CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: Charmin' Charmayne

That evening, Charmayne was supposed to sign a #lease for the upstairs #apartment, moving in on September 1st.  I was still concerned that Kristina wouldn’t be out by then, but hoped that having a signed lease in her hot, sticky hand would stop Charmayne calling me every day.

Speaking of hot and sticky, that’s what her apartment was when my sister Frederica and I arrived after taking a couple of wrong turns.  It was a tiny place, and the air-conditioner was on the fritz.  Observing the cramped quarters in which she lived, I could understand why the girl was so keen to move to 51 Manson Street.  Frederica inspected the place with an eagle eye, but we were both reassured by the fact that the apartment appeared neat and clean.

While I filled out the lease, Charmayne's son Darrell came up to see what was going on.  He engaged Frederica in conversation and was so polite and well mannered that we were amazed to discover he was only two years old.  At one point, he stepped on Frederica's foot and was most apologetic, then he sadly showed us an empty pencil box and told us his mom had thrown his crayons away because he’d been bad.  We felt quite sorry for him.

Charmayne signed the lease, and Frederica and I said our goodbyes.  I was satisfied that, on the whole, Charmayne would be a good tenant.       

Before I’d known Frederica was coming to stay, I’d booked a week at the dude ranch for the kids and I at the end of August/beginning of September. I was sad to be away from Frederica towards the end of her visit, but I really needed the break.

I set off on my vacation, hoping that Kristina would move out by September 1st.  Allen assured me that he and Wim would take care of getting the apartment ready for Charmayne to move in.  

For once, everything went smoothly.  When I called Allen from the dude ranch, he was able to report that Kristina had indeed moved out, and that he and Wim had done a spot of cleaning. 

“And, of course, I performed my usual spectacular job on the oven,” he added.  “Don’t worry, it’s all under control.  Charmayne’s busy moving in.  Oh, and I called the #Building Inspector and Mr. Catcher about the rental certificate and #security agreement.”

‘You’re wonderful!”  I blew kisses down the phone line. What a relief!

Our stay at the dude ranch  was a lot more relaxing than the previous time, which had begun with  hearing the bombshell on the radio about Mamie’s arrest.  Andrea won a ribbon in the kids’ rodeo competition, and I had my first exposure to the distasteful habit of tobacco-spitting.  I was standing on the top row of the bleachers next to the enthusiastic father of a young rodeo competitor.  His left cheek bulged as he chomped away, pausing regularly to spit a stream of juicy, brown liquid over the back of the bleachers. Ugh. I couldn't imagine what it would taste like to kiss him!

The week passed without incident, except that Andrea managed to break one of her fingers on Bronwyn’s upper arm when they collided in the swimming pool.  We returned to St. Albans, suitably refreshed and finger-splinted.  Andrea was bummed out that she’d have to take it easy for a few weeks at gymnastics, but Bronwyn was priding herself on the rock-hard form of her left bicep: the result of diver-training.

I returned home to find that Giselle hadn’t paid her #rent for August. However, she had sent a money order for September’s rent with a promise to pay more when she could.  Come to find out, it would be a whole year later before I received any extra money from her.

Meanwhile, Frederica had just learned that her boyfriend Dan had dumped her, in her absence, for one of her best friends.  We spent hours sitting on her bed, working through her anger and hurt.  After a while, she reached the stage where she was able to declare that Dan was a scumbag, so she didn’t want him anyway. 

Snagging Shane as he hurtled past, she hugged him to her, fiercely.   “It’s just you and me, kid,” she whispered into a grubby, protruding ear.

Shane hugged her back, not knowing why she was sad, but always willing to exchange hugs.

“Love you, Mummy,” he announced with affection.  After a big, smacking kiss on her cheek, he raced away, ever active, ever vibrant.

