So, I finally had it out with my landlord. I may have screwed us, Phillip is worried that I have, but I had to stand my ground. I simply had to. Well, let’s be careful about terms. She is our property manager, not our landlord. Our landlord is wonderful, we love her, but she is no longer in the picture, apparently hiring a property manager to handle the affairs of the tenants. And things just haven’t been the same.
She came by to show the unit above us. She’s been trying to rent it out for an astronomical amount of money. And since it isn’t renting, she has been taking to blaming me for that. Who knows why? But, it’s usually the same, considering where she’s coming from. Look at me. To some I’m an adorably charming guy in jeans and a ball cap. To others, I look like redneck white trash. Won’t take the time to know anything about me, won’t delve into my writing to strip away my wear and look for some awareness I bring with my art. Hell no.
I’m not trendy enough to live here, I degrade the place, I bring down property values. I saw her looking around the yarn truck one day, throwing her hands up, staring into the back of it and obviously shaking her head as though it was some bent up, broke up, piece of trash that was keeping people from renting the apartment upstairs. Look! The friggin’ Clampetts live here. She then took to Phillip’s garden and began throwing her hands around in disbelief again. I could see her from my living room window. Shaking her head and showing such displeasure in his plants….HIS PLANTS! Not the prettiest pots, I guess.
Whenever she happens to show the apartment she makes a point of telling me their occupation. “This one is a cancer researcher and her sister works for NASA!” Girl, that’s not her sister, that’s her lesbian lover, let’s get that straight. “Oh, the people coming today work for the Russian Ballet!” And at one point I finally said straight up, “Well….I guess that makes little ol’ me the low rung on the social ladder, doesn’t it?”
But, today? Today, I’d had enough of being made to feel like I wasn’t worthy of living here, that I wasn’t chic enough, that I wasn’t valuable enough. She seems to have a fondness for renting to young women. I have no idea what that is about. I guess she saw some marketing material that says they’re likely to spend large amounts of money on apartments in the downtown area that is close to craft breweries and food trucks. But, I’ll speak from experience when I say we have lived here for four years and in that time each and every apartment that has been rented by young women under the age of 25 ends up in a rotating door of disasters. None renew their leases, because they can’t get along, or they don’t even bother to stay the extent of the lease because it’s just too much work being an adult.
Case in point, today. The two girls who live next door NEVER take out their trash. We have assigned garbage bins to take to the road. Each apartment has one, they’re all clearly labeled. Now, I know we forget to take them to the road every Monday, everyone does it on occasion, but they’ll fill up theirs, fill up the recycle bin, then start using other people’s trash receptacles. You’d think they would feel bad about that and find the next opportunity to take everyone else’s trash out. Nope. They never. Then they get packages, discard of the boxes off in the corner, and all the plastic wrap and then wait for someone else to clean it up. Oh, yes. They both are Rollins College graduates and work on Park Avenue. The property manager pointed that out to me. La-deee-dah.
So, today she was showing the apartment early this morning. I’m sitting here at my desk, watch her spend 20 minutes showing it, then come down the stairs pick up this big plastic bag that was in the middle of the road, place it on my trash can and look at me through the window. Again, all this trash, this nastiness is my fault. Again, she can’t rent the place because I’ve made it look filthy and lazy. So, I sent her an email, titled it, “Love your message!”
“I love the way you dramatically placed this weird plastic bag in my trash can, prominently displaying “apartment 2.” Allow me to give you some insight: apartment 1 is responsible for that trash, as is the mad cardboard madness they’ve left in this corner for six months now. They don’t feel they have to tend to their own trash, but will fill up everyone else’s receptacles and the recycle bin with their own nonsense then have apartments 2 and 3 take it to the street for them.
“As a matter of fact, Skye took out to the road apartments 2 and 3 to the road yesterday. And left apartment 1. They need to take care of their trash. Not only their own bins. But, the things they do to denigrate. We’ve lived here for four years now. And we love tending to the crown of thorns to hide the blemishes that beset the property. We did our best to make it vibrant and alive with small flowers, but I’ll be damned if I’m to made to feel the trash on the property is my fault, when truly it’s the fault of those who think of this as a stopover, rather than a home. I wish you wouldn’t look on us so unfavorably, because that is what I’m beginning to feel. We feel like we’re being blamed for the problems on the property, when we’re not the ones at fault. I hope you understand where I’m coming from. We loved it here. We really did. But, we’ll continue to do our best to make this a wonderful property for anyone who wishes to live here for as long as we are.”
I just wasn’t willing to play this game with her anymore, that I am too nice to say something back, that I’m willing to be treated with malice because I don’t look fashionable and have a “profession” that someone can be proud of just because she has the power to turn us out and that I could…tolerate all of this.
I hate that feeling. I HATE being made to feel that I’m worthless. Apparently, this trash must be your fault. I mean look at you…it MUST be you.
Our lease is up in three months. I know for certain she is not willing to let us stay that long, not if she could rent the apartment upstairs by getting rid of us. She’s looking for a way to get us out. I know she is. And you know what? I’m willing to give her what she wants as long as I have a place to go. I just have to sell enough books and bears to make it happen. And it can happen.
I just want out. I’m just so angry that I am made to feel every time I see her that I am the reason for her failure. I HATE THAT! That I’m not worthy enough to live here….Fine.
….and now her response. “Please don’t make me give you a three day notice.”
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