CHAPTER NINETEEN: Undertaker Fakery

Over dinner with Allen that night, I let it all out. 

“It’s just one thing after another,” I complained, chewing on a hangnail.  “This #house and my #tenants are, like, running my life now.  I can’t think about anything else.  And it’s so hard trying to concentrate on studying when I’m just worrying all the time about what else is going to go wrong.  You know me.  If I don’t get all A’s, I get depressed.”

 Allen smiled at my moody expression and reached across the table for my hand. 

“You poor thing.  You do seem to be going through a tough spell right now.  But look on the bright side.  Miz James seems to be a good tenant at least. Natasha will hopefully soon be gone.  We’ll make the place nice again.  And you can find a better tenant.  You know I’m getting really good at cleaning ovens.”

“I suppose so,” I grudgingly agreed.  “You should have seen the fridge, though.  It was worse than yours!”

Allen’s refrigerator presently contained seven cartons of milk in various stages of decay.  Every other weekend, when my daughters stayed at their father's house and I stayed at Allen’s place, he would buy a carton of milk for me to have with my tea and cereal.  But he never threw out the old ones.  Since he didn’t drink milk himself, the cartons had been steadily increasing in number.

“You know,” I added, before he could get a word in to defend himself, “I know it’s gross talking about this over dinner, but I've never smelled anything as bad as those garbage bags.  It was like there were dead, rotting animals in them, and this yucky stuff was oozing out all over the floor.  And to think that I wanted to be a pathologist when I grew up. Quincy was one of my favorite T.V. shows when I was little.”

“Does sound pretty gross,” Allen agreed, patting my butt as we left the restaurant.  “But I don’t think I’d really enjoy going out with a girl whose job consisted of working with dead people.”

“No, seriously,” I said as we walked to the car.  “From this #writing course I’ve been taking, I actually do know a bit about what undertakers do to make corpses presentable for viewing.”

Allen opened the car door for me, ever the gentleman.  “What type of writing course is that?”

On the drive home, I regaled him with the details. 

To my delight, our English Composition class had been required to read an excerpt called The Embalming of Mr. Jones from The American Way of Death, by Jessica Mitford.  Being a bloodthirsty ghoul at heart, a characteristic which frequently caused disagreement with the more squeamish Allen at the movie theater, my interest was instantly piqued.  Suddenly, I felt I had always wanted to know about how one embalms a dead body.  And now I was about to find out.

With relish, I read about how the blood is drained from the body and replaced by embalming fluid, and how each operator has their own favorite injection and drainage points. 

Apparently, there are several kinds of embalming fluids.  One of them, called Flextone, produces a “mild, flexible rigidity,” the resulting velvety feel of the skin making it ideal for women and children.  Then there’s a cosmetic called Suntone, which comes in several shades – pink being “especially indicated for young female subjects.”

This had actually started getting quite boring, but I perked up at the next paragraph which described how the mouth is sewn together with a needle passing through the upper lip and gum and out through the left nostril, with the corners raised slightly “for a more pleasant expression.” 

If the deceased is buck-toothed, the teeth are cleaned and coated with clear nail polish.  And, should the corpse be missing a limb, an artificial one can easily be made from plaster of Paris.  In the case of a missing hand, sometimes the back of the hand is all that is required.  If the corpse has suffered the misfortune of being decapitated, the ragged edges of the head and neck are trimmed, and the head is joined to the body with splints, wires and sutures. 

“Of course, it’s good to tie a scarf or something around the neck to hide the embalmer’s handiwork,” I proclaimed.

“Well, of course,” Allen agreed, mashing the gears and almost stalling the car.

Undaunted, I continued reciting as best I could from memory.

“Finally, massage cream is injected to smooth out sunken areas, even in the hands, and the lips are positioned properly, ‘lip drift’ being remedied by the insertion of pins cemented into place with denture replacer. 

"For an especially stubborn pair of lips, the lower jaw can actually be dislocated and held in position with wires running through holes drilled through the upper jaws.

“Naturally, the book created some outrage amongst funeral directors,” I finished, “But this is all taught in the Mortuary Science program.  I must admit I’m rather tempted to change careers.”

