CHAPTER FIFTY: The Dismal Dorm

My weekend course and fellow students were great, but my dorm experience left a lot to be desired.  There was definitely material here worthy of a journal entry. I began writing notes as events unfolded and read them out to the group as we gathered for a summing-up session on the last day:

Arrived at the dorm Friday evening in trepidation at the prospect of meeting roommates: Dezzie (a little older than me) and Sherry (some years younger).  In order to check in, security guard requests we sign forms. On perusing said forms, we discover that the college is not responsible for injuries sustained through negligence of college staff.  Show this clause to security guard. He's never read the form but agrees we shouldn’t sign.

First of all, none of the doors are labeled. We try keys in each door we come to.  Finally find one that fits. Dorm encompasses a ‘sitting area’ surrounded by five bedrooms inhabited by plastic-clad bunks, several species of bugs and creepy crawlies, and a central bathroom-cum-shower.

Toilet is blocked.

Roommates leave to find coffee.  I remain to tackle Security about the toilet.  The office is empty, except for young girl in orange tee-shirt who gives me a form to fill out for maintenance.  

No good. Need toilet fixed tonight!

Like getting blood out of a stone:-

“Where’s the security guard?” 

“Making his rounds.”

“Can you call him?”

“He doesn’t have a phone.”

“Does he have a radio?”

“Yup.”

“Where is it?”

“There.” (Indicates radio on desk)

“Can I call him on the radio?”

“No.”

“Can you call him on the radio?”

“Yup.”

Girl calls Security on said radio. Reports blocked toilet.  Security heard to say, “We don’t unblock toilets. Tell them to buy a plunger.”

Visions of making trip to unfamiliar nearby town to purchase plunger at late-night hardware store or supermarket, the whereabouts of which are unknown, float through my head. We paid eighteen dollars for this!

“Just get him down here,” I order imperiously.

“Can’t,” says the girl. “If he doesn’t want to come down, I can’t make him.”

I persist. 

Finally Security says he’ll open up the third floor so we can use a bathroom there.

Return to the dorm.  Suddenly spy plunger in shower room beneath sink.  Ah hah!  Try plunger. Toilet works. Hooray!

Sit down in 'sitting room' to await return of coffee-searching roommates. Have ample time to survey the scene.

It’s not pretty: couch and chairs covered in suspicious stains. The carpet is gross. Afraid to remove my shoes, lest something should crawl across my feet. Oh, for a bright, clean motel room! 

Where are those dratted roommates?  It’s lonely by myself.

Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. Seeming hordes of elephants are thundering up the stairs. Floorboards protest overhead. For a women’s dorm, those sound very much like male voices.

Security guard arrives, no doubt bracing himself for female histrionics. Moustache twitching, he listens to my explanation that the toilet is now unblocked, thanks to the plunger.  Asks me if I’m from England. 

Sit down to wait some more and write it all down. 

Sherry and Dezzie arrive with welcome coffee.

One o’clock a.m., getting ready for bed.  Dezzie’s looking through a photo album in her room. Suddenly there’s a security guard in the 'sitting room,' striding through our palatial suite.

Dezzie, being scantily clad in preparation for shower and bed, asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“Security,” he announces.  “I come through every night.”

Recovering from being momentarily stunned, Dezzie mentions the bugs.

“Yup, there’s critters,” comes the cheerful refrain.

I exit the bathroom to find a tall, gangly security guard, complete with hick accent and too-long trousers drooping over his shoes, lounging in the hallway. Hands on on hips, he's informing Dezzie of his custom to walk through the dorm every couple of hours.

Aghast at this, we gaze back, mouths agape.  Is this guy for real?

Jokingly, I remark, “Well, don’t jingle your keys too loudly when you walk through in the middle of the night, will you?”

To which he replies, “No, but they can’t help making some noise." Holds up a large bunch of keys for our inspection.

" 'Cause, if we hadn’t known you’d be coming through, we’d be pretty scared,” I continue. “I’d have to come out here with my karate chop.”

“That wouldn’t scare me,” the hick guard laughs, preparing to leave. “I’ll be back around three o’clock … two more times tonight.”  He departs, leaving us still wondering whether he’s serious about the nightly walk-throughs.

