Linda pondered, nodding, glossy braids bouncing.

I followed her into the kitchen, where she stood in the middle of the room, staring at the wall behind the stove.  I sneaked a glance at the same wall myself.  Nothing there except an expanse of fresh paint.

I shifted my gaze back to Linda and kept my mouth shut.  I knew from my days as a sales rep that to interrupt a client's thought processes too early could often mean the difference between a "no" and a "yes."

"Hm," Linda said again, still pondering.  "The kitchen's very big, but I dunno.  I’ll have to think about it."

"Okay," I said.  "Would you mind filling out an application in case you decide you do want the place?"

"Sure," she agreed.

I handed her the form, and she filled it out in a few minutes.

"Thanks," I said.  "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"What are the schools like around here?"

"I don't really know because I don't live in this area, but the next door #neighbor is very nice and has a son in the school district.  We can go and ask her, if you like?"

"Sure."

We went next door, and Shirley answered the door to my knock.

"Hi, Shirley.  This is Linda," I told her.  "Linda, Shirley."

The two woman nodded to each other.

"Linda might be interested in moving in next door, and she has some questions about the school district."

"Sure," said Shirley.  "What ages are your children?"

"Nine and ten."

"About my son's age.  Well, the elementary school for this district is excellent.  I'm very happy with it.  The school bus picks up the kids halfway down the street."

"Okay, good," Linda nodded. 

I mentally thanked Shirley for the good report.  "Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it."

"Thanks, Shirley."

Linda and I walked back to number 51.

"I'll give you a call in a few days," she said as she got into her car.

"Fine.  I'll look forward to hearing from you," I said.  "Goodbye."

I drove home, feeling quite positive.  Thank goodness Shirley had had good things to say about the school district – at least the elementary school.  The high school had quite another reputation, altogether.  Maybe Shirley's remarks would sway Linda's decision to rent the place.  She seemed a decent sort.

On Monday, a young woman named Susan phoned and said she was interested in renting the apartment before she’d even looked at it!

"I want to live in Manson Street," she declared. 

I showed her around the apartment that evening after work and had her fill out an application form.  She reminded me a little of Mamie: small and quiet.  She also had a couple of young children in tow and said she wanted to move to a bigger place because the children were getting bigger.

A young, newly married couple also came to look over the apartment that same evening.  

It was either feast or famine.  

The couple – Ditsie by name – appeared very interested in the apartment too.  They looked respectable, both had jobs and no children as of yet.  On the other hand, Susan was on Social Services which mean less rent-paying problems, but she had children, and there was the potential of boyfriend hassles.

I called both applicants' current landlords for references.

Susan's #landlord gave her a glowing reference, but when I asked her about the existence of a husband or significant other, she answered, "She does have a husband, but he's in jail."

Uh, oh.

Next, I called the Ditsies' landlord and received another glowing reference.  

Meanwhile, Linda Fletcher hadn’t called me.  I tried phoning her a few times, but there was never any answer.  I gave her until Tuesday, and then decided to rent the apartment to the Ditsies.  

When I called to tell them so, Mr. Ditsie sounded pleased.  I asked him when he would be available to sign the lease, and he said he would get back to me in a couple of days.

I then called Susan and told her the apartment had been rented.

When the Ditsies didn’t get back to me, I called them on Friday, only to be informed by Mrs. Ditsie that they were still looking at apartments and hadn’t yet made up their minds.

"You're still looking?" I questioned, puzzled.  "I thought we’d agreed you were renting my apartment."

"Yes, well," Mrs. Ditsie said.  "We don't want to sign a lease because we might be moving again pretty soon."

"What do you call soon?"

"Around April."

"Oh, thanks for telling me!  Why didn't you say so when I showed you the apartment?  And did you think I was going to rent to you without a lease?  You’ve probably cost me a month's rent now because I told someone else the apartment was no longer available."

"What can I say?  Sorry."  Mrs. Ditsie said, sounding anything but.

