There was a nasty eviction this summer: left behind furniture, cabinets and closets full of grungy clothes and greasy kitchen gear. Miserable with a capital S.O.B.
It was tough trying to clean, sort and dispose of it all, and then try to show that apartment. Most prospective tenants were sympathetic, one opportunistic.
A certain Blonde came by with her Social Worker, rather aggressive, telling me that the paperwork was 'all signed and ready to go.' Never told me ‘what’ paperwork: Section 8? FEMA? Special Needs? How was it subsidized?
Social Worker, pushy: “The paperwork is ready, my client (the Blonde) could move in tomorrow.”
Me: “Sorry, there is a process and there have been quite a few people interested in this apartment.”
Social Worker: “But this place is perfect, we’ll take it.”
Me, again: “There are a number of applicants and I do not make the final decision.”
Social Worker, now calculating: “What are you doing with all this furniture?”
Me: “I still have to sort it and see what is worth donating.”
Social Worker: “Well, what if the tenant wants it?!”
Me, thinking: “Whoa! Not only do I get to clean this apartment, I get to clean the furniture for you, free. Yaaay! What a deal for you!”
Me, clearly stating: “No, it will be donated.” And a few schools received some great art gear for their students.
The Blonde knocks on my door.
It is 8 PM. I am finishing a late dinner.
She has a little dog, a breed known to be yappy (my cousin had one), she is rambling on and on and on how, “Just how much she loves this place.”
It is 8 PM! Aaargh!
Me: “I’m sorry, the owner chose another applicant, and we do not have any available units.”
Blonde: she continued yapping about how she loves this place and has all this paperwork ready.
Me: “Please feel free to call the main office and check to see if any units are available. Good night.” And I went back inside.
The Blonde knocks on my door.
I am in my jammies. Yeah, it has been a very long few weeks with no days off and I was tired! (Yes, I know that last sentence was grammatically incorrect, I am still tired! Sigh.)
The Blonde blabs about the moth on my door, that the dog is not hers, that she just loves, loves, loves this place.
I think she may be inebriated or under the influence of several meds. I made sure I got her name.
Then the Blonde asks: “So what happened to the furniture?”
First, I don’t answer to her, I answer to the owners.
Second, I clearly tell her, that although we are live-in managers, it is 8:35 at night. We don’t show apartments without an appointment this late at night.
Third, I clearly tell her that tenants respect our privacy, and unless there is an emergency, no one knocks on our door.
Blonde, continues to blather: love, love, love this place.
I turned, closed the door while she was still yapping.
I called the business manager the next morning; put a red flag on that name.
Blondes aren't really supposed to be that dumb.
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