My tenant came by first thing this morning
and turned in his key, just as he had said he would. He said that
he had swept up as much of the broken glass as was possible and,
again, that he was sorry about what happened. If he could be so
polite and responsible about moving out, why couldn’t he have
just been a responsible tenant? But all I said, as he left to
rejoin the ranks of Springfield’s homeless, was, “Good
luck. Keep in touch.”
I first met the kid, 24, in May. I’ll
call him Ron. He answered an ad for my efficiency apartment, $225 a
month. This unit hadn’t been vacant for years, but my
longtime renter, a single guy, had moved out, saying that there had
been too much noise and commotion in the building and in the
neighborhood. It’s been a rough year, with too many
move-outs, but hope springs eternal in the landlord business.
I’ve had many fine tenants, many of whom have been with me
for years. I always think that the next one is going to be another
who pays his rent on time, keeps his music down, and appreciates a
nice apartment and good service. I usually speak to a prior landlord as a
reference, but Ron was living at the Helping Hands homeless shelter
and, before that, with his girlfriend, so he didn’t really have a
landlord reference. He did have a job, as a prep cook and dishwasher at
a downtown restaurant. So I talked to the restaurant owner, who
recommended him highly and praised his work ethic. The credit report
came back clean. A pastor friend of mine said that Ron had been
attending church. I interviewed Ron and found him earnest and charming.
For several months he paid his rent
regularly, not on the first day of the month but by the 8th or
10th, because that’s when he got paid at work. He voluntarily
added a $20 late fee to his payment. In November he was way late,
and I got a note: “I was trying to see if you could give me a
few extra days on my rent. Reason: I was arrested for driving this
past weekend so that’s where my money went.” He paid
right before Thanksgiving. I didn’t find out until the next day
that there had been a fight out in front of Ron’s place on
the night of Nov. 30. From what I could piece together, a young man
living next door had come home late and pounded on Ron’s
window because his music was too loud. The confrontation spilled
outside, tempers flared, racial slurs were used, a machete was
swung, and one of my windows got broken. Police came, but I never
was able to get a report from them on what had happened. I got the
window repaired and left a note for Ron to come see me. Early the next morning, Dec. 2, he came by my
house. He said that the fight was the other guy’s fault, and
I told Ron that he couldn’t be playing loud music late at
night. Ron admitted to me that he’d lost his job. He had me
sign a form for him to get emergency rental assistance, and he said
that he was heading out that day to find another job. He said that
life is hard but that he was trying. I offered encouragement. Wednesday night, Dec. 7, I got a call about
11 p.m. It was the young neighbor, asking whether I could come ask
Ron to turn down his music. I walked down the block and knocked,
and he came to the door. “You want me to turn off my
music?” he said, not moving to do it. I stood there until he
did. “I’m trying hard, man. Don’t disrespect
me,” he said. I told him that he was disrespecting me. About
midnight I got another call from the neighbor, saying that
I’d better come back down there. Ron was breaking windows. Two cars of Springfield police had already
arrived when I did. One officer asked whether I could use my key to
let them in, but I didn’t have to — Ron opened the door
when I asked. The police arrested and handcuffed Ron and asked the
three other men and one woman in the apartment to leave. One guy talked on his cell phone the
whole time the police were there. The place was trashed. Three windows had been
broken out, the medicine cabinet mirror was smashed, and the oven
door was destroyed. There was a large hole in the drywall and
another in the apartment door. The thermostat had been knocked off
the wall. The next day, with Ron in jail, we got the
emergency repairs made, replacing the windows and the thermostat so
that the pipes wouldn’t freeze. After Ron got home from jail that evening, I
went to see him. I told him that I wanted him out of the apartment
as soon as possible. I asked whether he’d been on drugs, and
he said no, just alcohol. Why did he do it? The pressures of life
had gotten to him, he said. He pointed out that he hadn’t hit
any person, just property. I told him that I was disappointed in
him, and he said that he was sorry. The estimate for insurance came back at $980,
just under my deductible. A new stove, not covered anyway, will be
added to that. The expense will soon be forgotten, but I
won’t forget this troubled soul. I took his key, said
goodbye, and hoped that he’d find other people willing to
give him a chance as I did.
This article appears in Dec 15-21, 2005.
