2 Good 2 B True

When we were first starting out, I was pleased, yet surprised, when a man and woman in a fancy Cadillac pulled up to see our modest apartment in the country.  And even more surprised when he said they’d take it!  I don’t remember what our screening process was back then.  Probably I sized up their car and said ok, but I rented to them, and everything seemed fine.  But after a few months, he told me they were going to move.  Immediately.   

I didn’t hear the rest of the story till way later, from another tenant. 

Apparently he was a cop in NYC, and she was his girlfriend.  He would leave her every Sunday night, and I do mean “leave”.  No car, no food, no money.  She would knock on neighbors’ doors asking for food or a ride into town.  But it turned out she did have something of value.  She was apparently a well-known hooker in Hudson, as well as a drug user.  

I never found out whether he was pimping her, trying to keep her from temptation, or was just keeping a little something for himself on the side upstate, away from a wife in the city -- maybe all three.  If they'd come to me years later, I would've recognized them as 2 Good 2 B True.

Serendipity, the Brass Bed, & other Leftovers

The story goes that an eager young man asked a rich older man what the secret to his success was.  The old man told him “Always jump at opportunities.”

“How do you recognize an opportunity?” 

“Just keep jumping.”

I believe in serendipity. But I also know you have to keep jumping, keep your eyes peeled, your mind open, and then work your butt off once serendipity does strike.  Even so, there were many things that happened in our careers as a result of odd circumstances.

Some friends told us they wanted to sell their 2-family house in Hudson.  They wanted $16,000.  Were we interested?  We looked at it and agreed to buy it.  For some unfathomable reason, they didn’t realize that they still had to pay off their mortgage.  They thought we were giving them $16,000 and their mortgage would miraculously disappear. By that epiphany, we already were under contract.  But how could we force that sale?  It was their family home.  We backed off. 

But now we had the bug to buy a second property.  There was some urban renewal going on in Hudson, so we stopped by the urban renewal office and asked if there was anything available.  The director, for some reason, thought we had money, and took us to see a store/apartment combo on the 300 block of Warren Street.

In its infinite wisdom, (what, in later years, I would call HUDWorld), HUD and the city found it logical to start the renewal process from the lower end of Warren Street, skip a block in the middle, and continue from the upper end, leaving the 300 block with cracked sidewalks, old lightposts and run-down facades.  Not yet understanding HUDWorld, we assumed the two rehabilitated ends of Warren Street would soon be connected.  It was well over 10 years before that actually happened. 

The building we looked at, all boarded-up and funky, apparently was owned in recent times by Bubba, a huge & scary barkeep/pimp who didn’t pay his taxes.  We were told that when the inevitable tax foreclosure occurred, the city couldn’t get a local contractor to board up the building because everyone was so scared of him.  So they called an out-of-town firm to do the job.  It was boarded up quickly, with everything left inside.  When we saw it, once again, we were smitten.  You'd think we'd have learned with the first house, but, noooo...This time it was by a lovely brass bed.  We figured we could get the purchase price of $3200 back from selling it and a few other things left behind.  So we bought the building, and The Man went back in to inspect our purchase. 

Well, Bubba apparently hadn't left town, and really didn't agree with the city’s decision.  The Man found himself face to face with a VERY large and VERY angry man.  Fortunately, this particular day, The Man was on the top step, while Bubba was coming up the stairs.  The Man had the advantage of higher ground. So when Bubba bellowed up “WHO’S IN MY BUILDING?” The Man, hammer in hand, stood on the top step, drew himself up, and, like Oz, shouted back “I’M here, and it’s MY building!”.  Like so many bullies before and since, Bubba backed off, and that was the last we saw of him. 

But The Man kept the front door locked when he was alone after that.

"Is D coming to fix my sink?"

We renovated a building we dubbed The Rowhouses.  I'll tell you more about that reno fiasco in a later post.  But for this story, all you need to know is that the architect made a big mistake, and we ended up in a financial mess because of the additional cost to remedy it.  We never really recovered, and were always scrambling for enough cash to run it properly.  Finally, exhausted from trying to keep a money-loser in good repair & afloat, we took a beating and sold it at a loss.