“I sincerely hope you don’t,” Allen said feebly, looking a little green around the gills.  “Psychology is a much more respectable profession, in my opinion.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: . . . and Garbage Galore

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

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

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

Ugh! 

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

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

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

I didn't dare open the fridge or oven. 

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

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

The stench was palpable. 

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

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

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

"C'mon, Wim.  Let's leave," I said. 

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

Miz James was lying in wait on the front porch. 

"Found out something," she fussed importantly. 

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

I’d never met a real live jailbird before! 

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

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

However, she soon perked up again. 

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

"Ooh," I said.  "That's scary."

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

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

Miz James blew a gusty sigh of disgust. 

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

A reasonable request, I thought.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Bray laughed incredulously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Floods 'n Bugs . . .

That week, we received two more phone calls from Miz James in the middle of the night.  Wim was not amused.  The police might as well take up residence in Manson Street – one or other of her irate #neighbors called them to complain about Natasha just about every night, it seemed. 

“The cops smelled marijuana a couple of times,” Miz James gleefully informed me when I stopped by.  “And you should have seen the state of that place!  The cops had to climb over about twenty garbage bags to get into Natasha’s apartment by the back door.”

“Why’d they go in at the back?” I asked.

“No one was answering at the front.  They probably couldn’t hear ’em knocking wit all dat racket goin’ on.  I let ’em in the back, downstairs through the basement.  Natasha’s side was open down theah, so they could get to her apartment that way.”

“And you know about the garbage bags how?” I questioned.

“Well, I had to show ‘em the way, didn’t I?” 

Miz James sounded somewhat defensive, though she was obviously enjoying the drama. 

“An’, boy, was I sorry I did!" she continued.  "That place stank to high heaven!  There was people hangin’ out all over, drinkin’ and smokin’.  The place looked a real mess, from what I could see.  Stuff everywhere.  The cops went on in to break up the party, and I came back downstairs.  I could hear ‘em, though.  Clomping about, gett’n all those people outta theah.”

I was still regretting renewing Natasha's #lease, when Miz James phoned one Saturday afternoon.  Breathlessly hyper, she could hardly get the words out, so extreme was her anguish.

"There's water everywhere!" she gasped.  "It's running down the walls in the hall and flooding my bathroom."

Not again! 

I promised Miz James that Wim would be right over.

At the mention of flooding, longsuffering Wim leapt up off the couch and whizzed off to Schemmerhorn, hoping to catch Natasha in the act this time.  He was gone only five minutes when Miz James called again, more distraught than ever.

"Is Wim coming?" she asked, frantically.  "It's still pourin' in here."

"He’ll be there soon," I told her. “It does take twenty-five minutes to drive over to Schemmerhorn, you know.”    

Wim came home an hour or so later, looking somewhat triumphant. 

"I got her," he announced.  "She had her washing machine going.  It was draining into the kitchen sink, but the drain was so blocked up with macaroni that the sink just filled up and overflowed.  Natasha wasn't home, but she came back a bit later, and, yah, she couldn't deny it this time!"

I listened gloomily to the list of repairs required to fix the damage to Miz James’ kitchen: new ceiling tiles, painting, carpet cleaning . . .

"I’d say there’s about $425.00 worth of damage there," Wim added.  "And that's not all.  Two doors are broken upstairs - the front door and one of the bedroom doors kicked in.  These people, I tell you!  The place is absolutely filthy, too.  Worse, this time.  There's food everywhere, and the back landing’s still full of garbage bags.  Of course, that nosy Miz James had to come upstairs and take a look.  Just get rid of Natasha, Stacy.  She’s no good."

I sighed.  "I guess you're right.  Last time I was there, though, her apartment was clean and tidy.  She does seem to go from one extreme to the other, though, in a short amount of time."

To further add to my woes, Miz James phoned a few days later.

"Now there are cockroaches crawling down my walls," she reported.

I gasped.  "Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes.  They're coming from upstairs.  Every time I cook, they appear.  It's disgusting!"

"It is," I agreed.  "I must admit I've never seen a cockroach, but just the thought is horrible enough.  I’ll get it taken care of, don’t worry.

"Oh, and you'll be pleased to hear I'm evicting Natasha."