We sadly bid farewell to Frederica a few weeks later. She was returning to South Africa, still saddened about Dan but more relaxed, and healthier, than when she had arrived in the States.  Knowing the disease still lurked inside her immune system, it was hard to say goodbye.  Mummy and I wanted so badly for her to stay. We wanted to wrap her up in cotton wool and take care of her.  As we hugged goodbye, I was overcome by a feeling of intense hatred toward the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

* * * * * * * * * *

Each month, for the next three months, I received a notice from the Department of Social Services stating that they were reducing the amount of Charmayne’s shelter assistance by various amounts.  Although I sent her several letters, Charmayne never increased her own monthly payments to cover the balance.  Meanwhile, in October the cockroaches returned to the upstairs apartment with a vengeance.  Charmayne claimed innocence and Greatest Pest Control charged me an additional $78.11 for an extra “clean-out.” 

December arrived and Wim was summoned to Schemmerhorn on two occasions, six days apart, because the upstairs toilet was running too slowly.  The first time, he found it blocked with cotton swabs; the second time, a pen was wedged in the pipe.  Charmayne again pleaded innocence.  I paid Wim $125.13.

January arrived but Charmayne’s rental payment did not.  Instead, I received a final notice from Social Services that, as of December 31st, they had closed her case.  When I went over to Schemmerhorn to find out what was going on, Charmayne greeted me pleasantly enough and introduced me to a new roommate.  Apparently, Maureen hadn’t lasted long. 

The place was nicely furnished, but the sticky floor paint had finally given up the ghost, revealing uneven patches of bare floorboard.  We squatted on a low couch by a coffee table while Charmayne informed me that she’d had a car accident in November.  Apparently she’d gone through the windshield, and a lawsuit was now pending. 

Although she described her facial injuries in gory detail, Charmayne must have had one fantastic plastic surgeon, because a month later there was no sign of any stitches. She told me she'd also injured her back, but from the way she bent over at that moment to scoop up her exuberant son Darrell, I saw no evidence of it, being a veteran of slipped disks myself.  Still, I said I was sorry about her accident and hoped things would turn out okay.

"Now, what's up?" I asked her.  "You still owe me for October, November and December, and I just got a notice from Social Services that they've closed your case."

"Yeah, I know.  They're not paying my rent anymore because I got a job," Charmayne told me. "Don't worry, though.  I can pay you when I get my paycheck.  Can you wait a while?"

"I guess so.  But what about the security agreement?"

"It's okay. I'm still covered ‘cause Social Services are still paying the utilities."

"Well, that's a relief.”

"One thing, though.  Giselle downstairs . . . she keeps playing her music real loud.  It's irritating.  I even called the cops on her once, late at night.  And that dog of hers . . . it was on the porch the other day, and I was too scared to come in."

"I'll talk to her," I promised, getting up to leave.  "I’ll expect the rent in a few days, okay?"

"No problem," Charmayne called after me as I went down the stairs.

I knocked on Giselle's door.  She let me inside quickly because it was really cold standing out there on the doorstep in the middle of winter.

"I've just been to Charmayne's and she complained that you play your music too loud," I told Giselle, once we were inside her superheated apartment.

"Yeah, I know," she admitted.  "I do like my music loud, but since she called the cops on me, I've been trying to keep it down."

"Okay, good.  Well, she also said you let your dog loose sometimes. She's scared to come in when he's on the porch."

"I usually keep him in back, but I'll be more careful about letting him loose out front," Giselle promised, agreeably, "I have a problem with Charmayne too, you know."

"Oh?  What about?"

"Well, she has friends over often, and they make a lot of noise as well.  Those relatives of hers from next door . . .  I told you, remember?"

I nodded. "Okay, I'll warn her, but, tell me . . . do I have anything to worry about you two?  These things aren't serious, are they?"

"Uhn, uhn," Giselle assured me.  "No big deal."

We said goodbye and I knocked on Charmayne's door again, glad to be out of Giselle's hot apartment.  Goodness knows what her heating bills were like!  When Charmayne came to the door, I told her I’d spoken to Giselle and then repeated Giselle's return complaints about her and the next-door neighbors making noise too.

