Good-bye…For Now

It has been quite a while since my last post and the time between posts seems to be getting longer and longer.  There’s a good reason for that, but I won’t bore my four readers with details about my personal life.

What I hope to do is include these posts, about 75 more stories and other pertinent information, tips, advice, etc. in a book about being a landlord in today’s world.  Since I seem to have a time issue right now I can’t project a completion date.  But, if you happen to come across a book somewhere – sometime – that has a funny title about the real estate world or is written by Lanny Lord – pick it up, it just might be mine.  Don’t mind the dust, just think of yourself as the very first person to actually crack the binder.

Thanks for reading and, happy renting.

Lanny Lord

The Landfill

Well friends, I’m finally going to post again.  Chris, I hope you’re sitting down.  Don’t want you to have a coronary.  And Julie, a special apology to you…so soon after you became my fourth reader I abandoned you.  I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

O.K. enough of that.  Here’s the next stop on my scar studded parallel universe tour (yes, I know, but it’s not a typo).

To quickly recap for those lacking long-term memory (Chris) -  I have just moved to my second property management gig about twenty minutes away from my first.  This is a slightly smaller community and a suburb of a semi-large Midwestern city.  Its proximity to the larger city, however, did not seem to have any effect on the rather large population of rednecks who liked to congregate and populate this slightly backward rural burb.

It was the summer of 1995 and I spent the last four months settling into my new project and deciding what I was going to do with some of the dead wood on the property.  There were only twenty apartments on this site, but at least five of the twenty residents had to go, and I had already started the wrecking ball swinging on my first target.  The Benders.  

Dan and Jenny Bender were an ugly couple.  And I don’t mean just physically.  Yes, yes, they only had twelve teeth between them and could be alternates for the Japanese Sumo Team, but mostly they just acted ugly.  Dan was always drunk…and not a happy drunk.  Jenny was usually sober, but you could hear her screaming at her kids a mile away.  Did I mention they had two little kids?  Billy was a four year old carbon copy of his dad.  Just a lot shorter…and happier…and he had teeth.  Jessica was around a year old and, well, let’s just say she wasn’t a very happy baby.  Or a quiet baby.  Or a cute baby. 

O.K. – O.K.  before I get any nasty grams, you have to admit there are some ugly babies out there.  For instance, my oldest son looked like Winston Churchill until he was about two.  And his head was as big and round as a basketball.  My second son had these huge brown/black eyes, pale face and no hair until he was around a year old.  He could have been an alien extra in a Close Encounters movie.  But after that initial “Oh my God what the hell is that?” stage, they got to be pretty cute kids.  So, now let’s get back to the Benders.

The Benders had not paid their rent in two months and Mr. Bender was constantly out on a….well, a bender.  Good old Dan would come home from work completely toasted and, evidently, with a full bladder.  He just couldn’t hold it that extra thirty five feet to the house so he’d drop trou and attempt to fertilize all the grass on my front lawn.  Billy thought this looked fun and wanted to be just like his dad.  So, I’d often see the two of them standing side by side making sure not to cross their streams.  Billy worried me a little bit though.  Billy had to go VERY often and the pressure he would build up was phenomenal, to put it mildly.  This little guy would drop his pants to his ankles, put his hands on his hips with thumbs pointing forward, arch his back and let ‘er rip.  The first time I witnessed this I was alarmed at the altitude and distance, not to mention the duration, he could achieve.  I’m certain there had to be some physical anomaly that allowed such a small child to produce such fire hose results.  I could ask all kinds of questions about the toxicity as well, but the arborvitae tree he killed speaks for itself.

As I said, the Benders had not paid their rent for the last two months and they were already behind a month and a half before they stopped paying completely.  The eviction process was underway.  I had a good forty five days to wait unless the Benders decided to move out early.  You know, to avoid the rush.  I was hoping they’d just leave so I wouldn’t have to pay the Sheriff and my Goon Squad Movers to physically remove them from the premises.

My wish came true!  The last weekend in June, just days before the movers were scheduled, the Benders backed up a rented truck and about half a dozen of their toothless family and friends jumped out.  Drunk.  And stupid.  I decided to avoid this train wreck and made myself scarce for most of the day by locking myself in my basement office and getting some overdue paperwork off my desk.  Since they lived in the townhouse next to mine I could keep an ear out for any problems while having a pretty good idea when they were finished.

Later that evening I heard it.  Silence.  Wooooo Whooooooo!!!!  They must be gone!  I emerged from my dungeon and poked my head out the front door.  Couldn’t see much – the garage was in the way.  I walked out to the street pretending to check my mail and as I came around the garage I saw it in the ditch, next to the road.  The Landfill.  You have got to be kidding me.  This pile of crap was at least twelve feet high and twenty five feet in diameter.  My curiosity got the best of me, I had to take a closer look.  Yep.  Just what I thought.  A pile of crap.  Well, there was nothing I could do about it on a Saturday evening, so I just tried to ignore it.

Sunday morning was much quieter without the Toothless Bladder Busting Twins, Momzilla and Screech living next door.  I was pretty happy, considering I had a truck sized mound of festering crap on my front lawn.   Unfortunately, the happy feeling didn’t last very long.  When I walked outside I saw that The Landfill  was now only four feet high, but about sixty feet in diameter.  The crap had been spread all over my yard.  I was ticked.  But I chalked it up to mischievous neighborhood kids and returned the pile to its original dimensions.