Miz James breathed heartily into my ear.  “Good.  I don't know how much more I can take, Stacy, and I've only been here a month!"

I sat down at my computer, there and then, and composed a three-day #eviction notice to Natasha.

The next day, I plucked up courage and delivered the notice to her in person.  The street door was unlocked, so I went upstairs and knocked on the door at the top – a mere formality, since it was swinging lopsidedly from one broken hinge. 

When Natasha appeared, I handed her the eviction notice, briefly told her what it was, and retreated hastily down the stairs.

I turned my car round at the dead end of the street, and when I drove back past 51 Manson Street again, Natasha was outside the house flagging me down.  I reluctantly stopped the car and rolled down the window.

"What is this?" Natasha demanded, waiving the eviction notice at me.

"I told you,” I said.  “It's a notice canceling your lease.  You have three days to move out."

"I can't move in three days!  I don'  ’ave no money to move, neither."

"I'll see you in Court, then."  Being a fan of crime dramas, as you know, I'd always wanted to say that line to someone!   

"I'm evicting you," I finished.

Natasha muttered something unprintable beneath her breath, turned her back on me, and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Three days later, at 6:00 p.m., Wim and I drove up to Schemmerhorn.  Natasha was nowhere to be seen, though Miz James reported that she had left shortly before we arrived.

"Hmm, avoiding us, no doubt," I said.  "Come on, Wim.  Let's take a look upstairs."

                             

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Miz James, if you Please, has Fleas

I stood holding the phone, not sure I had heard my #tenant correctly. 

"Miz James, you've got what!" I asked.  "Fleas?"

"Yes.  The Child Protective women came over to check the place out -- to see if it's okay for the kids, you know? -- and the #fleas bit them."

For some reason, I found this highly amusing, though I didn’t let on to Miz James.  My parents had found fleas when they'd first moved into their #rented house.  The problem had been quite bad but easily solved with an insecticide "bomb" and a few carpet powderings.

Wim and I went over to Manson Street the next day, armed with a bomb and a couple of canisters of flea powder.  Miz James was ready for us and had transformed her #apartment into an alien landscape.  Sheets, blankets, tablecloths, and towels covered every item of furniture, stereo and fish tank.  All closet doors and drawers were firmly shut.

I handed Miz James the powder to apply a few hours later, when it was safe to return to the apartment.  Wim set the bomb down in the hallway at the halfway mark and pulled the tab.  It began to sputter and smoke as we ran for the door.

"Hope that'll do the trick," I said to Miz James, once we were outside.  "Don't go back in until the stated time, will you?  A phone call that you're in the hospital with de-fogging poisoning is the last thing I need."

"Sure," Miz James nodded eagerly.  "I ain't going in there til tonight, long after it's s'posed to be safe.  Don't you worry."

She called again a couple of days later.  The situation had definitely improved but she was still seeing a few fleas hopping around.

I went back to Manson Street that evening with some cans of spray.  The problem was that Miz James had laid carpet on top of the #flea-infested carpet in the children’s room and then put heavy bunk beds on top of that. 

I just had to do the best I could, thoroughly wetting the carpet with the spray cans in the hope that the fumes would penetrate to the carpet beneath.  I also sprayed nooks and crannies and furniture for good measure.  I didn’t want any fleas jumping for safety onto the couch.

Life at Manson Street remained blissfully uneventful for the next couple of weeks.  The end of September was approaching and, with it, the end of Natasha's #lease term.  I didn’t really want to tell her to move out, what with three kids and all.  I had just received a cursory statement from the Department of Social Services stating that Natasha's #rent was henceforth being reduced by $3.10.  Why bother? 

I intended to increase her rent by $25.00, which meant she would need to come up with an additional $28.10 a month.  I figured she could afford it, judging by the imposing entertainment center that graced her living room and the large, tasseled, Persian-type rug that covered a majority of said floor space.

I was about to write to Natasha to ask her if she wanted to renew her lease, when Miz James called to complain about loud music coming from Natasha's apartment.

"She keeps it cranked up 'til about three in the morning," she complained breathlessly into the phone.  "On a Sunday night, too!  My kids have to go to school in the morning and they can't sleep with all that noise going on. 