The buildings had 15 units, three of them rented by “the sisters”. They were three older women, all hyper, high-maintenance, and needy. On the plus side, in what was still a sketchy neighborhood, they were all very clean, paid their rent on time, and didn’t party.  So we tried to accommodate them whenever we could, which was weekly.  We changed lightbulbs.  We checked mysterious plumbing noises. We checked wear patterns on their rugs that they felt weren't normal.  Those three women took up about 95% of our time spent at that building.  And yet, out of respect for their age and long tenancy, the day we closed the sale, I thought that I would stop in at each of their apartments and say my goodbyes personally.

When I got to Mrs. J’s apartment, I told her that I wanted to say goodbye, the building sold that morning, blah, blah.  She listened (I thought) to what I was saying, and then asked if D, our repairman, was coming to fix her sink.  I repeated again that we no longer owned the building.  “But is D coming to fix the sink?”  No matter what I said, all she wanted to know was if D was coming to do her repairs.  Boy, did I feel stupid and insignificant.

Yet that exchange turned out to be a good lesson for me. I no longer delude myself into thinking any tenant actually cares about what I do.  I understand the landlord mostly doesn't exist, unless we "don't".  I'm sort of like the mailman -- only noticed if the mail isn't delivered.  And in an odd way it’s helped me.  I always think about Mrs. J when a tenant asks me a question.  I think “How does this pertain to him?  What's he really asking?  And what does he really want to know?”             

...more crazy Maureen

Maureen was bugging me again with one of her bouts of incessant phone calls.  Coming into the office, I’d have literally 30 messages to play back every morning, plus she’d phone me while I was there.  I was desperate and unable to get any work done.  I finally threatened that if she called me again I’d have her evicted.  A few days passed in relative peace. 

But then I got a call from a local taxi company.  They found my keys, and would I come and pick them up?  They knew the keys were mine because they were on a key ring with my name and phone number on it.  Now, I would never have my name and number on a key ring, especially with the master key to over 100 apartments. I was stumped. But curious.

Going into the taxi office was like stepping into a Damon Runyon novel.  I shut their door and time-traveled into the ‘40s. It took a few minutes for my eyes and mind to adjust.  The dispatcher sat with her straw-like bleached blond hair piled up in front of her head, a cigarette dangling out of one side of her wrinkled face.  It was kind of like Betty Grable meets Miss Havisham. The room was blue with smoke. Talking out of the side of her mouth that wasn’t keeping the cigarette from burning the pile of papers on her old wooden desk, and in between dispatching cabs, she said that they found the keys in a cab, and she thought “some black guys” had stolen them from me and were going to use them to break into my house.

Only problems with that theory was

1.            There was no address on those keys, so they would’ve had to either phone me for directions (Hellooooo.  I’m some random black guy who needs your address so I can use the keys I stole from you to break into your house.  Pardon me?  You don’t remember when we shared a cab? Well, before I trouble you any further, do you have something worth breaking in for?)

2.            Or he could randomly wander the streets of Hudson, stealthily going house to house, trying to look inconspicuous until he finds the magic lock that opens my door.  Before the neighbors call the cops.  And, the third problem with that theory was (drumroll, please)…

3.            I recognized the writing. They were actually Maureen’s keys, but she cleverly put my name and number on them in case of such a mishap.  So I didn’t comment on the moll’s theory, thanked her, and coughed my way out of the office. 

But now I’m thinking.  Maureen doesn’t have family nearby.  So if she can’t get into her apartment, and she’s afraid to call me because I threatened to evict her, where is she?

As I’m pondering this, I get another phone call.  This time it’s the customer service desk at Shop Rite.  It seems they’ve found my cane.  They know it’s mine because it has my name and phone number on it. Would I come and pick it up? By now I’m wondering:  what next?  Is someone going to find my teeth? Cleverly inscribed with my name and phone number?

Now I’m really worried.  Where the heck is Maureen, limping around and locked out, maybe even without her teeth that haven’t been found yet?  Sleeping on park benches?  Dragging her bad leg along the soup kitchen line?  ("Sorry, only soft food for me today, please.  Seems I can't locate my teeth right now.  Oh, no, not to worry.  I'm sure they'll turn up soon.") 


The tables are turned, and now I’m the one acting like a crazy person, making frantic phone calls. I'm repeatedly calling the hospital, the neighbors, leaving her many, many phone messages. No luck. 