First thing Monday morning I called my garbage collection service to schedule a pick-up for The Landfill.  The woman on the phone said, “I can have it picked up next Monday, sir.”  “What???  That’s a week away!  Can’t you pick it up any sooner?”  I said, incredulously.  “I have a huge pile of crap in my yard…please, can you get someone here this week?  I’ll pay extra.”  I had no luck with the “One Ringy Dingy” woman on the other end cutting me any slack.  I was stuck with The Landfill for a week.  Yipee.

I found The Landfill in the same condition on both Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.  All spread out.  I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day.  But I just kept re-piling and making it look as good as a pile of crap can look.  On Wednesday night I stayed up late to watch my pile of crap.  Nothing.  On Thursday I got up early to see if I could catch the people molesting my pile of crap.  Somehow, this pile of crap was now mine and I developed an irrational need to keep it in an orderly stack.  I was on a mission, but I didn’t have to wait long.

The first crap pile vandals pulled up in a brand new, fully loaded, $50,000 luxury sedan.  The elderly couple emerged from their ride dressed in garbage picker ball attire…or what the lay person would call dinner casual.  I watched in amazement as this couple waded through the garbage and walked off smiling with a few nuggets of crap.  Then, right as the elderly couple drove away a black Hummer drove up.  Out jumped a well dressed, forty something man in cowboy boots, black jeans and black leather jacket to claim his prize.  He had his eye on a twenty year old, rusty  snowblower that looked like it had been run over by a dump truck.  He was having an awful time skidding the tires across the asphalt when he noticed me collecting my jaw off the ground.  “Hey, buddy!  Can you give me a hand getting this in my truck?”  What I wanted to say was, “Are you stupid or something?”  But all that came out was, “O.K.”

I was beginning to realize that the weird desires of these Uptown Garbage Grabbers was saving me money.  And so it continued.  The parade of BMW’s, Lexus’, Cadillacs and Mercedes continued all week.  And by Monday morning all that was left was a small pile of the most useless of crap.  Gone was the smashed furniture, soiled clothing and broken appliances.  Gone was the collection of soda and beer cans, broken dishes and used baby bottles.  Gone were the broken and filthy toys.  But most importantly…Gone was The Landfill, the Pee Buddies, Matilda and Chucky.

Apologies To My Four Readers

I’d like to apologize to my four readers for not posting for a while.  My family has had a series of health issues lately and I just haven’t been able to find the time. 

PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!!  I’m hope I don’t sound too needy, but when you have only four readers  you need every one of them to stick around.  I’ll be back…I promise.  Just not sure how often I’ll be posting, but I will keep posting.

Lanny

I’m Not As Think As You Drunk I Am…

O.K.  It’s been a while.  I apologize to my three readers…and one stranger who has been razzing me.  First, it was Thanksgiving, then I was sick, then my wife was sick, then my kids, then Christmas – now I’m here.  Barely.  Just in case it has been too long between posts for my three readers to remember what I have written about, I had just left my first property management position to manage a property in a nearby city.  Now back to writing stupid stuff.

Affordable housing attracts all kinds of people.  There are the single young professionals who are just getting started, young couples, divorced people trying to save money and get their lives back together, older people on a fixed income and the blue collar workers saving for a house.  Although these groups are quite diverse, they all have one thing in common – most of them drink.  Some occasionally…some constantly.  And most of them go on at least one or two weekend long- drink ’till you’re stupid- barf on your shoes- sleep on the bathroom floor- benders every once in a while.  Some end up in jail, some passed out naked in the hallway (that’s another story) and others face down in unusual places.

The younger drinkers aren’t usually as funny to watch as their older counterparts, but most of the time they’re good for a chuckle.  One such tenant was a construction worker in his mid-twenties who tried valiantly to massacre every last one of  his brain cells each weekend.  I’d often see him stagger into the building knowing I’d find him face down just inside his apartment door with his legs still sprawled across the hallway.  Sometimes I’d just kick him a little and he’d crawl inside just far enough for me to close the door.  A couple of times I had to grab him by the wrist and drag him in like a boneless corpse.  There were a few times he’d get those after-bar-time munchies and try to cook something upon arriving home.  This never turned out well.  I’d often find a cookie tray or broiler pan out in the back yard containing food so burned it was unidentifiable, and quite literally welded to the pan.  This was usually followed by an irate neighbor complaining how the fire alarms were blaring half the night.  To which I would wonder, “Well Einstein, did it cross your mind that maybe you should have called the fire department?”

One evening I happened to wake up around 3:00am and looked out my bedroom window.  I could normally see quite clearly into the second floor hall window of my building across the street.  On this night, however, it was almost completely dark.  I grabbed a pair of binoculars to take a closer look and was startled to see a heavy, black haze blocking out the bright hall lights.  I swore once.  Threw on some clothes and ran over to investigate.  I opened the front door to blaring smoke detectors and empty hallways.  My first thought was, “Why isn’t anyone awake?”  I pounded on a few doors – no one was home.  I ran to the second floor to open a couple of windows to get the smoke out and pound on some more doors.  Again, no one was home until I reached apartment number seven…Tom’s apartment.  Tom, of course, is the aforementioned drunk construction worker. 