"She told me there's nothing major between you, though," I said.  "I hope that's true."

Charmayne agreed.

By the end of January, I still hadn't received any rent from upstairs, so I paid Charmayne another visit.

"Sorry you've had to wait,” she told me. “It's just been taking me a while to get sorted. You know, my new job, Social Services and stuff? I should be able to pay you something soon, though, and I can give you more when I get my tax refund."  Where had I heard that one before? 

Well, at least my tenants' tentative truce seemed to be holding.

Charmayne telephoned a week later and told Wim she was moving out.  

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Typing Hell

I borrowed Rita's #typewriter, a heavy, old clunker of a machine. I had to type out the #eviction #petition I’d bought earlier at the legal supply store, and my own typewriter was broken. (Gives you an idea of when this whole #landlord saga took place!!)

Normally I’d type the petition at the office during my free time, but seeing as I was currently the sole secretary/paralegal/Girl Friday for five attorneys – the other secretaries being either out sick or at the track gambling on the horses – I was slightly short of a spare moment.

Anyway, I needed to work out what I wanted to say, and from past experience it might take a few attempts for me to get it right. I made ten copies of the blank petition just in case.

I was so glad I did! 

I sat down at the dining room table, unloaded the clunker, and turned it on. It came to life with an asthmatic wheeze and chuntered to itself for a while before settling down to a steady chug-chug.

I inserted the first petition, began to type, and instantly made my first mistake.

"Damn it! No corrector ribbon!" I ripped the sheet of paper out of the machine.

Faced with the lack of correction tape and visions of looming typos as a result, I instantly became a gibbering wreck. My fingers hovered tremblingly over the keys for several seconds before plucking up the courage to press one. My typing speed plummeted from eighty to twenty as my eyes darted nervously back and forth, keeping an eagle eye out for a fingertip about to inadvertently hit the wrong key.

I rolled the second petition into the clunker and began again to type, oh so carefully.  The ribbon was old because no one had used the typewriter for ages. Thus the inked letters it produced came out so faint as to be almost invisible. I had to type everything twice to make the words bold enough to read, thus doubling the risk of making a mistake.

Despite my double-striking each character with a vengeance, everything went well until the carriage approached the far right-hand side of the form. Readers of this blog, who were alive in the typewriter age, will know that a warning bell is supposed to sound when the typewriter carriage approaches the right margin. This reminds the typist that it's time to move down to the next line.  Well, Rita’s old clunker did not sound the warning bell. Instead, it suddenly decided it had reached its self-determined right margin and would go no farther. It then proceeded to type the next few characters on top of one another, creating an inky, black mess.

"Dammit!" I groaned again and yanked that page out too.

This time I inserted the petition at the far left side of the carriage roller in order to extend my typing area. I’d learned one thing, though: don’t fill in the Court and party information at the beginning. Go straight to the meaty "Description of Facts" and fill in the rest later.

I stewed over the wording for the description and actually managed to type out the whole thing without a mistake. However, on reading it over, I decided I didn’t like it and yanked the page out.

I began again for the fourth time. This time I liked the new wording but made a mistake somewhere near the bottom.

"Dammit," came the ubiquitous explosion. "I need Whiteout!" (i.e. Typex, Liquid Paper, correction fluid ...)

I ransacked Wim's desk, but to no avail: no Whiteout to be found. Where else could I look? Ah, hah! I distinctly remembered buying some for the kids’ school supplies.

Andrea and Bronwyn were peacefully engaged in watching television in their basement playroom when the door at the top of the stairs burst open, and their mother erupted onto the scene.

Bronwyn looked up as I fixed her with my feverish gaze.

"Whiteout?" I gargled incoherently.

She shrugged a shoulder, not the least bit perturbed at the sight of her mom having one of her manic fits.

"All dried up," she replied nonchalantly before turning her attention back to the TV.

"Andrea?" I pleaded. My other daughter didn’t even bother looking my way as she shrugged both her shoulders.

