CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Nose-Wear and Fashion Flair

Since receiving Mr. Catcher’s rejection note regarding Mamie’s damages, I had been going to Manson Street just about every evening after work to paint the #apartment.  Now that I was somewhat more experienced at painting, it didn’t take me as long as the last time.  The fact that I was less painstakingly pernickity about painting the trim probably had something to do with it too.

My sister Frederica sometimes accompanied me when she wasn't too tired after a day of entertaining my mom's summer camp kids, so at least we were able to spend some time together catching up on news.  

It was now Sunday: a week to go until August.  Despite adding the words “Money Back” to my advertisement in the Schemmerhorn Gazette, I was beginning to resign myself to the prospect of another month without #rent, when a girl named Kristina called to inquire if the apartment was still available.  I told her it was, and she asked if she could come along, right now that morning, to see it.

"Sure," I said.  "I can be there in half an hour."

Leaving Mummy and Frederica busily sewing a long mouse tail, stiffened with handfuls of glue, onto a leotard that Bronwyn was to wear in one of the camp’s end-of-summer performances, I drew up outside number 51, just as two very dark-skinned girls rode up on bicycles. 

One of them mumblingly introduced herself as Kristina.  She was short, stocky, and wore her hair in lots of tight braids.  The other girl, younger, slimmer, but equally be-braided, was her sister, Priscilla.  Both sported shiny nose rings.

I showed them around the apartment.  It looked spic and span, with its white walls and newly- painted floors.  There was, however, just one problem.  I’d painted the wooden floors a rich chocolaty-brown color and mistakenly used wall paint instead of floor paint.  As a result, our shoes stuck to the painted floorboards, coming away at each step with a squelchy, ripping sound, like pulling Velcro apart.  Luckily, Kristina and her sister seemed not to notice the sound effect, though their heavy tread made the ripping sound louder.  They quickly walked around the apartment, impressed by the size of it.  Meanwhile, I was trying to size them up.  They seemed pretty innocuous.

When we got to the kitchen, Kristina announced, "Okay, I wan' it."

"Really? Well, I'll need to get some information from you first." I said. "First of all, why are you moving?"

"I got me two keeds, and where we live, they don' 'ave no place to play that's safe.  Our street's pretty bad, you know?"

"I see.  Well, you know your children would only have the street to play in here too?  At least we're on a dead end, and it's pretty safe, judging by the number of kids who're always playing outside."

"I see that," Kristina agreed.

"How many would be living here?" I asked.  "And how would you be paying the rent?"

"Me and muh keeds and sometimes muh sister'll be livin' heah.  See, our parents died, so my sister, she live mostly with muh uncle.  Social Services will pay the rent."

"All right," I said.  "It's almost August.  Will you be able to move in by the first of the month?  Don't you have to give your landlord notice?  And what about D.S.S.?"

"Yeah, it might be too late, but I still wanna move in heah.  Your ad said there’d be some money back?"

"Yes.  I'll take two hundred dollars off the first month's rent, so you'd only need to pay me two-fifty for August."

"Okay, I can handle that.  Muh brother can gimme the money."

I pushed away the thought that I had gotten into trouble before from accepting tenants on the spot.  I was getting desperate again, though, and Kristina and her sister couldn’t be as bad as Ray and Co, could they?  

"Would you be prepared to sign a lease?" I asked.

"Sure, okay."

I quickly went over the lease I had brought with me, just in case.  Kristina nodded at all the clauses I read aloud to her, such as the tenant being responsible for keeping the place clean, refraining from illegal activity,  etc.  When we had read through the whole thing, she signed on the dotted line, and I congratulated her on becoming the new tenant of Apartment #2, 51 Manson Street. 

Priscilla looked dully on during the whole process, only piping up at the end. 

 "How long is the #lease for?"

"A year."  

She grunted and resumed her bored expression.  Neither of the sisters seemed to possess an overabundance of personality, but that was okay: dull, boring #tenants were good.

"Would you mind coming downstairs to meet my other tenants, if they're home?" I asked.  

Giselle and her boyfriend, Marvin, knew just about everyone in the #neighborhood.  I thought it might be a good idea to run Kristina by them, just in case.