Dezzie checks with the noisy upstairs neighbors, who confirm this fact. 

“He’s one weird security guard,” a student pipes up. “Lock your bedroom doors.”

Great.  We have to lock ourselves in to protect ourselves from roaming security guards.  What next?

Six, a.m..  A blaring siren awakes us from our fitful slumber.

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

What’s going on? 

Dopey-eyed we emerge from our respective bedrooms into the 'sitting room' to have eyeballs assailed by searing flashes from a fire alarm. 

Hastily get dressed. 

Go downstairs to gather with other students in the frigid outdoor air.

False alarm.

Return to bed. 

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

Not again!

It stops.

Silence.

Then, BAAP!  BAAP! BAAP!

Someone comes to inform us there’s an issue in “B Block." They’re trying to fix the problem. 

We sit, hands over ears, waiting it out and popping headache pills.  Dezzie’s pain is over her left eye.  Mine’s over the right.

Three minutes later, blessed silence descends once more.

No point going back to bed. It’s almost time to get up. 

Oh, God!  Wish we’d stayed in a motel!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

I drove home in the middle of a torrential wind and rain storm. It was raining so hard that all the traffic on the two-lane country road was forced to pull off to the side to wait it out. Sheets of water cascaded down the windshield as powerful gusts of wind buffeted my little Geo Metro from side to side. 

When the storm moved on, I continued home, trying to decide whether I felt refreshed or exhausted after my dorm experience. As I pulled into the driveway, Mummy came running out, practically sobbing and wringing her apron. She engulfed me in a big hug and didn’t seem to want to let go. 

“I thought you were dead,” she gulped.

“What?”

“We were watching TV, and a message flashed across the bottom of the screen saying a tornado had just passed through Bellingham, just about the time you left. Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe!”  She engulfed me in another mammoth hug and rained kisses on my cheeks.

“So that’s why it was raining and blowing so hard,” I said. “We had to pull off to the side of the road. An actual tornado, though?  Cool!”

“Not cool at all,” Mummy retorted, indignantly.  “I was very worried.  Come in and have dinner.”

Over dinner, I asked Wim about the status of the ceiling situation in Schemmerhorn.        

“ ’S’okay,” he drawled.  My friend Tim came and helped me.  He’s an expert in ceiling installation, so, between the two of us, it only took an hour or so. Ya, Giselle was hovering around, taking photos and grumbling, going on about how we’re gonna be in trouble for not getting a #permit, blah, blah, blah. We just ignored her. There was a basketball lying on the floor. I reckon Giselle’s son was bouncing it against the ceiling over and over and that's what made it fall down.

The next day, as Wim and Tim were finishing up the job, Giselle was still pondering painting the walls, which she hadn’t yet gotten around to doing.

"Trouble is, they get dirty so quick from the kids puttin' their hands on 'em all the time," she moaned.

Wim suggested she paint them white and let the kids fingerpaint them. Giselle thought that was a great idea and actually cracked a smile.

On Monday, I received the promised notice from the #building #inspector advising me I needed a permit in order to install the ceiling.

With his usual "Agh!" Wim picked up the phone and called his building inspector buddy, Ron. When he told him that he and a ceiling installation expert had already put up the ceiling, Ron said that was fine and confirmed that a permit was not required for renovating walls. "Whoever inspected the fallen-down ceiling shouldn’t have talked like he did with your tenant.” he added. Then he waived the need for the ceiling permit and agreed it was doubtful that the fallen ceiling had had anything to do with the walls because they'd been "solid as a rock" last time he checked. 

During my lunch hour a few weeks later, I delivered a brand new, huge recycling bin to 51 Manson Street. As Marvin handed me that month's rent, he told me they’d be using the recycling bin for papers and would need two more bins for plastic and glass. I sighed and promised to deliver them soon.

Meanwhile, #Social #Services had suddenly decided to increase Giselle's #rental assistance by $200.00. Giselle told me to keep the extra money to help pay off her debt to me, which was a nice surprise; I’d expected that debt to drag on forever.

When I delivered two new, plastic garbage cans the next week, the ever-present Marvin again mentioned the fence. 

"As I told you before, get me an estimate," I told him as I got into my car.