As I opened the door I expected to see the apartment engulfed in flames, but instead was met by a cloud of smoke Cheech and Chong couldn’t even inhale.  I dropped to my knees and crawled through the apartment to open the living room windows.  As the smoke cleared I could see Tom passed out on the couch and a meal he had eaten earlier in the day very colorfully displayed on the floor next to him.  I located the source of the smoke, the oven, turned it off and went back to check on my inebriated tenant.  I couldn’t wake Tom, so I checked for a pulse and decided to let him sleep it off.  I then went back to the oven to see just what the hell he was attempting to cook.  On the counter was a wrapper for a 16 inch pizza, but what I found in the oven was a four inch charcoal colored disk that could be used as a spare heat shield for the space shuttle.  The range had completely changed colors.  What used to be an off-white appliance, was now a surprisingly even and rather attractive slate color.  Tom was now the proud owner of a crispy charcoal oven for the low, low price of one brand new “bisque” range.

Once again, the young drunks are good for an occasional giggle, but the older drunks are hilarious.  One such drunk was my favorite, and by far the most entertaining.  Jack and his wife Barb were in their late fifties…but appeared to be in their late seventies.  I’m not sure what made them look old.  It may have been the dark bags hanging under their eyes.  Or the drooping eyelids.  Maybe it was the sagging jowls.  The unnatural black they dyed their hair?  I’m not sure, but I’d have to say the five teeth they had between them, her cackling laugh and his wheezing cough made them seem a little older to me. 

Jack was a truck driver who drank a case (that’s 24 cans) of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer a day.  And on a frame that couldn’t weigh more than 135 pounds soaking wet, Jack was visiting other galaxies after 24 beers.  He drove an old pick-up truck with a snowplow on the front and you could gage by the speed he was driving just how much ole’ Jack had to drink.  The more he drank, the slower he drove.  There was a time or two I saw small children riding bikes pass him on his way home from work.  Jack also had a slight limp due to an accident he had had on the job.  If he was sober (which wasn’t often) you could hardly notice it.  But the more he drank the higher he picked his foot off the ground.  You could tell how much Jack had to drink from quite a distance by how high he would lift that leg.  If he was really drunk it looked like he was running the high hurdles in slow motion…or stepping over an invisible fence.

Jack’s daily antics were most often amusing, but sometimes he’d scare the crap out of me.  For instance, if my snow plowing service didn’t show up to plow the parking lot before he returned home from work he’d plow it himself.  On one occasion I looked out just in time to see him finish his last pass and SLOWLY back his truck into his parking space.  He SLOWLY opened the door, put one foot on the ground, grabbed his lunch box, put the other foot on the ground, stood up, and at ludicrous speed fell face first on the asphalt.  He made several unsuccessful attempts to get to his feet before making an executive decision to crawl the 150 feet into the building while pushing his lunch box ahead of him.  Later that winter I woke up early and looked out my window just in time to see Jack miss the very large entrance to the parking lot and bury his plow in the ditch.  For the next two hours I had the pleasure of listening to him madly gunning his engine and spinning his wheels in a ridiculously futile attempt to “rock” his truck out of the gully the city called a drainage ditch.

Another amusing trick Jack would perform daily was what I called “The Drawer Droppin’ Bulls Eye”.  The trick began shortly after Jack polished off his case of Pabst.  He’d then decide he was too warm and take off his shirt, revealing a physique only years of drinking and lack of exercise could sculpt.  The next step was to stagger out to the garage to look for something he couldn’t find.  I always assumed he just forgot what he was looking for somewhere between the front door and the garage.  He’d rummage around for a while before leaving the garage empty handed.  Seeing that the entrance door to the building had closed and locked behind him, he would spend the next five minutes digging through his pockets looking for his keys.  After finding the correct key, he’d take it firmly between his thumb and forefinger and stab blindly at the lock.  He would do this with his legs spread wide as if riding a horse, and it often took him twenty to thirty tries before he’d finally produce a bull’s eye.  He would then straighten from his horse rider’s stance and, without fail, his pants would fall to the ground revealing his ever present din-gee blue boxer shorts…I’m hoping he had more than one pair.

As funny as Jack’s daily routine was, the most vivid memory I have of Jack happened on a scorching summer’s day.  I was washing my car on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of a string of days hot enough to melt Tammy Faye’s face.  One hundred and one was the temperature when Jack slowly, and I mean SLOWLY, backed his truck into his parking space upon returning home from work.  He took his time getting out of the truck, and the second he dropped his full 135 pounds on those spindly legs of his, they buckled.  Unwilling to let go of his lunch box and unable to get his right hand off the steering wheel fast enough to break his fall, Jack’s face, once again, drilled itself into the parking lot asphalt.  Undeterred, he grabbed hold of his truck door, pulled himself to his feet, and began his slow motion high hurdle race across the parking lot to the sidewalk.  He had just about made it to the front door when he lost his balance and careened headlong into a rather high hedgerow of evergreen bushes.  And these weren’t the soft, smooth variety either.  These were the sharp needled, nasty rash, make you itch for hours type bushes.  Now just falling in these bushes in 101 degree heat would have been bad enough but, true to form, Jack wasn’t wearing a shirt.  I winced and cringed along with a few neighbors as we watched jack do his best swimmers crawl, breast stroke and backstroke trying to free himself from the clutches of the prickly monster that had ensnared him.  Some of the onlookers were amused, some horrified, others disgusted.  But Jack’s persistence paid off after five or six minutes and he staggered to the door for his “Drawer Droppin’ Bull’s Eye” grand finale.