Giselle proved not to be at home, and Marvin was just getting into his car outside.  With a quick wave of his hand, he roared off down the street.  Oh, well.

I drove home, rejoicing in the fact that I had a new tenant.  My money worries should be over for a while.  I pushed aside the little kernel of doubt that was niggling inside my head, telling me I shouldn’t have signed Kristina up so fast without at least checking her #references first.  However, I had come to the conclusion that a #landlord would say anything to get rid of a problem tenant, so references weren’t very reliable, anyway.

A few hours after I arrived home, the phone rang.  It was a girl called Charmayne Brown and she wanted to know if the apartment was still available.  I told her I had just rented it.

"Aw," she moaned.  "My aunt lives right next door.  I really wanted to move in there."

"Oh," I said.  "Well, uh, I suppose I could still show you around.  You never know.  It might fall through with this other girl."

"Yes, please," Charmayne said, eagerly.

"You want to come along?" I asked Frederica.

We drove over to Schemmerhorn after lunch.  The floor was still sticky, and the first few steps we took into the apartment still sounded like ripping Velcro.

I looked at Frederica, she looked at me, and we burst into helpless giggles.

"Come into my parlor," Frederica croaked in a horrid imitation of Cruella Deville from The 101 Dalmatians.

Shortly thereafter, Charmayne arrived.  She was a short, heavyset girl with shoulder-length, mousy brown hair and a stud in her nose.  She was accompanied by a taller, heavier girl.

"This is my friend, Maureen." Charmayne waved at the other girl.  "We're going to be roommates."  

Maureen had a short bob of thick, black hair cut into the shape of a bowl sitting on her head.  It did nothing for her.  She also sported a nose stud.  Nose wear seemed to be the "in" thing nowadays.  I’d seen two nose rings and two nose studs in one day.

The girls noticed the stickiness of the floor but didn’t remark on it.  I tried to tread very lightly, so as to minimize the Velcro effect as much as possible, but the heavy-footed Charmayne and Maureen more than made up for my light tread.  We sounded quite spectacular as we ripped our way from room to room.  An equally heavy-footed Frederica very kindly remained in the living room, while I showed the two girls around.  

They liked the place and were very keen to take it.  We ended up in the living room by the mantelpiece, where I’d left some blank application forms.

Charmayne had been telling me how she lived with her parents and was mother to a little boy.  She had just found a job and wanted to live on her own.  Social Services would cover part of her rent because of her single mother status.  Maureen also had a job at a nearby supermarket and would help with the balance of rent.

"Why don't you fill out one of these, just in case?'  I handed an application to Charmayne.  "You know, I did sign a lease with the girl I showed around this morning, but now that I've met you, I think I'd rather have you as tenants, instead."

Charmayne was busy filling out the application form, when a skinny youth sauntered in through the front door and nonchalantly joined our little group.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Stan . . . Charmayne's brother," he answered casually around a wad of gum.  "I live next door."

"Oh.  With the aunt?"

"Yeah, that's right," he drawled.

All Stan had on was a pair of black cotton shorts and sneakers.  The top of his jockey underpants showed above the waistband of his shorts. Stan obviously thought he looked "real cool,” judging by the number of times he glanced down at his shorts to check that an inch of white underpant was still evident.  If either had ridden up or down, he'd hastily make adjustments. Neither Charmayne nor Maureen seem to find the garb of Charmayne's brother unusual.  

I glanced at Frederica.  She was standing rooted to the floor, a pained expression on her face.  I looked away quickly, lest we make eye contact and both break out into giggles.

Charmayne finished filling out the application and handed the form back to me.  I told her I would give her a call in a day or so.

When the girls and Stan had gone, Frederica thankfully shifted position, to the sound of much ripping and tearing.

"Oh, that's better!" she gasped.  "I couldn't wait for them to go. I was stuck to the floor, and I didn't like to move because it'd make too much noise."  

She bent double and laughed heartily, shaking as she let out suppressed mirth.

Giggling, myself, I waited for Frederica to recover.  When she was able to breathe again, we locked up and left.

Giselle met us on the porch and motioned us back inside.