"Dunno," she drawled around a mouthful of braces and forbidden chewing gum.

I knew it was no use. From past experience, the likelihood of finding decent Whiteout in the various old pencil cases scattered about the place was next to none. I pawed halfheartedly through the remnants of at least three-years’ worth of blunt pencils, half-melted Crayolas -- both in and out of their wrappers -- dried up felt-tip pens without their tops on, and sharpener-shavings, before giving up the search.

"Thanks so much for your help. Like I'm doing something important here!" I pouted and stomped up the stairs in frustration.

I gloomily surveyed my dining room table. It was littered with six or seven crumpled balls of petition. "This is ridiculous," I told myself sternly.  "You’ve been slaving over this thing for a whole hour. Just do it!"

Right. I sat down and typed on a scrap piece of paper exactly what I wanted to say in the Description of Facts. And what do you know? Not one typo, apart from some crossings-out where I changed my mind.

I started on a new petition, made a couple of mistakes, but to hell with it. 

I finally finished typing and rolled the form out of the clunker. Now for the signature. Oh, no! It had to be notarized. Although I myself was a notary public, #notaries aren’t permitted to #notarize their own signatures, and Wim was to file the petition the next morning in City Court. 

What to do?

Wild thoughts of driving across town to Rita’s house raced through my head. It was late though, and her notary stamp was probably at the office.

I considered going to work early in the morning in the hope that an attorney would be present to notarize my signature. Early enough that I could deliver the petition back home to Wim and return to work by nine o’clock. No. With travel time, I’d have to get to the office really early, and there was no guarantee of an attorney being there.

I could get it notarized at a bank, but banks only open at nine o'clock. I’d  be late for work and, as I mentioned before, we were short-staffed that week.

I searched the form for a way out of my predicament and, voila, there was a check box for permitting "Agent of Petitioner" to file the petition. I checked it. Now my "agent" Wim could sign it before a notary public at City Hall and file it with the Clerk.

I set off for the office the next morning in a hopeful mood. Not too hopeful, mind you.

The plan was for Wim to first stop by the Schemmerhorn #building inspector's office to pick up the report of code violations and try to talk him into declaring the upstairs apartment unfit for human habitation due to the water leak. If that failed, he would go ahead and sign and file the petition to evict Kristina.

Twelve o'clock struck. Wim strode into my office like a stick insect atop bony legs four feet long.

"Did you get the report?" I asked.

"Yah, but the inspector wasn't in so I couldn't talk to him."  My heart sank as Wim waved a piece of paper at me. It looked suspiciously like my original petition.

"They wouldn't accept my signature," he said.

I groaned. Naturally I’d left my folder of blank petitions at home.

"Can you white out my signature and put yours there instead?” Wim suggested. “Get it notarized and I'll take it back to Schemmerhorn right now."

While he stepped outside for a smoke, I whited out his signature, photocopied the petition, and signed my name. Rita notarized it. Wim returned soon after amidst a haze of just-exhaled cigarette smoke. He collected the petition and left. 

I crossed my thumbs and returned to work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Cops, Caseworkers, Code-Violators

The police listened to my complaints, interviewed Kristina, and told me there was nothing they could do. 

I told them she still had a #lease for the Stanley Street #apartment. “I don’t suppose you can just make her move back there?” I tried.

“Not our responsibility, Ma’am. Call Social Services and take her to Court.”

The next day, Sunday, Giselle phoned again: this time to report that there was water dripping in the basement. Wim duly went to Schemmerhorn, tightened a few pipe couplings, and returned home with the news that he had turned Kristina’s water off.

"I'm not sure we’re allowed to do that," I ventured, envisaging angry phone calls from Kristina and #code-violation officials.

"Why not?” Wim proclaimed in his usual, brash, Dutch fashion. “There was a leak … I turned the water off … simple as dat!"

Next morning, bright and early, I called Kristina's #caseworker to tell her about the police visit and broken window. “I just want Kristina to move back to Stanley Street,” I finished.

