Mary Lucia: a rock 'n' roll rental diary
by Mary Lucia
August 02, 2016
I've found that a rich vein of conversation to start with virtually anyone is to ask them about their previous apartment life. People dig telling shady landlord stories and tales of former roommates and certifiable neighbors.
Statistics say the average American moves 11 times in their entire life; I surpassed 11 many years ago, so my highlight reel is rich and plentiful:
A stint at the "Y" in New York City was memorable, a six-by-nine-foot room, shared bathroom and a wonderful mix of poor students, foreign travelers and hobos milling throughout the hallways in loosely tied bathrobes.
The apartment I had in the mid-90s, where the living room ceiling came down on my head one afternoon. I found myself looking up at the ceiling boards of my upstairs neighbor, shaking off chunks of plaster and frantically calling the landlord, who came over not until the next day — at which point, as he casually surveyed the living room encased in white dust and 2X4's, his only comment was, "Do you have a Shop-vac?" No, but I have a concussion.
The across-the-hall neighbor who urgently knocked on my door asking to borrow a fake press-on nail and seemed genuinely pissed off when I didn't own one.
The apartment where the mail carrier would show up around 7:30 p.m., if at all; he seemed fond of taking Tuesdays and Fridays off. He delivered mail out of his own Ford Fiesta. I believe after his third DUI, they stripped him of the standard government truck. All of my weekly magazines came late and often had a footprint on them.
The dump where I stepped out of my door into the hallway and a bat dive-bombed my head. The caretaker was called and she proceeded to spray the Fledermaus with Aqua Net hair spray. This was also the same woman who stowed my damage-deposit check in her bosom upon my handing it to her.
One land lord in particular who wasn't terribly handy or interested in spending more than three dollars in maintenance "fixed" the basement washing machine — which would shake like the bed in The Exorcist and move halfway across the floor during the spin cycle — by placing a brick on top of it. Thanks, MacGyver.
The upstairs neighbors who rented a karaoke machine for a party and kept it a few extra days; apparently she wanted to master "Wind Beneath My Wings" by not stopping to take bathroom breaks or sleep for 72 hours. I almost committed myself to Hennepin County Medical Center for mental observation.
The across-the-hall neighbor whose landline phone rang for an entire weekend. I was ready to pull a Jack Nicholson in The Shining, "Here's Johnny!" This was also the building that a certain local band dude lived in and found it funny to repeatedly rip my name plate off my mailbox. Cunning Stunt.
When I lived next door to Ned Flanders and family, I was taking the garbage out wearing my Johnny Cash giving the finger t-shirt. Ned hustled the children into his yard like I was radioactive and suggested I consider less "dirty attire." I really had to resist burning a pentagram into his lawn.
The c*ckasaurus landlord who refused to give me any of my damage deposit back because when I was moving out, I removed the window AC unit and saw that a bird had built a nest inside my window sill, where three tiny eggs sat cradled. I knew better than to handle it, so I left it intact. His explanation for no refund was that I had left "trash" in my window.
OK, those are mine. I know you've got some good stories — let's hear 'em.