"Just thought I'd let you know," she said.  "They make a lot of noise, those people next door, and those girls is two of 'em."  

Giselle looked so forbidding that I began to be turned off at the idea of Charmayne and Maureen as tenants.  Any hint of trouble was enough for me, and coming from the mouth of my downstairs tenant, who'd have to live beneath the people she had warned me about . . . 

"An' you showed the apartment to some other woman too?" Giselle went on.  "My boyfrien', he says you don't want them people living' here, neither.  They're big drug dealers."

"Which woman," I asked.

"The one wit a whole mess a braids."

The image of Linda Fletcher popped into my head.  Could she be the one Giselle meant?

"Are you sure she had braids?" I asked.  "Was it someone who came a while back?"

"Dunno.  My boyfrien' just said you don' want that girl wit braids what came here."

For some reason, I didn’t even think of Kristina, who definitely did have braids.  

I talked things over with Frederica on the way home.  

"What did you think of Charmayne and Co?" I asked her.

"Seemed okay."

"But what about what Giselle said, about them making a lot of noise?  It sounded like they'd be a rowdy bunch."

"Well, if Charmayne and Maureen have to party, they can do it next door, can't they?  Which would you rather have?  These two, or the black girl you saw this morning?"

I considered the question in an agony of indecision.  Finally, when we were almost home, I decided.

"I'll keep Kristina," I announced.  "What would Giselle think if I  decided to rent the place to Charmayne, after what she had just told us?"

"I can't say," said Frederica.  "I didn't see Kristina, but I think those girls would've been all right."

"My instinct is telling me to go with Kristina," I said.  "I've gone against my instincts before and gotten into trouble, so this time I'm going with my gut.

We drove for a few minutes, looking at the view.  The road followed the river for quite a way before turned away from it at an old, unused, brick railway station.  The train tracks had been replaced by a bike path.

“What did you think of the girls' nose studs and Stan's pants always falling down?” I asked after a while.

“Pretty funny,” Frederica said.  “It's starting to become the ‘in’ thing in South Africa too."

“Really?  Well, speaking of fashion statements, I guess I shouldn’t be too critical.  I never told you my geriatric ballerina story, did I.”

“No, you didn't.  Do tell?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: The Waif and the Wrestler

I stormed across the street, beckoning vigorously to Allen, who was lounging back against our car, arms akimbo.  He un-lounged himself and loped lankily after me.

Ignoring protests from the scruffy brats, my impetus carried me up the steps of the porch and through the doorway.  I pounded up the stairs, flung open the door at the top, and stopped short on the threshold as a scene of total devastation met my gaze.

A thin waif-of-a-girl rushed over from the front room.  She had matted orange hair curling around a pale, freckled face and was dressed in dirty sweats. 

"Who are you?" she demanded, startled by my sudden appearance.

"This is my #house!" I told her.  "Who are you?  What are you doing here?"

I looked around me in disbelief.  Clothes and belongings were strewn over every spare inch of floor space.

"Look at this mess!" I shrieked.  "I've got people coming to look at the #apartment any minute.  I can't show it to them like this!"

"I got burnt outta my house," the girl ventured, wide eyed.  "Mamie said we could stay here, seein' as how her #rent is paid up 'n everything.  She'll be back in a coupla weeks."

"Well, I've got news for you," I said.  "Mamie's gone to Florida, and she's not coming back.  She's done a moonlight flit."

"Oh.  I wish she'd told me that," the girl said, wringing her hands.

She waved vaguely at the mess.  "I'm busy sorting these out.  I'll be gone tomorrow.  I'm goin' to Washington State to live with my mom.  I've had it here."

I felt the same way. 

"Where are the keys to the apartment?"

"My ex-husband's got 'em."

"Where’s he?"

"Repairin' my car."

“Where?”

“At the garage.”

"What's the phone number?"

"I dunno."

I stared with exasperation into her older-than-her-years, defeated face.

"When is your ex-husband coming back?" I tried again, trying to be patient.

"Prob'ly soon."

At that moment, we heard footsteps mounting the stairs, and a man and woman peered tentatively around the front door.