Jack was evidently not satisfied with his performance and returned 30 minutes later to provide the sickened crowd with an encore.  This time Jack was sporting a nasty rash, carrying a small bucket of water and a washcloth…this was new.  He stepped over about 50 imaginary fences until finally reaching his destiny…his wife’s muddy car.  Since so many of his neighbors were washing their cars that day, Jack was evidently feeling left out.  He soaked that washcloth and started to smear the gritty mud into rather symmetrical circles for someone whose blood alcohol level was enough to have him pronounced dead.  He continued rearranging the mud on his wife’s car until he inexplicably, and rather abruptly, slammed his face into the car’s side mirror.  This opened a large gash on his forehead producing an alarmingly large amount of blood.  Remembering a little first aid, Jack pressed the muddy washcloth firmly on the wound and, gathering his dignity, high stepped it into the building.  For a last time, Jack re-emerged with his wife, who promptly drove him to the emergency room in her snazzy, faux muddied car.

Turkey Lurking

It was late afternoon the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and I was looking forward to a nice long weekend with family and friends.  I had recently moved to another city and was just starting to get settled into my second property management position while feverishly attempting to purge my memory of the surreal events of the previous two years in the Cuckoo’s Nest (a pet name for the first property I managed).  Then, the phone rang.  It wasn’t a new phone and I had heard it ring hundreds of times before.  But, for some reason, you can always tell by the “sound” of the ring when the person on the other end is going to crap all over your day.  I picked it up anyway…but it took me nearly five rings to muster up the energy.

“Hello, this is Lanny”, I said.  I was just in time to hear a voice trailing away from the phone saying, “No one’s there, let’s break’em down!”.  This, of course, alarmed me.  “HELLO!!! HELLO!!!” I screamed into the phone.  The voice came back, “Wait a minute guys.  I’ve got someone.  This is Lt. Crane from the Fire Department.  Who am I speaking with.”  “This is Lanny Lord.”  I said.  “What’s the problem?”  Lt. Crane said, “Well sir, your building has a great deal of smoke coming out of the third floor and we can’t determine the source.  We can’t reach the manager and unless your tenants get home pretty quick, we’re going to have to start breaking these apartment doors down.”  Lovely….just lovely.

I had to think.  The Cuckoo’s Nest was a good twenty minutes away with no traffic.  It was now around 4:00pm the day before Thanksgiving – I dropped my arms to my sides, slumped my shoulders, tilted my head back, looked toward the heavens and yelled, “OH, COME ON!  GIVE ME A BREAK!”  Lt. Crane’s voice brought me back from my brief temper tantrum, “Excuse me?”  “Sorry about that, I was talking to someone else.”  I said.  “Please, don’t knock down any doors.  I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”  I pleaded.  “O.K. Buddy.”  He said, “But if I don’t see you in exactly fifteen minutes, we’re breaking down doors.”  I dropped the phone and ran out the door.  How the hell was I going to make it there in fifteen minutes? 

As I ran out the door I realized I had not yet stored my early 70’s muscle car for the winter.  “THANK YOU!”  I yelled skyward as I ran to the garage (my neighbors always knew I was weird – I was just confirming their fears).  I jumped in my car, fired it up and squealed out of the driveway.  WOOOO WHOOOO!!!  Cart Blanch to drive like a complete idiot!!!  Come stop me now coppers…if you can catch me!!!!  I was flying in an out of traffic like a drunk Mario Andretti just hoping an officer of the law would pull me over and ask, “Where’s the fire?”  And I could tell him!  “At my building!!!  Follow me…and try to keep up!!!”  No such luck.  Not a police officer in sight.  Oh well.  But, I DID receive quite a few friendly hand gestures from fellow rush hour motorists as I weaved in an out of traffic at break neck speed.  Everyone is always so happy around the holidays.  Don’t you think?

After fourteen minutes of white knuckle, dumb luck driving I screeched to a halt in front of the building.  Yes indeed, there was A LOT of of black smoke coming out of the third floor.  I ran by a few firefighters looking up at the front of the building and, with building keys in hand, I flew up the stairs and came face to face with at least a dozen VERY disappointed firefighters.  When they realized they weren’t going to be able to knock things down and break stuff their faces practically oozed off their skulls and down the front of their reflective jackets.  A few of the guys actually shuffled off to their fire trucks, dragging their axes behind them like a little league team on the losing end of a double header.

The rest of the firefighters however, were very enthusiastic about finding the fire…kind of like a flock of hummingbirds jacked up on caffeine.  Looking out the window I noticed that the firefighters I passed on my way in had gone to the back of the building and were now heading back to the front of the building.  I turned to one of the firefighters and asked, “What are the guys outside doing?”  He furled his brow and replied, “It’s the weirdest thing.  When we drove up, the smoke was coming out of the front of the building.  Then it stopped, and was coming out of the back of the building.  And it just keeps switching from front to back.  Every time the guys go to the back it switches to the front, and vice versa.  We can’t find the source and no one seems to be home.”  Then I asked what seemed to be the obvious question, “Why don’t some of your guys stay in the front and the rest of the guys go to the back?”  “Hey, that’s a good idea.”  He said.  So, that’s what they did.