I called Susan straight afterwards to tell her the apartment was available again if she still wanted it. But, sure enough, she told me she had found another place. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: The Sales Spiel

The next day, Mummy received a flood of calls about the #apartment; but no one wanted to see it when they heard it was in Manson Street.

Almost without exception, the calls went like this:

Brrring! Brrring!

"Hello?"

"Hi.  I'm calling about the apartment in the paper?"

"Oh, yes?"

"Can you tell me a bit about it?"

"Well, it has a large living room and dining room, three bedrooms, a large kitchen, a bathroom, and a small room leading off of the living room which can be used as a study or something.  It also has a balcony and an attic."

"Sounds nice.  Where is it?"

"Manson Street."

"Oh. Er, thank you."  Clunk!

or

Silence . . .clunk.

The calls kept coming in, but still no one was interested when they heard where it was.  Mummy eventually resorted to tactics aimed at enticing people.

To the question of “where is it?” – or even beforehand – she would launch into a spiel that went like this:

"Oh, it's a very nice street."  Which I'll admit was overdoing it a wee bit.  "It's on a dead end, so there's no through-traffic.  Except for the prostitutes and their johns, that is  “The street's full of kids riding bikes."  Not adding that they were mostly young hooligans.  "It's a friendly neighborhood."

A couple of people sounded slightly interested at this, although I think my mother’s gushing tended to make the callers a little suspicious.  And of course their suspicions were confirmed when they heard the words "Manson Street."

“I’ll really have to visit this house, of yours,” Frederica said, after overhearing some of Mummy’s more creative descriptions and the disinterest that followed. 

Later on, Mummy resorted to, ". . . Manson Street . . .," and before they could get a word in edgeways, " . . . it used to have a bad name but the #neighborhood's really coming up, you know."

Still no success. 

I couldn't understand it.  To my knowledge, nothing particularly bad or, should I say, worse than usual had happened on Manson Street since I bought the house. Why the bad name and the stay-away-at-all-costs reputation?

After a few more days, Mummy phoned me at work.

"A prospective #tenant just called who sounds really interested, even when I told him the #house was on Manson Street," she said.  "I've got the number.  I think you should call him."

"Right."  I took down the number and called right away.  A man answered the phone, and I told him who I was.

"Oh, yes," he said.  "Do you know if it's near Thomas Street, ‘cause my wife has some friends living there that she likes to visit."

"I'm not sure," I answered, "but we can look on a map."

We made an appointment for Saturday morning. 

Saturday dawned.  Allen went to Schemmerhorn with me to keep me company.  We arrived a half-hour early, complete with brooms, mops, and vacuum cleaner, to give the place a quick once-over before the people arrived.

We drove up to the house to find the street door to the second-floor apartment standing wide open; a couple of scruffy little girls and a boy were darting in and out of the doorway.

"What the . . .!" I exclaimed, leaping out of the car next to where Shirley was chatting to the neighbor from across the street.

"Who's in the upstairs apartment?" I demanded, rather unfairly, of the poor woman.

Poor Woman looked slightly taken aback.  "I thought you knew," she said.  "They moved in on Monday.  You mean, you didn't know?"

"No, I did not!"

"Well, Jerry and me, we thought, gee Anastasia rented that place real quick.  I mean, we only saw you last Saturday, and they was in on the Monday."

"We'll see about that!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Feces and Filth

Luckily, the end of the month was a weekend.  Wim and I went to Schemmerhorn to make sure that Ray was leaving, and to clean the #apartment once he'd gone.  Thus armed with cleaning tools and supplies, we advanced on number 51.  We were pleased to find Ray in the process of moving things out of the apartment and loading them into the huge old station wagon. Wim and I sat next door on Shirley and Jerry's front steps to watch and wait.

The old station wagon was bursting at the seams by the time all the to-ing and fro-ing had stopped.  Without a word or a glance in our direction, Ray piled his children into the car, and it creaked slowly away up the street, listing to the left as always under the extra load.