"Come in," I said.  "I'll show you around.  Sorry about the mess.  I didn't know anyone was here until just now.  It was supposed to be empty.  Anyway, I understand the people who are here will be out of here in a day or two."

The couple looked dumbstruck at the scene of clothing devastation which stretched as far as the eye could see.  I couldn’t blame them.

We toured the apartment, weaving our way gingerly through the scattering of garments.  The husband, a burly black fellow, did the talking; his contrasting wife, a short, delicate-featured Indian woman, tiptoed silently behind with big, dark eyes and expressionless face.

After I’d shown them around and assured them once again that the apartment would be neat and clean and free of squatters by the first of the month, the couple beat a hasty retreat with a quick, "Goodbye. We'll let you know," the wife following her husband's broad back, ever-faithfully, down the stairs.

I watched them go, heaved a sigh, and turned to the waif. 

"Well, thanks to you, they probably won't be taking the apartment."

She started in again with her story about the fire that had burned her out of house and home.  I guess I should have been more sympathetic but I was finding it very difficult.  I mean, couldn’t she have put all the clothing in neat piles instead of strewing it all over every square inch of floor space from wall to wall. 

Allen, my own, ever-faithful counterpart, had remained silent thus far, but now he began to sympathize with the waif.

I cut across his pleasant tones with my more strident ones, adopted especially for recalcitrant children and occasions such as this. 

"You say you'll be out by tomorrow?"

The waif nodded.

"Fine.  I'll let you stay here until then, but I want the keys now.  We'll wait for your husband to return."

I turned and went downstairs in search of Giselle.  She had ignored several letters from me regarding renewing her lease, so I had brought a form with me.  Her children were playing outside but she didn’t answer her doorbell.

As I stood on the porch, wondering what to do, I heard Giselle's dog barking in the back yard and Giselle yelling at it to shut up.

I moseyed on up the alley, prepared to do battle with my unresponsive tenant.  However, she greeted me amiably enough and signed the new lease there and then, pleased to hear that I was keeping the rent at $475.00.

"I'll tell you something, Stacy," she said, handing the form back to me.  "You don't want those people upstairs."

"I know," I agreed.  "But apparently they're leaving tomorrow." 

At that moment, the waif's ex-husband arrived, a beefy man with brown, shoulder-length, greasy hair, balding on top, and a walrus mustache plastered across his purple top lip.  He reminded me of a much dirtier version of Hulk Hogan, the wrestler.

He blustered up the alley toward us. 

"You the landlord?" he demanded gruffly.

"Yes.  I presume you're the ex-husband?"

He grunted.

"So, you'll be out of the apartment by tomorrow?" I said.

The waif had obviously apprised him of the situation because he fingered his mustache and looked shifty.

"She will, but I'm gonna hafta wait 'til Mondy."

"Oh?  Well, I still want the keys."

Hulk sneered at me, the walrus mustache crawling up one side of his doughy face.          

“You're welcome to the keys but I'd rather not give them to you 'til Mondy."

Short of manhandling them off, I chose to give in.

"Okay.  But I'm coming back on Monday night, and if you're not gone, I'm calling the police."

"Okey doke," he grinned leerily and breezed off back down the alley, pausing halfway to scratch at his backside. An ample amount of butt crack was visible above the waistband of his droopy jeans.  A delightful sight.

I turned back to Giselle.  "You heard that?"

She nodded.

"You be sure to collect the keys if they leave before I get here, won't you?"

She nodded again, obviously glad that they were leaving.  A week of #neighbors like that over one’s head was enough.

I followed the Hulk's scent down the alley.

Allen was standing on the porch, chatting to him and the waif about the fire; being nice to them!

I yanked on his arm.  "Let's get out of here."

As we left, I called back over my shoulder.  "Remember . . . Monday . . . out."

In the car, I attacked Allen.

"How could you be so nice to them?  Whose side are you on?"

"Well, they have lost a lot," he answered in his usual, reasonable tone.  "They'll be gone by Monday.  What's the point in being nasty?"