The guys in the front and the guys in the back now reported the smoke had stopped completely.  But now we were beginning to see smoke in the hallway, and it was coming from under the door of one particular apartment.  Lt. Crane asked me for the keys, opened the door and was blasted by a cloud of soot black smoke that was so thick you couldn’t see the end of your nose.  “@%$#!!!!  This is it guys!”  Lt. Crane yelled.  I’m glad he told the rest of the guys – they may not have noticed him disappearing into the bellowing black wall of smoke.  Three firefighters followed their fearless leader into the black abyss.  “Is anyone in here?”  They yelled.  No answer.  One firefighter found the source – the oven and range hood, as well as part of the cabinets, were on fire.  The fire was quickly doused and another firefighter made his way over to the window to air out the apartment.  That’s when we heard him yell, “I’ve got someone!”  It was the lady who lived in the apartment.  She was hiding behind the curtains trying to breath out of a window she had opened just a crack.   ”What the hell are you doing?  How come you didn’t answer us?”  The firefighter asked.  No response.

When we finally pieced the story together it went something like this:  Evidently, Ms. Heduperbut decided to test her Thanksgiving culinary skills for the very first time by cooking a very large turkey in a very small oven.  For some reason she scheduled this Martha Stewart journey a day early and immediately after working a double shift.  The warm apartment made her sleepy and she fell asleep on the couch.  A few hours later she woke up coughing and crawled to the living room window.  She opened the window to let the smoke out.  This got the attention of the local fire department which, of course, was directly across the street.  A few firefighters went over to investigate.  The tenant saw the firefighters and became embarrassed so she closed the window.  However, she still wanted to get the smoke out of the apartment, so she ran to the bathroom to turn on the vent fan and, you guessed it, the bath fan vented out the back of the building.  When the tenant saw the firefighters run to the back of the building she turned off the bath fan and opened the living room window.  Thus creating the gopher brigade who spent the next thirty minutes running from the front of the building to the back.  When the tenant realized the gopher brigade was splitting into two groups she did the only thing she could think of – closed her eyes, held her breath and hoped they’d go away.

So, to recap this little story – I left the nest, heard a Crane call, looked up to the sky, flew back to the nest, was flipped the bird (many times), and was swarmed by hummingbirds all because of a bird brain torching a turkey!

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!!!

Poor Little Rich Boys

It was May of 1994 and I had just found out the sun was setting on my first property management gig.  In six months I’d be managing a much nicer property in a nearby city – HOT DAMN!!!!  Unfortunately, my excitement was cut short rather abruptly when I realized I was to remain a castaway, marooned upon this hilltop island, devoid of any normal human behavior, for the next 180 days.  Oh joy.  But, being a “glass is half full” kind of guy, I decided to keep my eye on the prize and not let the nut jobs get me down for the remainder of my sentence.  Well, that didn’t last long.

Shortly after receiving the news of my upcoming rescue from my island purgatory, I also received a call from a well spoken woman who told me she was looking for an apartment for her adult son and his friend.  I scheduled the showing for that afternoon hoping to rent my last vacant apartment before the end of the week.  I arrived at the building about 30 minutes early to make sure the property was presentable and everything was in order.  It was, so I waited.

“Mom” showed up ten minutes early in a $90,000 Mercedes Benz, but remained in her car until her son arrived.  “Junior” drove up in a brand new, bright yellow, Ford Mustang GT Convertible – ten minutes late.  Mother and son exited their vehicles and began walking in my direction.  Mom was polished, well dressed and dripping with diamonds.  Junior was wearing a designer track suit, Rolex and $100 basketball shoes.  I was wondering why people with this kind of money wanted to rent a $450/month, one bedroom apartment for two guys in their early twenties…but hey, a rented apartment is a rented apartment.  Mom and Junior introduced themselves and I began my sales routine.

As we walked through the building talking, Mom mentioned on several occasions that Junior was on the fence regarding renting an apartment or buying a rather pricey condo across town.  I thought the choice was a rather easy one – TAKE THE LUXURY CONDO YOU IDIOT!!!!  But I was trying to rent my last apartment, so I said, “I believe you’ll find the benefits of renting outweigh the headaches of owning – no lawn care, snow removal, no repairs, no taxes, minimal utilities, etc.”  I then got out my shovel and started flinging even more crap (see the Steamin’ Piles post).  Mom added that the apartment would probably be a more practical choice because it was much closer to the airport where Junior was taking flying lessons.  She then asked about the security of the storage lockers because her son owned extremely expensive downhill skis, golf clubs, rock climbing gear, skydiving equipment and a host of other items that needed to be under lock and key.  I assured her that the building was secure and we had never had any theft issues.

After about 45 minutes I thought it was time to wrap things up and ease them into the application process.  As I was getting the paperwork out I wanted to see if Junior actually had a voice or if Mom did all his talking for him.  I asked him what he did for a living and he informed me he did not have a job but had recently graduated from a small, but rather prestigious college with a bachelor’s degree in social work.  Indicating he could put two whole sentences together, he added, “My college roommate will be sharing the apartment with me.”  “Great!”  I thought.  “Two rich kids!”  “Where do you want to work?” I asked.  But, before Junior could answer, Mom interrupted and asked to look over the application and paperwork.  As she read through the application she stopped on the section that asked for bank information – name of bank, checking/savings account info., etc.  And this is where things got interesting.  Mom said, “Junior doesn’t have any bank accounts.  A bank account would make him ineligible for his disability benefits and SSI.  But he does have $100,000 in a trust fund.  Junior has ADHD you know.”  WHAT!?!?!  ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????  (Can you see a rant coming on here?)  OH – MY – GOD!!!!!  This 23 year old, lazy, free loadin’, snot nosed kid, with a college degree, $100,000 in a trust fund, a new Mustang, hobbies I could only dream of, a mother who owns three antique stores and makes $150,000/yr., and father, get this - DAD IS AN ATTORNEY WHO PULLS DOWN $250,000/YR!!!!!  AND JUNIOR IS COLLECTING $1,500/MONTH OF MY TAX MONEY!!!!  WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?!?!?!   Somebody get me a club because I’m going to show this kid what a REAL disability is!!!!

