OleVillains

Reflections of a Liberal Arts Post-Grad

Moving In

Around 6:30 in the evening, my girlfriend called the landlord.

I was lying comfortab--no, that's not the word. Comatose. I was lying comatose on the couch It sometimes hapens when I stay up until 4:30 orking on my first opportunityt oa dvance at work, get up at 6:00 a.m. to finish, plough through my workday and my Kleenex (ragweed bloom), take three allergy pills--of different types-- and then run around my house cleaning frantically before our scheduled house showing at 5:30.

Luckily, they hadn't arrived by 5:35, and I had time to stash my dirty clothes behind my hanging clothes. Amazingly, they still hadn’t arrived by 5:45, when my girlfriend got home from work and could finish the basement and bathroom. Incredibly, they still hadn’t arrived by 6:00, when our neighbor showed up and informed us that Luck, the stray cat we’d been feeding, had belonged to the psychotic woman in the HUD house across the street that was now being voided of the mountains of refuse inside because they had left on a dime, leaving the cat to wander through the garden killing birds and pissing his dog off, and he had called animal control so they would take her away before she starved or killed off the native rodent population but he thought he would check if we wanted her first. Thankfully, the prospective renters did not show up at this time.

So, at 6:30, my girlfriend called the landlord.

“Oh, yeah, they had to cancel. Sorry, I totally forgot to call you. Hope you didn’t clean too much!”

My head hit the armrest. Down for the count.

A landlord is like an R.A., but with power and responsibility. Unless you have my landlord, in which case a landlord is like a J.C., but with power and the suggestion of responsibility.

The day we were prospective renters of our current house, we were not in fact prospective renters of our current house. We were prospective renters of another house located near a movie theatre that was renting for $1,400 a month with utilities paid.

“Oh, you wanted to look at that house?” our landlord (to be) said. “I’m sorry. I’m managing that house, but I’m also moving soon and renting out my own house, so I assumed you wanted to see that. That’s why I gave you directions to here. Incidentally, it’s also renting for $1,400.”

“Utilities paid?”

“…Yeah.”

As it turned out, the landlord’s house beat out the one we had intended to see – an old manager’s house on the campus of an apartment complex, featuring blue and white “waste treatment” style molding - by a margin of ten to one. In fact, his house was beautiful – a massive oak tree in the back, a spacious kitchen, a separate basement bedroom, a yard … he even said he’d take care of the mowing. Skeezy or not, it was the best opportunity we’d had.

On to the haggling. When it comes time for you to rent your first place, you should be aware that the process of leasing is a little less strip mall, a little more Egyptian streetside market.

“I really need a deposit tonight … I already promised this other guy it was his if he got me the money first.”

“Dude, we can’t get you the money tonight. Our housemate is in Winona.”

“Oh … well, that’s fine. I don’t trust this other guy anyway.”

“And we’re a little concerned about the price.”

“Oh … how about $1,300?”

“That works.”

“And I’ll even throw in the water.”

“The water? You said all utilities were paid!”

“No, I said utilities were paid. I didn’t say which ones.”

(Under breath) “You still said utilities …”

“Anything else you want to add to the contract?”

“Yeah - I want a clause that states you can’t raise the rent.”

“Sure. Just write that in the margin.”

Now don’t get me wrong. There are some things that are fantastic about having a J.C.-brand landlord. For instance: the furniture. “Man, we just cannot get that leather couch out of the basement. I think we’ll just leave it here. Oh, there’s also a TV and entertainment center in the garage, if you want to set those up.” (I am not exaggerating.) Also: “Nah, we don’t really want that glass coffee table. You can have it if you want it.”

Above all, the best thing about being managed by someone who’s not entirely on top of his game is the assurance that you don’t really have to be, either: “Why is everything in the dishwasher coated with white gunk?” “I don’t know. Weren’t we supposed to be adding water softener to the tank or something?” “Yeah. Haven’t you been doing that?” “No.” Or: “Hey, did we make this gouge in the stairway, or was that the landlord?” “Uh, the deep one on top was him. I think we made the three wide ones on the side.” “Oh … How much toothpaste do we have?”

In the end, you find yourself sitting on your front porch, petting your traumatized orphan cat as she sits on the stump that used to be a garden plant before it was weed-whacked by an underpaid, overzealous lawn team that forgot to do the back again, and you think, with all sincerity, It’s good to be home. You realize that it doesn’t much matter where you live.

Unless you live in Uptown. Then, you will be mugged.