“Not much I can do since she signed the lease and you gave her the key,” Ms. Siman said. “Evict her through the courts if you have to.”

"I will, but that could take a while and I've got another #tenant ready to move in in September."

"Sorry. Call the #Fraud Department. Maybe they can suggest something." Ms. Siman recited the number.

I dialed it and, lo and behold, who should answer but my dear friend, Mr. Catcher.

I greeted him like an old pal and told him about my Kristina situation.  Although he couldn’t help me either, he was sympathetic and we swapped landlord horror stories for a while. His were much worse than mine.

“We should quit our jobs, go on welfare, and take the System for all it’s worth,” he joked, once we’d thoroughly succeeded in depressing each other. “But then we'd have to face ourselves in the mirror each day."

I glumly agreed but felt I had found a kindred spirit in Mr. Catcher. Before we parted our telephonic ways, he told me he could find no record of any damage claims involving my prospective tenant, Charmayne. At least that was something.

A few days later, I received a call at work.

"This is the Building Inspector for Schemmerhorn Code Enforcement," a male voice announced.  "Am I speaking to Anastasia Scuttlebutt?"

"You are."

"Ms. Scuttlebutt, we've received a complaint from your tenant, Kristina Carter, that the water's been turned off in her apartment since Sunday.  That's a violation, Ma'am."

"But . . ."

"We're going to have to take a look and see what's going on," the voice continued.

"There was a leak in the basement," I quickly put in, "so my stepfather turned the water off. I’m in the process of evicting Kristina. She ignored my initial three-day notice and has since caused damage to my property.”

"Oh," said the building inspector. "Well, it’s still a code violation, you still gotta turn the water back on, and we still gotta come out and check."

"My stepdad will call you as soon as possible," I promised.

Thanks, Wim. Now I’m in trouble with Code Enforcement!

I drove home that night in what was rapidly becoming my usual foul mood. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Downtown Druglords

-- BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND -- 

I'LL TRY TO MAKE WEEKLY POSTS FROM NOW ON !!

"I just had a frantic call from your #tenant, Giselle," Mom told me when I answered my phone at work.  "That Kristina's been moving all her stuff into your house with an assortment of uncles and people, and Giselle's very upset. She says they're big drug dealers, and now the whole street's in an uproar. She said to tell you she's giving her month's notice, right now!”

I hung up with a groan and dialed Giselle's number.

"What's up," I asked when she picked up.

"That Kristina Carter ... she belong to the biggest drug family in Schemmerhorn." Giselle's voice hinted at a brewing hysteria as she literally panted into the phone.  "My boyfrien' Marvin told you 'bout her but you didn't listen. I'm tellin' you, Stace, I ain't gonna live with that fam'ly in the same buildin'.  She trouble and so's all her uncles an' brothers an' stuff.  Everyone round here's upset that you've rented the place to her.  You gotta git her the hell out heah, or . . . or . . . I'm givin’ you one month's notice as of today.  "

"Okay," I broke in as she paused for breath.  "Shit!  I didn't realize it was Kristina Marvin was talking about, though I should have clicked when you mentioned the braids.  I certainly don't want drug dealers in my house, and I don't want you moving either, Giselle.  Kristina's #lease on Stanford Street doesn't run out til the end of next month. I'll just tell her I've decided not to #rent to her after all."

"Hmph."  Giselle grunted somewhat dubiously. "I bet it'll be hard gettin' her out, now she gone moved all her stuff in."

I called Kristina's caseworker to apprise her of the situation. Ms. Siman was surprised to hear it since Kristina hadn’t told her she was #moving.

            That night I drafted a three-day #eviction notice in the hope that Kristina would just pack up her stuff and move back to Stanford Street.  Wim offered to serve it on her, since he'd be working in Schemmerhorn the next day.  I also gave him a check for $250.00 to refund Kristina the rent money she'd paid me.