Now that you know what was going through my head, just imagine how difficult it was to keep it from coming out of my mouth.  I’m quite certain, however, that my attempt at stretching on my best poker face wasn’t cutting the mustard.  I could feel my face getting hot, my jaw muscles tightening and that one big vein in the middle of my forehead was pounding like the kettle drums in the first few measures of the Olympic Games Anthem.  In case you haven’t read my earlier posts, I’ll quickly sum up my look at this moment – I’m a 5′8″, 220lb, meathead muscle boy with a ridiculous looking (on me) flat top who’s desperately trying to keep my rage issues in check while “Lovey” and “Junior Howell” stick needles in my eyes.  Nice image, huh?

Even after finding out Junior’s roommate was pulling the exact same scam, I kept my tongue in my mouth and rented to these two pieces of human debris with their parents as co-signors.  Junior Howell and Gilligan moved in and promptly slept the entire first two months of their residency (I wasn’t aware that extended bouts of heavy sleeping were ADHD symptoms).  They then proceeded to smash their windows, start the oven on fire, draw on the walls and somehow put a head size hole through a two inch thick solid wood door.  When they were finished, they abandoned the apartment and stuck their parents with the bill.  Not bad for a couple of poor, disabled rich kids.  Somebody get me a club.

Herculean Acts Of Idiocy

We’ve all had those “Twilight Zone” days when we wake up only to find that everyone’s brains had fallen out of their heads.  And I’m pretty sure I’ve been one of the brainless wonders in someone else’s nightmare on more than one occasion, but for one reason or another, I feel like I’m on the receiving end way too often.  Maybe it’s because I’m a landlord, or maybe, just maybe, everyone is conspiring against me.  I’m sure the thought has crossed most of our minds when we’re surrounded by imbeciles performing what appears to be Herculean feats of idiocy just to tork us off.  This story is about one of those days.

It was a rainy morning and I had a ton of pressing work to complete at one of my properties.  I was up early and heading out the door around 7:00am.  Before starting the 20 minute trek to work, I decided to check on my apartment building that was right next door…just to make sure there was nothing that needed my immediate attention.  As mentioned in previous posts, this was a 30 family building on a large hill.  Along with that hill came an extremely steep driveway.  So steep, in fact, that snowplows and Yugos were unable to crest the summit.

As I was walking across the south parking lot overlooking the three lane one-way street below, an old and rather large box truck caught my attention.  It appeared to be a 1960’s vintage moving truck of some sort.  The driver made a wide turn into the driveway and attempted to slowly climb the hill.  After much gear grinding, jerking and stalling the truck’s front bumper scraped against the asphalt and the truck came to a grinding halt.  The driver and his passenger exited the truck to assess the situation.  I, of course, stood and watched.

After walking around the truck a few times and checking the bottom of the front bumper, the two movers got back in the truck and fired it up.  It was obvious the truck was too long to clear the “belly” of the driveway and I was glad the two were going to find another place to park their truck.  They slowly backed up into the street, but traffic had picked up and no one was letting them out.  This is when the passenger hopped out and walked into traffic, a bold move…albeit rather stupid.  He proceeded to play traffic cop as his buddy continued to back across all three lanes.  As I was watching I was wondering why the driver wasn’t turning so he could merge with traffic.  The answer dawned on me the moment the driver red lined the engine, popped the clutch and started speeding towards my driveway.  Although startled and somewhat concerned, all I could do was watch.  I’d never get to him in time to stop him. 

I watched the front of the truck bounce and lurch as it accelerated toward the hill.  The driver was leaning over the steering wheel with saucer eyes and clenched teeth as he braced himself for impact.  And impact he did.  The front bumper hit the asphalt with incredible force bucking and shaking the entire truck, but not stopping it.  The truck ground up the hill at least another eight feet before the rear bumper hit the asphalt and lifted the rear wheels completely off the ground.  I stood there in child-like amazement…just staring, until blurting out the only thing that came to mind, “WHAT THE HELL!?!?!?”  I say blurting, but it was more like squeaking, screeching & screaming…squeaching?  And I think I squeached it about 35 times.

The driver and his companion had no idea what I was so upset about.  I don’t think they had ANY ideas about ANYthing…Roscoe and Enos were a Boss Hogg short of a Hazzard.  They just looked at me like, well – Roscoe and Enos.  Red faced and silently, as if choking on a corn dog, I continually pointed at the truck and then the gouged asphalt.  I was eagerly awaiting a sign that there was light peeking through the cracks of the dark, damp dungeons residing deep inside the toothless melons atop their shoulders.  But, once again, I was completely and utterly disappointed.  I hung my head in defeat and resigned myself to another unproductive day.

One hour was the time limit I gave ole Rosco and Enos to remove their “Wheels of Tragedy” from my driveway before I took things into my own hands.  While Rosco was madly spinning the wheels (which were six inches off the ground) in a rather disturbing display of clulessness, the driveway was filling up with angry tenants trying to get to work.  And, in the demented little brains of my tenants, this was somehow all MY fault.