"Also, Natasha's friends keep coming by and banging on her door, real hard.  I think her doorbell ain't working ’cause they hammer on the door.  And then, if she don' answer, they climb up over the balcony.  You gotta do something, Stacie!"

"I'll be sure to write to Natasha first thing in the morning," I promised when Miz James paused for breath.

"I mean," Miz James carried on, "if she could keep the noise to the weekends, I wouldn't mind so much.  But week days?  Oh, no, we can't have that!"

"No," I agreed.  "As I said, I'll write to Natasha."

I wrote to her the next day.  The noise problem didn’t seem too difficult to fix.  I would just ask her to turn it down, and Wim could fix the doorbell.

Natasha did not respond to my letter. 

I knew she’d been away for a few days but when the neighbors informed me that she was back in town, I paid her a visit.  I was pleased to see that the apartment looked totally different from when I’d last seen it.  It was now clean and tidy.

Natasha was short and stocky, with plump, brown, shiny cheeks, sleepy eyes like her brother, and an insolent mouth that she kept pursed with the corners turned down, giving her a prissy expression.  I didn’t take to her, and she looked the type who didn’t give a hoot about anything or anyone but herself.  No doubt, my written requests to keep her dear brother away from the premises and the music turned down had not endeared her to me any.

I found her about to sit down at her glass dining-room table with a friend.  Boxes of fragrant Chinese food steamed gently before them. 

Natasha grimaced at the rent increase but seemed quite willing to pay the difference.  She signed the new lease, while I admired the octagonal fish tank.

"Thanks," I said when she handed the forms back.  "Where are your kids, by the way?"

"They're not here," Natasha answered rather obviously.  She picked up her fork with an expectant raise of her tweezed eyebrows and volunteered no further information.

I took the hint, told her I admired her tasteful furnishings, and took my leave.

No sooner had Natasha signed her new lease than Miz James began complaining again.  She phoned me several times to moan about the noise and to report that people were coming and going at all hours of the day and night. 

Next-door neighbors, Shirley and Jerry, complained about Natasha, too.

"She's either practicing prostitution or drug dealing," Shirley remarked to me one day when I stopped by.  "Why else would she have such a continual stream of traffic going in and out?  Even when she's not there, it still goes on. Oh, and Johnny's been back again, you know."

"Crap," I groaned.  "He's trouble . . . and speak of the devil!"  For who should suddenly appear from the alley, but Johnny? 

He took one look at us and took off down the street at top speed.

"The cops told you not to come back here again, Johnny!" I screamed after him in my best fishwife shriek.

The shriek produced a flustered Miz James, who had evidently struck up a friendship with Shirley as a fellow victim of Natasha's nonsense.  The two of them were enthusiastically discussing decibels as I drove away.

That night, the partners-in-misfortune both called the cops on Natasha, then called me.  The noise level was so loud, I could hear the music clearly through the phone from where I stood in the open doorway to my parents' bedroom. 

It was two a.m.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Brother Johnny's Back!

Twenty-five minutes later, Wim and I arrived at 51 Manson Street, and at the same time so did a police car.  Two #cops emerged and dubiously eyed the dented door of the upstairs #apartment then proceeded to add to the dents by hammering on it with great enthusiasm, demanding entry.

A Puerto Rican-looking youth leaned over the balcony and yelled, "Who's there?  Whaddaya want?"

"Police," one of the cops yelled back.  "Open up."

Blaring music ceased abruptly, and we heard a rumble of conversation.  After a few minutes feet thumped down the stairs, and the door opened to reveal the same Puerto Rican wearing a torn pair of shorts and nothing else.

He looked us over from insolent, heavy-lidded eyes.  Judging by the strong resemblance to Natasha’s mother, this was dear brother Johnny, whom I distinctly remembered telling Natasha was not welcome.

I told the police who Johnny was, described the beating-up incident, and said that I had demanded that Johnny stay away from my property.  I was also worried that he would do more damage to the apartment and told the police as much.

"Let's take a look upstairs," the cops said, shouldering their way past Johnny.

At the top of the stairs we were met by a strong smell of beer.  Upon entering the apartment, we found out why.  The living room was littered with empty beer cans, remnants of incense sticks, and other unidentifiable bits and pieces of junk.  Items of clothing and ancient, dried food added to the mess, and ashtrays overflowed on every surface.