Next I called Charmayne to ask if she was still interested in #renting the #apartment. She said she was but hoped it would be available sooner than the first of September. She wanted to get in there and start cleaning.  I said I'd keep her posted.

Friday night, three days later, Wim and I were back in good old Schemmerhorn, parked down the street from number 51 because I was too chicken to park outside my own house.

Wim got out and walked up the street alone.  I stayed where I was, content for once to be gawked at by the tenants of the house we were parked next to.  A few minutes later, Wim returned with Giselle in tow.

"No one home," he announced.  "Doesn't look like she's been doing any moving, either, according to Giselle."

Giselle nodded.  "I told you.  Kristina don' wanna leave, now she all moved in."

I heaved a hefty sigh. “I'll have to #evict her then. The judge has been on my side so far, but it still could take a while. Rrrgh, I want her out of there now!"

"Better move quick, or I don' see her bein' out by the end of the month,” Giselle opined.

I held up my crossed thumbs. "Hopefully the Court will set a date in a couple of weeks, and Kristina'll be out by the first of September.  Oh, by the way, Giselle? Do you have August's rent for me?  It's, like, a week late now."

Giselle shuffled her feet. "Yeah. Soon. My check's late this month, so I'm a bit behind."

"Okay," I said, "but I do need it, since I gave Kristina her rent back."

Giselle called the next evening.  "Somethin's goin' on.  Kristina's uncles and people had an argument. Next thing I hear, they're busting in a window upstairs."

With my by-now-customary, post-telephonic groan, I called the Schemmerhorn cops and arranged to meet them at 51 Manson Street.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Geriatric Ballerinas

Last year I and two of my co-workers, Dee Dee and Kathy, made a momentous decision: we were going to take ballet lessons.  I’d been learning tap for two years with a very elderly, yet very spry lady who was the oldest ballet teacher in the State and had been honored as such by several national dance societies.  When she wasn’t teaching ballet, tap, or jazz, she was flying to Florida or Texas for a convention or to New York City for some other dance-related function.  Her husband Lonnie, front office man, unflagging conversationalist and entertainer of waiting parents and students, faithfully tagged along behind his energetic wife.

It all started when Kathy asked me to pick up a brochure on the ballet class.  She had learned ballet when she was younger and had a yen to take it up again.  Because I’d also taken ballet into my teens--pointe shoes and all that--my interest was piqued.  Tap was starting to get a bit boring; it might be fun switching to ballet.  So what if I was over thirty?  Kathy was over forty!

Once Kathy and I announced our decision, Dee Dee--who was also over forty but had never taken ballet in her life--decided she would like to give it a try too, especially since she lived just around the corner from the studio.  Of course, we all had to be in the same class, which meant that Dee Dee would need some quick coaching on basic ballet terms and technique.  For starters, and to a passing lawyer’s surprise, I executed an uncoordinated, very wobbly and stiff plié by Dee Dee's desk. 

“Your knees are actually supposed to point out to the sides,” I explained,  though my knees stubbornly pointed forwards.  I’d never able to do pliés, even when I was a little kid.

“You mean like this?” Dee Dee stood up and sank into a graceful plié, knees perfectly turned out.

“I hate you, you wretch!” I exclaimed and threw an eraser at her.  An equally-stiff Kathy agreed. Rude comments began flying from the other secretaries in our unit. 

Undaunted, Kathy attempted a plié of her own.  “Ouch!” she yelled.  “I think I just dislocated something.”  She hobbled around seeking sympathy while the rest of us dissolved into giggles.

“There's no way I'm going to be able to stand it,” I gasped.  “It's going to be so funny, I know I’m going to laugh all the time, and the teacher will get cross.  We just can't make eye contact, Kathy, otherwise I’ll start giggling, and I won't be able to stop.  You know what happens when I laugh a lot?  I pee my pants.  I can see it now: me in my leotard and pink tights, pee running down my leg.”