Miz James came bustling out at that moment and followed Wim and I upstairs, eager to see for herself what condition the apartment was in.  She was not to be disappointed.  We could smell the stench, even before we reached the top of the stairs.  Bluebottles were also thoroughly enjoying the smell of feces and God-knows-what-else, judging by the hordes of flies that buzzed furiously in every room.

The first thing we did was open the windows.  Ugh!  How could they have lived in that stink?

Apart from dirty walls, the living and dining rooms were not too bad.  But, the bathroom

. . . ! 

            I stopped dead in the doorway.  The floor was strewn with used sanitary napkins lying face up, and there was a pool of what looked like pee around the base of the toilet.  Feces floated in the grimy bowl.

Holding my nose, I hastily flushed the toilet and escaped to find rubber gloves and a garbage bag to collect the offensive, bloody napkins.

In the second bedroom, caked on the floor and in-between the floorboards, was what appeared to be more feces – human or animal, I couldn’t tell.  I hastily opened the window, and Wim went to work with a putty knife. 

In the third bedroom I found not one, but two buckets full of urine.

"What is this!" I exclaimed.  "Don't they believe in using the toilet?"

Miz James, who had been poking around in delighted horror, bustled off downstairs, no doubt to regale Shirley with the disgusting news.  The #cockroaches were again very much in evidence, but an urgent call to a #pest #control company got me an emergency visit early Monday morning. 

This time, I chose a company called Action Pest Control, who advertised a lot on TV. They claimed that bugs wouldn’t stand a chance against their Ghost-Buster-look-alike “Action Man.”  They charged nearly twice as much as Greatest Pest Control – $160 for the initial visit – but follow-up visits were the same: $42.80.  I don’t know why I opted to go with them – Greatest Pest Control had done a good job previously – so I guess it goes to show what aggressive advertising can do.

Wim, Allen and I worked hard, scrubbing and cleaning all afternoon.  I was just about to attack the refrigerator, and Allen the oven, when Bryan dropped by.

"Hey," he said, sauntering in – a sexy figure in blue jeans and flowing, chestnut curls.  "Heard about the mess from Shirley.  How's it going?"

"Not so bad," I said, slowly straightening my aching back.  "You'll be able to move in tomorrow but  I won't be able to do any repairs or painting until Mr. Catcher from Social Services does the inspection in a couple of weeks."

"That's okay," Bryan said.  "Hey, I was gonna ask you.  Would it be okay if I put a fan up in the ceiling of the living room?  And I was thinking of putting sliding doors between the living room and dining room, like you have downstairs.  I mean, they'd stay if we left, and it wouldn't cost you nothin'."

"I don't see why not," I said.  "As long as you don't gouge holes in the walls, or anything like that."

"Oh, no," Bryan assured me.  He took a last look around.  "See ya."

"I'll leave the keys with Miz James!" I yelled after him.

"Okay!"

On Monday afternoon, a few hours after the "Action Man" had defogged the apartment, Mamie and Bryan moved in.  Wim met with the #building #inspector a few days later and with Mr. Catcher the following week.  I was delighted to learn that I was again eligible for the maximum amount of Ray’s #security #agreement – two months’ #rent – and Wim informed Mamie and Bryan that he would stop by the next week to make repairs.

Meanwhile, I received a phone call at work from Child Protective Services.  The caseworker told me she was investigating a neglect charge, which had been filed against Ray Molinard.  Hoping to somehow help Ray's kids, I told her what I had witnessed - the condition of the apartment, the cockroaches, buckets of pee, dried feces on the floor.  I suspected it was Miz James who had reported Ray to the authorities, and the next time I saw her, she gleefully told me that Ray’s next-door-neighbor-friends had also moved out.

"Done a moonlight flit," she breathlessly announced.  "I heard as how Ray and them 'ave taken over a #two-family nearby."

"Well, good riddance to them," I said fervently.  "So long as they stay away from here.  I pity their new #landlord, though."

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.