"Look at this place!" I gasped.  "I want Johnny out of here.  Right now!"

"And who's this?" one cop asked, going out onto the balcony where a young girl lounged in a deck chair, a cigarette in one hand.  She couldn’t be more than fourteen years old, but her eyes were going on twenty-one.

"I'm Johnny's girlfriend," she volunteered, looking a little nervous.

"Well, you're too young to hang out with a guy like that," the cop stated.  "Does your mother know where you are?"

"Uh, yeah.  What’s it to you?" 

The girl uncoiled herself from the chair and stood up.  She was just a gawky young teenager, who’d seen – and probably done – more than her years.

"I suggest you go on home," the cop said and shepherded her out the door.

Meanwhile, the other cop had been standing over Johnny while he gathered some things together and shoved his bare feet into some battered, old army boots.

"Before you go, I want the keys," I demanded.

"Don' 'ave ‘em," Johnny answered back.

"Where are theyn?"

"Dunno.  Natty's got 'em.  Door was open."

"Come on, you.  Get going."  The cop pushed Johnny towards the door.  "This lady doesn't want you round here no more, you hear?  Don't make us come again, okay?"

"Whatever." 

Johnny thumped down the stairs and out of the building, not bothering to close the street door behind him.  He whistled as he sauntered nonchalantly down the street.  Gotta keep up the cool, man.  Yeah!

The cops took a last look around and then departed, leaving Wim and I standing amidst the mess.

When we got home, I called Natasha's mother.  Her phone number was on Natasha's #rental #application.  When she answered, I told her about the state of the apartment and asked her if she could exert some authority over her darling son, Johnny.

Mrs. Fluff was very apologetic.  "I just can't do anything with that boy," she said.  "He does his own thing, you know?  I'll tell him not to go there no more, but . . ." she trailed off.

"Okay," I said, "You do that, but where is Natasha?"

"She’s, uh, away," came the vague answer, "but I'll get up there this weekend and clean the place up, I promise you."

That weekend, Allen and I paid the apartment a visit.  Mrs. Fluff had just arrived.  She looked around at the beer bottles and ashtrays and sighed. 

"I'm sorry about this.  Natasha's a good girl, you know. She's had some troubles . . . But, Johnny . . ."  She shook her head mournfully and raised her hands helplessly.

"Well, I'm glad you're here," I said.  "I see you have a key.  Can I have it, please?  You can latch the door when you leave."

 

The next thing I had to deal with was my new #tenant, Miz James, moving in downstairs, a few days after the first of the month.  This would give me some time to paint the apartment.  However, when the threesome left at the end of the month, there proved to be a lot of cleaning required.

The apartment looked different now that it was empty – or, I should say, virtually empty.  The three had very kindly left behind some moldy mattresses for me to dispose of, and all the dirt and damage was starkly revealed in the cruel light of day.  I’d really only ever seen the place in the evenings.  Electric light and twilight evidently do a lot of mellowing.

A score of little repairs awaited Wim's attention, and I gritted my teeth and started to clean.  I found damp cat litter and poop in one of the bedrooms, and the #stove and #refrigerator were filthy.  It took me several hours to scrape off the burnt-on lumps, while Allen gamely attacked the grease-caked oven.  

The bathroom wasn’t much better -- a thicker, blacker, more furry ring around a #bathtub than I had ever seen before, and there was pee and something else in the #toilet.  A final snub?

Anyway, to make a long story short, all this #cleaning, #repairing and #removing was taking time, which I was rapidly running out of.

Miz James kept calling to ask if me I had painted yet, and I kept telling her not yet.  Eventually, when it came to the point where I would have to paint throughout the night in order to get it done, I reluctantly accepted Miz James's offer of painting the place herself.  At least I would provide the paint.  I didn’t really want her doing the painting and maybe asking for a reduction in #rent in return but it seemed I now had no choice.  However, other than Miz James praising the shade of white paint I had chosen, no more was said on the subject.

Three days after she moved in, Miz James phoned me in a tizzy.

"We got #fleas!" she announced dramatically.