I slumped back in my seat in a huff.  I knew he was right; his kindness is one of the reasons I love him so.  But I still couldn’t help feeling a wee bit betrayed.  I allowed myself a few minutes' indulgence in self-pity.  By the time we reached home, I felt somewhat recovered and quite enjoyed relating the morning's happenings to a satisfyingly-indignant Mummy and Wim.

On Monday, Mr. Catcher phoned me at the office.

"I've looked in the file," he said, "and I see no record of Mamie ever having a security agreement with the Department of Social Services."

"Jeepers!"  I scratched my head for a moment, trying to remember back then.  

“I guess I was thinking that when you came to do Ray Molinard's damage report, you did Mamie's security agreement at the same time.  Mamie did pay me some money when they signed the #lease, but I figured that could take care of September's rent, which they never gave me.  Is there anything you can do about getting me some payment for the damage they've done?  Please, pretty please?"

"I may be able to get you a partial payment, depending on how much money Mamie paid you at the beginning of her lease term.  How much was it?"

"I don't remember off the top of my head.  I'll have to check my records."

"Okay.  Let me know how much, and I'll see what I can do."

Shirley phoned that night during dinner.

"I just wanted to tell you, those people's son threw a rock at my son.  He's got a gash in his head and Jerry's taken ‘im to the hospital.  I've called the cops."

“Oh, Shirley,” I sighed.  “It never ends, does it?  I’ll be over soon.”

Half an hour later, Allen and I left for Schemmerhorn.

The waif was busy loading bags, boxes, and two of the scruffy waifettes into her car.

"I'm surprised to find you still here," I said.

"Yeah, well, I didn't get my car fixed in time," she explained.

“Hm.” 

I turned on my heel and went next door to Shirley's.

She answered the door with a grimace. 

"The cops haven't come yet."

"Let me call them again," I offered.

Shirley showed me where the phone was, and I called the police station. 

"We already put the call out," I was told.

"Well, not only did the son of the people next door hurt the neighbor's son," I told the policeman, "but they’re not even supposed to be in my house in the first place.  They're not paying #tenants. I want them out now, but I'm afraid if I try to get them to leave, the ex-husband might turn violent."

A series of questions from the desk sergeant ensued, and I explained the situation.  The Hulk was probably leaving now, anyway, but I wanted the police to come over, just in case.  Maybe the mention of impending violence would hurry them up a bit. 

Fat chance. 

An hour later, the cops still hadn’t arrived.  Hulk and the waif, meanwhile, looked to be on the point of leaving.  Cleared of clothing, the apartment didn’t actually seem much the worse for wear.

Downstairs, the waif was bidding a tearful goodbye to her son, who was to stay behind with his father, poor thing.  Then she and the two waifettes trundled off down the street in her rusty heap of a car.  It didn’t look or sound healthy enough to get them across town, let alone across country to Washington State.

A few minutes later, Hulk struggled out with a couple of boxes, presumably stuffed with more clothes, judging by the number of errant garments poking out of every opening.

He balanced the boxes precariously on one massive hip while he rummaged in the pocket of his dirty jeans with his free hand.  He came out with the keys and thrust them at Allen.

"S'all yours," he sneered.  "C'mon!" he yelled at his son and staggered off down the street with his load, the boy trotting along behind.

"I've had enough for one day," I told Allen.  "Let's go home.  No use waiting for the cops now."

We waved goodbye to Shirley and headed on home in Allen's car.  On the way, he told me the waif had asked him if he thought Jerry and Shirley would press charges. 

"What did you say?" 

"I said I didn't know," he replied, "but I told her the faster they got out of there, the less likelihood there would be of having charges brought against them."

I felt slightly mollified and decided to forgive him for being nice to them on Saturday.

A few days later I left a message for Mr. Catcher that Mamie had actually paid a month's rent as a security deposit, but I’d knocked off $150.00 to compensate for the balance of last October’s rent. 

Mr. Catcher responded with a short note which read:  "Due to the amount you received from our client, you are not eligible for payment from the Department of Social Services." 

It appeared I would have to resign myself to forking out for the cost of repairs and do the painting myself.  With parts and labor, Wim’s estimate came to $1,605.00.  I determined that from now on, for welfare tenants, I would always get the #security agreement from #D.S.S., even if the tenants wanted to pay for it themselves.