Our little secretarial unit was getting into the spirit of the thing now. A discussion began on when we should go leotard-shopping. “Do you think they make reinforced leotards to hold middle-aged stomachs in?” Kathy wondered. The three of us didn’t get much work done for a while.  We kept thinking of funny things to say about geriatric ballerinas and executing elaborate twirls whenever we had to traverse the office to retrieve a document from the printer.  At one point, the rather substantial Kathy daringly attempted a grand jeté, landing with the force of a dozen elephants.  We held onto our desks to keep from being spilled to the floor as the building shook. One of the senior partners leaped out of his office with a “What was that!”

“Okay,” I conceded to Frederica, as I turned the car into our driveway, “it didn’t happen quite that way, but it was a really fun afternoon at the office.”

“And I thought working in a law office would be stuffy and boring,” Frederica mused, shaking her head.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

A day or two later, I called Charmayne.  "I'm sorry," I told her, "but as I already signed the #lease with Kristina, it seems I'll have to stick to it."

Charmayne was disappointed.  "If it doesn't work out for some reason," she said, "let me know, okay?"

"I will," I promised then called Kristina, who was supposed to be paying me $250.00 in #rent for August.

"Come to muh #house Friday evening," she told me.  "Seven o'clock.  I'll have the money for y’all then."

On Friday at the appointed time, Frederica and I drove to Kristina's #home on Stanford Street.  I could see why she wanted to move.  What a run-down street it was.  All the houses were in various stages of disrepair: paint peeling everywhere, junk piled high on balconies that leaned crookedly toward their neighbors, the odd ramshackle car parked here and there.  A cloud of bluebottles buzzed angrily over a pool of something on the step leading up to Kristina's door.  I suspected it was urine, since my nostrils were assailed by the strong stench of pee as I gingerly mounted the splintered, sagging steps.

"No one home," I reported to Frederica a few knocks later.

"Let's sit and wait a bit," she suggested.

We sat in the car playing cassette tapes.  A young black dude had been circling around for a while on his bicycle like a shark and now approached our car.

"You sellin' tapes?" he asked through my open driver’s side window, pointing at the tape case on Frederica's lap.

"No, just playing music," I told him.

"Oh."  He wheeled away in another circle and came back round again.  "What you girls waitin' for?"

"Kristina Carter.  Do you know her?"

"Nope," the dude said.  "Thought you was mebbe sellin' somethin', you know?"  He paused for a second.  "Wanna buy some dope?  Got some good stuff."

"No thank you!" Frederica exclaimed in a mortified tone of voice. She sounded very British.

"Okay, okay," the dude said.  "Jes askin'."  He retreated to tool around on his bike some more, keeping a watchful eye on us.

A moment later, another bike came wheeling up the street. Kristina had arrived.

"Yo," she called when she neared my car.  "I bin lookin' for muh brother.  He's supposed to gimme the money, but I dunno . . ."

"Why don't you take another look around," I suggested.  "We can wait another twenty minutes or so."

"Okay,"  Kristina agreed and wheeled away, stocky legs pumping, braids flying out behind her.

Frederica and I sat playing our tapes and waiting for Kristina to return.  The shark still cruised steadily around, but we steadfastly ignored him.  I felt like fish out of water, and I know Frederica felt the same way: two young, naive, ex-convent girls, parked in the middle of a seedy, drug-infested ghetto #neighborhood.

Twenty minutes passed and Kristina didn't show, so we left.  When I called her later she apologized, but she had found her brother, and he had given her the money.

"Yo can come git it any time," she said. We arranged to meet at 51 Manson Street the next day.  Kristina's cousin apparently had a truck that she could use to move into the #apartment that weekend.  I met her on Saturday as planned, and we did a swop: cash for keys.

Wim had an errand in Schemmerhorn on the Sunday and came home to report that Kristina hadn’t yet moved in.  Maybe the truck arrangement had fallen through?  Kristina didn't have to move out of Stanford Street for another month if she didn't want to.  Maybe she'd decided to move into Manson Street gradually.

On Monday my mom received a frantic phone call from my existing #tenant. 

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?”