After an hour of tenants reminding me of their “rights” as renters and telling me how I should pay for their missed time at work, “help” arrived.  And guess who it was…that’s right, Boss Hogg himself.  Now I’ve never seen an entire episode of “The Dukes of Hazzard” but I have seen Boss Hogg, and this was his brother from another mother.  However, this Boss Hogg was dressed more like Cooter and drove a piece of crap box truck just like the one stuck on my hill.  He was obviously the brains of this outfit.  Just like watching a really bad sitcom (such as the Dukes), I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next. 

Old Boss Hogg sent Rosco out into the street to stop traffic – I could see where the boys got their training.  Boss jumped into his truck and proceeded to turn it around until it was butt to butt with the other truck.  He opened the rear door and pulled out a battleship anchor chain about 30 feet long and proceeded to attach one end to the bumper of his truck and the other to Rosco’s truck.  Boss bounced his chubby little body up into the cab of his truck and red lined the poor thing before popping the clutch.  That 35 year old POS got up some pretty good speed before snapping that chain tight.  I thought the bumpers would rip right off those trucks and Boss would go shooting out the windshield like a portly crash dummy.  But Boss just kept at it, slamming and scraping that truck off the hill inch by inch. 

Boss’s truck was overheating pretty badly, but he only had a few more inches to go to free the stuck moving truck.  He was determined to get the job done and not look like a fool…uh, too late.  Traffic had now been stopped for close to 15 minutes and people were getting pretty ticked off, but Boss backed that truck up one last time and put the hammer down.  Not unlike a Rube Goldberg, the bumper of boss’s truck ripped off, the stuck truck slid down the last few inches to rest on its tires, Boss’s truck engine started on fire and as Boss opened the cab door he slipped and fell face first onto the concrete. 

THEN…they called a tow truck.

Steamin’ Piles

Well, this is the second post since returning from a sabbatical I’ll now refer to as “The Poseidon Adventure” and, as I continue down Flashback Lane, I recall an event that is forever etched in my sinus cavity.  

It was 1993.  August arrived carrying a blow torch and a bucket of warm water.  The sidewalks burned your feet and you could cut the air with a plastic spork.  We had a stretch of 100+ degree days and, like most mentally challenged bodybuilders, my workouts intensified during the summer months so I could look my best in the T. Michael string tank tops that were so popular at the time.  Unfortunately, I was a little more challenged than your average bodybuilder.  You see, the hardcore gym where I worked out was in a metal roofed warehouse that didn’t have any air conditioning.  So, rather than taking a break from working out during the “hell on earth” days of summer, I joined exactly two other morons in the gym for our daily workouts (Quick Reminder – I’m a recovering stupid person).  Well, after a monster leg workout in 103 degree weather, I developed a lovely case of heat stroke which made me disoriented, nauseous and left me with an insane case of explosive diarrhea for a full two weeks.  I was NOT a happy camper…or crapper.

Even though I was spending my days trudging a trail from my bed to the bathroom and back again, I still took my property tours to make sure everything was running smoothly.  I even summoned up the strength to cut the lawn.  Let me tell you, cutting this lawn was no easy feat.  The building was on an extremely steep hill with over 200 feet of sidewalk/street frontage.  A riding lawn mower, unless fitted with outriggers, was out of the question.  I had to push mow this ski hill in 95 degree heat while trying to maintain my dignity by not filling my pants or passing out and rolling down the hill. 

I started cutting the lawn at the top of the hill and worked my way down to the street.  I mention this so my three readers know that even though I was a stupid person, I was smart enough to start at the top of the hill.  Anyway, by the time I got to the bottom of the hill I was feeling just ducky.  I’d already had a couple of close calls running for the bathroom and I was barely remaining in a vertical position.  Then I got to the only patch of flat grass on the whole property – the eight foot by 200 foot section between the sidewalk and the street.  What I saw on this patch of grass sent me into what I can only describe as a demented hissy fit.  As I stood there swaying on rubbery legs quite ready to vomit while clenching my butt cheeks together, I found myself looking at no less than 75 piles of dog crap.  These were not little chipmunk purse poodle piles.  These were “I cross-bred my wolf with a buffalo” piles.

Let me give you a little background before going on.  The city had an ordinance that required dog owners to clean up their dogs’ droppings or be cited.  I had called the city, police department and animal control offices numerous times about people leaving their dogs’ droppings on my lawn.  Each time I received the same answer – “The police are too busy to cite for this type of minor violation.”  This is not New York or Chicago.  This is a medium sized city AT BEST…and the police department was on the same street just 400 yards away!  AND, considering the street was a one way street, they couldn’t even leave the police department without passing my property.  C’mon!!!  Work with me here!

I had now taken off my sweat soaked shirt and was standing there looking like a crazed lunatic to all the passing motorists.  Just then a police car drives by and I got an idea.  I quickly stagger up the hill and retrieved a shovel out of the shed.  I then returned doing my best “noodle man” impersonation as I managed a controlled fall down the hill.  Now, just for effect, I’ll paint you a quick mental picture.  It’s 95 degrees, there’s a sweaty, half naked muscle bound lunatic with an unfortunate hairdo (flat top) standing on the sidewalk with a shovel watching cars go by.  Not my best moment.

My head was still spinning from running up and down the hill, so I took a moment to catch my breath and creep out a few more motorists.  I then began wildly flinging piles of dog crap onto the scorching concrete road in front of me.  I recall moving at an incredible speed because there were times when I would be on my third shovel full of mutt mud before the first pile hit the street.  This must have seemed like Armageddon to the bewildered motorists trying to dodge these beagle bombs raining from the sky. 

