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The Good Tenant

“The only thing you leave behind after death is the impression you made on the people around you.”  That’s what my mother used to say. 

She was such a people pleaser she once got into a car wreck because she thought honking was rude.  The driver of a van didn’t see her and slammed into her Cadillac. 

In an attempt to do everything possible to avoid becoming my mother, I brushed away this advice like crumbs off my faded jeans.  It’s funny how as rebellious teenagers we don’t listen to what our folks say but those words end up engraved in our brains and we inadvertently take that advice.  I’m a single mother of a five-year-old girl named Meagan and I’m sure this phenomenon will shift into reverse to tread over my good motherly intentions one day.

I tried my best to avoid my mother’s “kindness first” philosophy but I inherited it. I’m overly concerned with whether people like me or not. Often, I want so badly to be polite and kind, I end up suffering.

This rare live nice gene is the reason I strive to be an excellent tenant for my landlord.  It would break my heart to think he could complain about “the helpless girl who can’t even ignite her own pilot light”.  If the front door knob should fall off or the toilet overflow, I’m faced with a tormenting decision – do I fix it myself, or bother the landlord?

It’s not rational.  Except for the fact Mr. Waters can keep my three hundred dollar deposit or evict me at any time, his opinion of me is of little consequence to my personal happiness.

Mr. Waters is an overburdened and run-ragged man who has more on his plate than any one person can possibly taste.  He owns far too many rent houses and has far too little assistance with their up keeping.

Although, I’m empathetic to his current over-run situation, I know he has placed himself in this position.  I should not suffer through a deteriorating household because of it.  I’ve decided being a good tenant only means I pay the rent on time and don’t wreck the place.  I should concern myself, instead, with whether or not Mr. Waters is acting as a fair landlord.

I repair what I am able to and contact Mr. Waters for the rest, but I can’t help being very passive in my approach.

I attach a sticky note to my rent check saying something to the effect of, “Mr. Waters.  Here is my March rent.  My master bathroom sink is leaking and the back door doesn’t lock properly.  Thank you, Sarah.”  I drop the rent in the mail slot in his front door.

If this produces no results I phone his home during the afternoon but never at night.  Calling at night would run the risk of him actually answering the phone.  It’s easier to ask his machine for help because it won’t develop an opinion of me. Once, I even hesitated to call during the lunch hour because I feared he might be home.

I drove very slowly past his house one day. I thought if he saw my car it might spark his memory and he would think “Oh yeah, Sarah’s bathroom.”  I have no idea why I find these tactical approaches easier than actually talking to the man.

My West Texas home is about six feet from a cotton field.  A dirt desert, which can go airborne at any moment, surrounds me. When the fierce spring winds sweep up the dirt, the entire sky becomes an iridescent brown.  The sunlight that manages to pierce the dusty dome emerges as a hazy red.  I’ve often thought if my brother from New York were to visit on a dust storm day, he might panic thinking an apocalypse was imminent.  Some of the people who live here call this kind of a storm “Yankee go home weather”.

One day, in March, one of these Dust Bowl events was only an appetizer for the severe thunderstorm that was coming.  At first, light drops of rain spiraled through a dust cloud turning to mud before hitting the sidewalk.  A few minutes later 100 miles per hour winds blew walls of water into homes, cars and trees.

My neighbor’s metal storage building took flight.  It landed in my backyard after destroying a section of the fence.  The only window in my living room shattered from kamikaze boulders of hail that were blowing around like ping-pong balls.

The next day, I raised the damaged section of fence, propped it up with some lawn furniture, and secured it with bailing wire.  I duct taped a piece of cardboard over the broken window from the inside.  In Texas we pride ourselves on being able to repair anything with bailing wire and duct tape.

My neighbors retrieved the crumpled pieces of metal they once called a storage building from my backyard.  Two days later I finally got around to leaving a message on Mr. Water’s answering machine reporting the damages.

A month later, while sitting at my desk at Fulton’s Insurance Agency, I complained to my co-worker.

“I don’t know what to do Martha.” I whined.  “My living room is so dark from the boarded window, my houseplants are dying.  I’m afraid Meagan is going to topple the broken fence and explore the neighbor’s yard.”

“Well, Sarah, you call that man right now and demand he repair things!” She pounded her fist on her desk.  “Don’t let him get away with treating you like that!” 

“Oh, I don’t know Martha.”  The thought of demanding anything made my heart pound. “I know he’s awfully busy right now.”

“Call right now,” she raised her voice.  “It’s not safe for that baby!”

Just imply I’m doing something wrong with my daughter and I’ll find a way to cram myself into a Tupperware dish, if it would make things right.

“Mr. Waters, this is Sarah Martin.  I have your rent check.  You can pick it up when you come to repair my fence and window and not before!”  I dropped the receiver back into the cradle with a crisp slam.  I was only hanging up on the answering machine, but it felt good none-the-less.

I reveled in my assertiveness.  Martha, who was on another phone line, gave me a thumbs-up.  My head swelled with a new confidence.  I was a strong woman.

That evening after tucking my daughter into bed, I made for the refrigerator for a cold Dr. Pepper.  When I opened the refrigerator, the door fell off its hinges.  It landed on my foot with a thud. Condiments crashed and slid all over the kitchen floor.  I clutched my throbbing foot and danced around a bottle of ketchup.  I bit my lip holding back the obscenities climbing up my throat.

Then a knock on the door disrupted my painful dance.  I hobbled to the door and found Mr. Waters holding a flashlight.  The porch light was also broken.

The pain in my foot rose to my stomach where it transformed into a fiery pit of pent-up aggression toward the landlord.  The result burst from my mouth.

“I really need this stuff fixed!” I pointed at him while I screeched, “I’ve been calling and writing you. You never respond or fix anything.  I’m paying you a lot of rent money and you should be taking care of this place.  I’m not paying my rent.”  I tried to say all that in one breath and found myself winded, almost gasping for air.

He took one step down, adjusted his glasses and then his mouth twisted into a grin.

“Sarah, I repaired your window two weeks ago,” he explained in a low voice.  “I couldn’t remove the cardboard because you taped it from the inside and I forgot my key.”

“Really?” My voice cracked.

“Yes.  Didn’t you notice there are no shards of glass dangling from the pane?” He shined his flashlight on the window and I stepped out to inspect it.

My face grew hot and I imagined it was about as red as a stop sign.

“Oh no!  I didn’t even notice.”  I attempted to offer an embarrassed giggle but it wasn’t heard over Mr. Waters’ baritone guffaws.

“I also nailed up your fence.  I just put your furniture back where you had it,” he said between fits of laughter.  “Haven’t you been out there?”

I covered my mouth with my hand.  He almost tumbled off the steps.

“Oh my God.  I’m so sorry.  I’m an idiot!” I ran my fingers through my hair.  “I’ll get your rent money.”

I ran to the kitchen.  I picked up my refrigerator door, slid the rent check out from under an emergency number magnet, and dropped the door again.  My stomach soured from the helping of defeat I just swallowed. I couldn’t even bring myself to mention the refrigerator door when I handed over the check I had held hostage.

While I reassembled my refrigerator door, I decided Mr. Waters would respect me if I could assertively ask for help before frustrations overflowed – preventative maintenance.  My mother is remembered as a kind woman.  I’d rather be respected as a strong one.