                                                              * * * * * * *

Every couple of months, Wally the realtor had been sending me printouts of market activity in the surrounding #neighborhood. #Selling #prices ranged wildly and didn’t seem to correspond with the condition of the #properties: A #house listed as being in “very good condition” sold for a measly $50.00, while a house in “poor condition” went for $4,500.00.  The “fair” to “very-goods” ranged from a measly $5,250.00 up to $45,000.00. Only two were listed as being in “excellent condition” and sold for $39,000.00 and $45,000.00  My house was listed as “very-good.” 

The printouts were always accompanied by a form letter, the final paragraph stating in big, bold letters: REMEMBER: Price is the most critical factor in getting your #home sold.  Buyers always buy what they perceive as the “best buy.”

I was gloomily perusing the report for August when Wally phoned.  “Someone’s interested in your house,” he announced.  “They’d like to view it in a few days.”

“Really?” I said, excitedly.

“Yup.  Can you arrange it with your tenants?”

“Oh, er, yeah. I guess they’ll know the house is for #sale now, won’t they?”

“Can’t be helped,” Wally said. “If your #tenants are going to be absent, you’ll need to get the keys to me and advise them there’ll be strangers walking around their #apartments … supervised, of course.”

"Okay." 

Yes!” I yelled as I put down the phone.  “Oh . . . just someone interested in buying my house,” I explained as some nearby secretaries were startled out of their word-processing reveries by my outburst.

I put off telling Giselle and Diane the news that night and was glad I did, because Wally informed me the next day that the prospective buyer had decided on another #property. 

Bummer.

“It’s coming up four months now,” the realtor said. “You wanna renew your listing?”

“Yes.”

“You know, it might not be a bad idea to think about reducing the price.”

I sighed.  “What would you suggest?”

We dropped the #listing price $5,000.00 to $54,900.00.

CHAPTER THREE: House Hunting Continued - 51 Manson Street

At the next meeting at the Bargain Registry, we were joined by Kirsty the mortgage coordinator. Gershwin's ebullience seemed slightly diminished because he had to sit back and let her do the talking. His dark eyes flickered restlessly back and forth between us, and I could see it was difficult for him to stay mute. His plump body, filling a chair in a corner of the room, constantly twitched and shifted as his seething energy sought release. One minute he was wiping his damp brow, the next minute he was clearing his throat or fidgeting with pencils. The room fairly hummed with the vibrations emanating from his corner.

After taking down all the details of my earnings, assets, and debts, Kirsty performed some calculations and pronounced me fit for a mortgage up to $50,000. A slow hissing came from Gershwin's corner as he literally let off emotional steam. I realized this must have been a tense moment for him. If I wasn’t approved for a mortgage, he would lose a client.

He burst forth from his chair, like a black retriever at a duck shoot, straining against his leash, ready to bolt into action to retrieve a fallen bird. His Cheshire-cat grin shone out in full force. Now I was approved, the search for a house could begin in earnest.

Kirsty got up to leave, and I edged out the door with her before Gershwin could entangle me in another verbal diatribe. I didn’t feel up to it that night.

"I'll be in touch," he called after me as I got into my car.

Sure enough, a few days later, Gershwin's supremely self-confident tones oozed over the phone lines as he told me he had a property that might interest me in the City of Schemmerhorn, twenty-five minutes’ drive away.

"I know, I know," he continued quickly, before I could say a word. "You're not really keen on Schemmerhorn, but this house is in your price range, it already has tenants, and needs hardly any work."

After an endless procession of run-down properties, each with some major defect to be remedied, or requiring significant electrical upgrading, I thought I might as well take a look. We arranged to meet at the house the following evening.

I took Wim along with me, ready to spot any structural defects, damp spots, or upgrading requirements. It was a freezing February night, and the roads were icy. The fifteen-mile journey took us forty minutes of careful driving through suburban neighborhoods. All sensible bodies were inside in the warm, and the streets were deserted. A little snow sprinkled the ground, and with the lights twinkling from the windows of the houses, Manson Street appeared to be a rather pretty, typical American street.

My first impression of the house was a very favorable one. It had aluminum siding on the front, which wouldn’t need repainting every few years, and in the darkness I couldn’t make out the wooden siding on the sides that would need repainting quite soon.