When I launched the last of the offending piles I finally took a break to look at my handy work.  Wow!!!  That’s a lot of crap!  I was a little scared at first because…well, there was A LOT of crap!  And car tires were picking it up and flinging it everywhere.  Just what I needed, a huge fine for – I don’t know what they’d call it – poo pitching?  The only thing going through my head was Monty Python – “Run Away!  Run Away!”  So, that’s what I did. 

I didn’t hear any more about it, but a few of my tenants said they saw numerous squad cars stopping and officers getting out to inspect their cars.  Coincidentally, I never had another problem with dog piles on my lawn again.  Hmmmm.

I’m Back

I’d like to apologize to my three readers for the rather lengthy sabbatical I’ve taken.  I promised to post once or twice a week and I was doing just dandy until Summer came along and, well, kicked my Summer right in the groin.  Even though Spring and Summer are the busy seasons in the landlording business, this year just really…how should I put it?…sucked pond scum. 

I won’t go into great detail because, quite frankly, I’ll just get really cranked off all over again and I can’t afford to have a coronary right now.  Not to mention, the past couple of months added quite a few potential posts to Mr. Landlord’s Neighborhood and I don’t want to spoil future material.  Enough said, I’ll start with June, primarily because Summer usually starts in June.

June 2008 was a lovely month – for about the first week!  Then all hell broke loose and I was searching high and low for those damn ark plans Noah hid somewhere.  The guy lived to be 900 something years old, you’d think he would have made some copies for God’s Sake!  Oh yeah, for those of you who don’t live anywhere near the central 38 states or own a television set, radio or are unable to read, see or hear, you might not know we had a little rain around these parts.  If you fit into any or all of these categories, let me tell you about all the fun we heartland folks had living our own version of “A River Runs Through It”.  ”IT” of course, being everything.

The 100 year flood started off just like any other flood…it rained.  Then it rained some more.  Then some more, a little more, then a whole lot more.  You kinda get the drift.  Then, not unlike a frat boy at bar time, complete saturation set in.  The ground was mud, our basements were swimming pools, our lakes were all now interconnected and our lawns were unusually green.  That’s when we started to become concerned.  Not only were our lawns finally green, but it was still raining.  Crap.

None of my properties were in flood zones, but after watching the creation of “Lake Iowa” I was a little worried that the rivers may not care if we weren’t in flood zones.   Sure enough, one of those little buggers jumped its banks and was making a bee line for my largest property.  I, of course, did not find this out until I received an early morning phone call from my property managers telling me all of our tenants were in the process of being evacuated by city and county emergency teams – ON BOATS!!!  Ohhhhh, that’s just PERFECT!

I spent most of June dealing with this issue, meeting with city officials, getting rides to the property from emergency and/or military personnel.  It was just a splendid time to be a landlord.  Then July came.  Clean-up, rent refunds, cranky tenants and the the infamous FEMA.  What a bunch of mentally challenged baboons.  Seriously!  I’m certain FEMA stands for Federal Employees Mimicking Animals.  I’ve even come up with a new slogan for them – “FEMA – Helping Everyone But You.”

Well, that’s just a taste of what’s to come in future posts.  I’ll continue on in chronological order, but I had to get some of this off my chest.  Now I need a drink.  See?  I was afraid of this…I’m reliving the Summer and it’s not even over yet.  I need some serious psychological help…or a drink.

What?

Since entering the post college workforce over 20 years ago I’ve read thousands of letters and memos.  And the more I read, the more little tricks I learn to speed up the process while still understanding the point and purpose of the correspondence.  One trick I’ve learned is that when a colleague passes a letter  onto you with their comments written at the top, it’s best to read the letter in its entirety before reading your colleague’s comments.  This allows you to take in the information contained in the letter without being influenced by the comments, or trying to tie the comments to the letter before you’ve finished reading it.  This trick has worked well for me…most of the time.  However, occasionally this doesn’t work so well, but when it doesn’t work, it usually at least makes me laugh.

The following is a letter written to my brother, Over Lord, from one of our tenants.  It was printed in pen on a blank piece of paper with our company address at the top left.  I didn’t look at my brother’s comments that were circled in the upper right hand corner, but I could tell they were brief and were addressed to our property manager (Barb).  So, I began to read the letter:

(The letter is typed exactly how it appeared – spelling, punctuation, grammar, capitalization, etc.)

ABC Company

P.O. Box 123

Ourtown, USA

 

Mr. Over,

For means of this writing I request To him of the wey but letter Can wait For nex week.  To my with the rest.  of my rent Sinse you know my great reason by which I had to Leave, And to have expenses not very unexpectud, And Leavin to my Family with very Little Single money   for when you returned but your know that if I Go Outside does not work day.  And my last Check was too Low.

Mr. Over I promise for nex thursday to paid my rest to my rent.  And also I want to know if I need To move at the end of february

Please I request to him responds to me is no necessary that iT sends a Letter by mail.  If it is not to take much its time Can him to answer me my electronic mail, which I Could at the moment Check in my Serious Work.  a fast.  way but than you very much.

I want but thoughtful it must you.

Steven Meyer (the name has been changed to protect the public school system)

 

As I squinted, blinked, frowned and grimaced, I told myself I must be missing something.  Since this tenant lived on a property my brother handled I thought it was now time to look to his comments for guidance in deciphering this thorough thrashing of the English language.  But when my eyes focused on his circled comment at the top of the page I realized I was not alone.

Asking the only question he could think of, this is what my brother wrote:  “Barb – What?”