An unrealistic landlord makes this tenant’s life miserable. — illustration by Ben Mackey
By Anonymous
New Year’s Eve 2010: 8:30 p.m.
I have been in town a little over two months, having moved to Iowa to take a new job. My closest friends are a three-hour drive away, and the weather forecast convinces me to stay put. Lonely and isolated, I think about unpacking some of the boxes I’ve stacked in this cramped apartment. It was one of the few left to choose from when I went apartment-hunting in Iowa City in September, not knowing that all the choice dwellings would have already been snapped up months ago by savvy university students and anyone else familiar with the vagaries of the rental situation in this community.
As a single woman long out of college, I had been looking for something safe, fairly quiet (i.e., away from the university) and close to work. Something more spacious—and with a sane apartment manager—would have been ideal.
But we can’t win all our battles in life. And as the economy continues to crumble, I’m glad to have a stable job in the largest, most vibrant community I’ve been pleased to call home.
Rather than moping in my loneliness on this New Year’s Eve, I turn to the few mundane distractions left to a 30-something single woman. The first involves my cats; the quality time I spend teasing them with toy mice and string while basking in their affection helps assuage my solitude. I then vow to wake up to a clean—if not entirely unpacked—apartment in the new year. I vacuum the floors and put a load of clothes in the washer, which—wonder of wonders—is located in my own apartment. For the first time, I don’t have to share a washer and dryer with anyone! No more gum cemented to my clothing from the previous launderer, or ink stains on my sheets from someone else’s errant pen, or load of whites turned pink.
With the apartment in reasonable shape, I decide a small reward is in order before the ice and snow blow in. I start out to my car to seek some Indian takeout, something of a novelty as I’ve never lived near an Indian restaurant. As I back out of my parking space, the apartment manager comes running out the main door, waving his hands to get my attention and calling out, “It’s way too late at night to be vacuuming and doing laundry.” His apartment is directly below mine. Though he said there’d be another apartment available later, he insisted that I take the one above him because, as he put it, “You seem like you live a quiet life.”
I look at the clock in my car: 8:30 glows back at me in green from the dash. I shift into park as the manager continues scolding me. “Laundry and vacuuming are things you should be doing when you get home from work. And you can’t leave the apartment when you’ve got laundry going. What if something happens?”
A cold, white rage floods my vision—an emotion so strong I’m frightened of what I might be capable of doing. It’s an all-consuming feeling. I bite off the words, “I’ll be back in 20 minutes!” then shift my car into gear and drive off, no longer savoring the thought of ringing in the new year with a plate of vegetable kofta and naan.
A few months later: 2 a.m.
Months drag by punctuated by anxiety, stomachaches and a lack of sleep as I worry that I will be chastised yet again—or worse, that I’ll get myself and my cats evicted—simply for living. Everything I do is quiet, muted even. I no longer listen to music or turn on the television at anything other than a low volume. When one of my cats meows, or I inadvertently laugh too loudly on the phone, or accidentally drop a dish, I cringe.
The boxes remain packed. I’ve put nothing on the walls. This isn’t home, which is unfortunate because the west-facing windows offer a breath-taking view of the sunsets. Sleep has become fitful, and I often read a book late into the night, taking my mind elsewhere as I pet a cat, seeking calmness and peace. Invariably, the book drops from my hands onto the bed covers as I drift off.
In the middle of the night I roll over and I hear a thud. My book has fallen to the floor. Beneath my apartment, sounds spring to life: cursing; a sudden, steady spray of water from the shower; and then the sound of a washing machine turning on.
This goes on until 5 a.m.
For someone suffering from anxiety, the worst realization is that your fears aren’t in your head. Tonight they are below me, embodied in the person who has the power to throw me out, who already makes me feel like a fugitive in my own dwelling, while I creep around trying not to give offense.
I try to keep my crying silent as I sneak into the next room, get online and search Craigslist once again for more suitable housing.
July: Moving day
As the truck pulls up, the apartment manager hails me jauntily with a big, fake smile: “Moving out today?”
My rent check has never been late. And if he’d bothered to check with my previous landlord—the one listed on my references, the one who rented to me for nine years and returned my deposit in full—he’d realize he’s managed to force out a model tenant.
I can barely look at him. I feel the rage build, but I nod and say “Yes.” But not with relief—not until I’ve moved every bit of my belongings safely two blocks over, where my new apartment is more spacious, cheaper and closer to work. Most importantly, the apartment manager there appears to be a much saner woman with a family, a dog, a cat and generous views on proper times to do housecleaning. I don’t even mind that I’ll be sharing the laundry facilities with everyone else in the building.
A few months later: A local grocery store
I bump into a neighbor from the old apartment building in the greeting card aisle of the grocery store. He’s the only neighbor I miss. We chat for a while, and he asks why I left the apartment even though I’m obviously still living in the area. I tell him.
“Man!” he exclaims, exhaling and rolling back on his heels. He tells me that the previous tenant, “a stocky little dude,” moved out because the apartment manager told him that he walked too heavily. Another complaint against the stocky guy was that he got up at 6:30 every morning.
“Know what else?” my old neighbor says. “My washing machine’s been squeaking for months. It’s a loose belt, inexpensive to fix. I asked if he’d replace it, but he says it’s not a problem.”
We both shook our heads in amazement.
Thoughts on renting
We are a peripatetic nation. Jobs are not as stable as they once were. In the past 15 years, I’ve had three excellent jobs in my field, but each necessitated a 60 to 100-mile move, and when a company downsizes—or folds—I’ve had to act fast to find the next career move. Though I have an advanced degree, am not in debt, and have been—thankfully—steadily employed, the dream of owning a home seems as elusive to me now as it did 15 years ago. I might have a stable job now, but next year I may not. And we have all known someone who has had to take a new job and then struggled to sell a home from halfway across the country.
I don’t have a solution to the problem of home ownership for myself nor for others, but I do know that landlords and apartment managers could improve the tenor of our daily lives by treating tenants as responsible adults rather than lesser creatures to be patronized, scolded or worse. At the risk of waxing Frank Capra-esque, I write merely this: It’s no small feat to treat people with the dignity they deserve.
This piece was submitted anonymously through an open call for entries to Landlord Stories.