Gershwin had warned the tenants that we were coming. I don’t know whether they had cleaned and tidied especially for the occasion, but the apartments didn’t look too bad. The tenants of the first-floor apartment were three young adults in their early twenties: Melissa, her boyfriend Greg, and his brother Tom. Both men sported big muscles--most likely the result of working out on the variety of weight machines that were gently dripping oil onto the beige carpet of the dining room. Melissa, on the other hand, looked malnourished with a pale complexion and long, fair hair; she could have done with some of her roommates’ bulk. The three of them sat huddled together on a couch in the living room, watching us as we moved through the apartment.

The layout was typical of a great many American two-family houses: large living room at the front, large kitchen at the back, dining room and bathroom in the middle, and three smallish bedrooms down the right-hand side. The first-floor bathroom was extra large and boasted a big whirlpool bath and mirrored wall--quite fancy and a nice feature for attracting future tenants. Lamps bathed everything in a cozy glow and hid any slight defects. Wim prowled around poking into this and that, but came up with no major faults.

Behind the house lay a small square of straggly grass and a large, new, wooden deck--another nice feature. Beyond a wire fence at the end of the yard was a large graveyard; maybe not to everyone’s taste, but at least the neighbors behind were quiet.

We went back through the apartment and said our goodbyes and thank yous to Melissa, Greg, and Tom. They didn’t seem to have moved at all and looked back at us with blank expressions, though Melissa managed a feeble smile.

Out the door and in the next we went, and up the stairs to the second floor. In response to our knock, the door was opened by a young black girl with the biggest Afro hairdo I’d ever seen. She invited us in amiably enough and then retreated to the couch--apparently the place to sit while people looked over ones home. Three young children hung around her knees, ranging in age from about three to six years old.

We followed the girl into the living room to take a look at a little square room that opened off it over the downstairs hallway. A big door led out onto a small balcony over the front porch. Wim went through to check it out.

We headed back through the living room. I assumed the young girl was Natasha Fluff, the tenant, but apparently she was a friend of hers, for at that moment Natasha was fast disappearing into a bedroom leading off of the dining room. As the door closed behind her with a definite click, we looked expectantly to the friend, but she offered no explanation.

The rest of the apartment was nicely furnished and looked clean enough. The layout was basically the same as the first floor, except for the extra room at the front, a smaller bathroom, and a larger dining room. It also had brown-painted wood floors instead of carpet. An expensive-looking flowered rug lay on the living room floor in front of a huge entertainment center that took up a large chunk of wall next to the little square room. The dining room sported an octagonal glass and bamboo dining table, and a tall, octagonal fish tank bubbled away by the window.

At the back of the kitchen was a door with stairs that led down to the basement and up to the attic that stretched the whole length of the house. Natasha used the attic for drying clothes, as evidenced by the washing lines hanging between the rafters. Wim, of course, had to check it out.

I can’t believe I forgot to mention Gershwin throughout our tour of the house. He, of course, led us from room to room, babbling on unceasingly about this and that and assuring us that this was a good buy. The entire house had apparently been recently refurbished by a guy from Long Island, who was in the business of buying old houses, doing them up, and then selling them. I think the reason I forgot to mention Gershwin was that Wim and I just tuned him out. We absorbed ourselves in looking at everything, and Gershwin's chatter was merely background noise. We only needed to grunt the occasional acknowledgment to keep him happy.

After looking over the house, I felt almost as enthusiastic as our chatty realtor. I think Wim experienced a sense of déjà vu as I prattled excitedly all the way home, though he did admit that the house seemed solid and the floors didn’t slope. We’d seen so many older houses where the floors sloped noticeably.

The next day, I called Gershwin. He answered the phone with his usual exuberance.
“Schemmerhorn is quite a bit further than I really wanted, but I think I’m interested in buying the house,” I told him. “After all, the fact that there are tenants already in residence and the good condition of the house will kind of compensate for the extra distance, I hope.”

“You bet! I’ll get right on to the seller and start the ball rolling,” Gershwin promised.

I didn't think to wonder if the fact that the house was on Manson Street might be a bad omen.