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Monday, September 23, 2013

And the Ducks SPOKE to this one!

We now call him Daffy Duck. He is an aging Peter Pan type, plus long-winded and intrusive. He gives us Irishmen a bad name.

So his adventure began with the wild ducks at the lake. Although it is clearly posted “DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE,” he fed and befriended them. He claimed the duck family followed him all the way home (four blocks), and then brought one of the ducklings upstairs to show us, and encouraged all to pet it. Five times he tediously attempted to share his vast knowledge, complete with a long-winded explanation of the breed, their natural habitat, and how they were blown off-course from the Hudson Bay . . . and by the way, do you KNOW where Hudson Bay is?.

I gave him the “talk to the hand” sign.

I was not amused. I have known several, licensed wild animal rescue people, so I really do know the problems humans cause whenever they interfere. I strongly and repeatedly admonished him to leave the ducks alone, but since he researched it all, he knows better.

We had strong words, I actually had to call the business manager and alert her that she might get a call about my choice of strong words. (I did not actually apologize for the words, just informed my boss, she understood.)

Then the Ducks SPOKE to him!

The duck parents walked their baby up to him and asked him to please take their duckling, raise it and protect it from the squirrels.

Can’t make this up.

But Wait: When the heck did squirrels become carnivorous and eat ducks?

He took in this poor, now orphaned duckling, showed it to every neighbor, walked it around the asphalt parking lot–during the heat wave–and on the beach–same heat wave: Hot sand, webbed feet, do ya see the problem? While on the beach, he treated the duckling to firecrackers whizzing over his head.

Good daddy.

Every day he took his baby for walks to the boardwalk or sat outside and let everyone pet him.

Next the police came–with three (3) cop cars

I was outside when I overhead the officers laugh, “He is just sitting on the sofa with the duck in his lap!”

Wildlife Animal Rescue Officer showed up.

This day just got better and better.

Daffy Duck explained to the police that the duck parents spoke to him.

He explained that he was researched what they eat in the wild: Corn, tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs.

The officers replied: “So you think that the ducks have a barbecue grill under a tree?” (to cook the hard-boiled eggs, of course.)

Ducks eat fish or lake vegetation, since when does corn and tomatoes grow in a lake?

But I digress.

The police ran his name and outstanding warrants popped up; Daffy Duck was walked out with shiny new bracelets. Whoa!

Now the health hazard part:

When our regularly scheduled pest control dude came, we went into Daffy’s apartment to survey the damages. Remember, the duck has been living indoors, and duck feces are hazardous to human lungs.

Yes, photos were taken, bird crap on windowsills, furniture, rugs, floor AND in his bed!

What are the odds that he will safely and thoroughly clean all that crap?

The Other Tenants’ Opinions

Oddly, few were sympathetic and loudly defended Daffy: “It’s just a duck! Don’t the police have better things to do with their time?” (Really, what about the outstanding warrants and animals talking? Let’s discuss an OSHA-level cleaning.)

Tenants demanded: “Who made that phone call?” Despite the fact that Daffy walked that duck to the boardwalk, around town and shared his wild tales of ducks talking to him, I was repeatedly and angrily blamed. And I am truly sorry that I did not call the moment he brought that duckling home!

Woman tenant: “I don’t want that man near my child if he’s hallucinating.” (Guess which tenant went running to visit Daffy as soon as he got home.)

Some asked for a ride to see him in jail. Not on my to-do list, ever.

Daffy wrote letters to some, insisted that they go and clean his apartment. (Since I am a strong believer in him suffering his own consequences, said friends were refused entry.)

Daffy came home from jail, ducked all eye contact with me (pun intended). I saw his posse sneaking in and out his door. The alliances have not changed. Well, “birds of a feather do flock together.” (bad pun)

The Duckling’s bleak future:

According to the wildlife ranger, if the duck could not be rehabilitated, it would be destroyed. The duck lost his natural family, will never learn to fend for itself, find a mate, migrate and may die. Nice Going Daffy!

Regarding customer service, whoever said, “That the customer is always right,” HAS NOT really dealt with people in the trenches!


Sunday, September 22, 2013

Another Rude Prospective Tenant
or How to Guarantee me writing about you!

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.

A Month Later at 8:00 PM

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.

Another Month Later at 8:35 PM

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.