But at some point over the next few days, Maureen calmly showed up at my office and picked up her keys and her cane.  I never asked, and she never told me, where she spent those lost days.

Voodoo Magic

Sometimes people are just too crazy to categorize or rationalize with.  A came from Haiti & originally had his son living with him.  A charming boy, he soon charmed himself into the drug trade, and now beds down compliments of NYS Corrections.  So A lives alone now. But not quite. He has imaginary friends.  Or something. 

We recently went to upgrade the smoke detectors in his apartment, but he’d added a lock on the bedroom door, and we didn’t have a key.  When I phoned A to arrange to return and complete the work, he said he put the lock on because people kept breaking into his apartment, stealing his food, and throwing his things around.  How someone could get into a locked building, then through a steel apartment door without any sign of forced entry, and how exactly a flimsy lock on a hollow-core interior door could stop such a determined, hungry thief, is beyond me.  But it made perfect sense to A. 

I’ve learned not to argue. Just made another appointment.

Euphemisms

Everyone knows there are certain real estate terms that, shall we say, are used to sweeten reality.  But some bear repeating, and I may even use a few on this blog.

Garden Apartment is an apartment which is mostly underground.  It serves as a bellweather for your plumbing, since any backup will first happen first in its bathtub.  Also, the “garden” part is because many species of insects will find their way in, since the dampness inherent in a below-grade apartment makes it ripe for chewing bugs.  A bonus is that you can garden just by opening your living room window, without even having to bend over.  Sometimes advertised as “great for night workers”.  Since it is usually cheaper on utilities, it's sometimes called "green", "energy-efficient", or "earth-bermed". 

Energy-efficient means the central heating went years ago, and instead of replacing the furnace, the landlord put space heaters in each apartment, so the tenants can pay the heat.  It's more energy-efficient because 1.  it's saving the landlord money, and 2. it's a proven fact that people use 30% less energy when they're paying for it themselves. 

Green is another word for wood stove. 

Cute is a euphemism for closet.

Partial River Views means your roommate has to hold your ankles while you lean so far out your window, some other tenant calls 911 thinking you’re trying to commit suicide.  Since the river can only be viewed, via the method described above, from the bathroom window, which is invariably in the shower, the bonus is that you can  shower with a friend and enjoy the view at the same time.

City Views means you’re looking onto someone else’s brick wall, 6” away.

Air Conditioned means there’s not enough real air coming through that 6" between your window and that brick wall, so the landlord threw in a 20-year-old window unit.

Charming City Views means you're looking at other people's rooftops, garbage cans, and clotheslines.

Charming means nothing’s been updated in 40 years.

Character is a euphemism for charming.

The (Blank) You Deserve.  This phrase, while not exactly a euphemism, was started by personal injury lawyers and their ilk, played on the Lotto mentality of the masses, and gave rise to the idea of entitlement.  Now it’s used for everything from regular bowel movements to housing we can’t afford, but somehow “deserve” anyway.  The concepts of entitlement and Client are just steps further along that road.

Client is actually agency-speak, and needs clarification.  Unlike business, where a client brings something of value to the table, social service agency clients bring nothing except a job for the agency worker.  Recipient is a more accurate term.

DSS Sponsored Client is a new one.  It attempts to elevate the recipient's stature even more than "client" does.  It means Social Services is paying to find the person a new apartment, because it's cheaper than housing him in the welfare motel.

I think on many levels, these last two euphemisms and the entitlement mentality behind them, do a great disservice to the people receiving benefits.

Mr. Mac's Funeral

It was interesting.  Here I was the only white person in the church -- yes, the same church where the rev and his son helped themselves to an honorarium before Mr. Mac was gone --  and the undertaker was asking me repeatedly “How does he look?  Does he look good?”.  I was really annoyed that he was even asking me, and thought it was only because I was white.  But then I realized: I was, after all, next-of-kin, and the undertaker needed someone in the family to validate to his work. 

The church was sparsely attended by a few old people, but there was one old man who continued to wail loudly for his deceased friend. I commented to another elderly man that they must have been very good friends.  “Nah,” he replied, “he’s just an old drunk.  He cries at all the funerals.” 



How can one old man have lived so many years in the same town, and at the end of his life call his landlord his next of kin, be robbed by his minister, and have only some old drunk crying for him at his funeral?  Is that the price you pay for living too long?