Breaking up with your landlord
Article by Lucy Chant Art by Claud Garcia
I met Danny three years ago. My friend and I stepped into his office, got on our hands and knees, and begged to rent his house. This was protocol, the way he preferred it. This summer, we reunited. I knocked on his door and was met with a small rodent-like dog named Frank. From behind piles of unfiled court papers and documents peered a pasty-looking man.
"Who are you?"
"The tenet who texted you two minutes ago asking for a key."
"Eh."
Danny appears to be in his 60s, so his lack of remembrance and inability to complete basic tasks are mostly due to his age. As I was leaving, he asked if I had a boyfriend who might be interested in some extra cash to re-mulch his yard. “No,” I said, thinking this would be the last of it. But to my surprise and Danny's, this inquiry led to a summer of late-night phone calls, unattainable asks, and cashed checks. Maybe it was because I needed some fast cash or something about the underlying sexism in Danny's comment that pushed me to send the text: I don't have a boyfriend, but I can move the mulch myself. He replied: Great— the dump truck will come tomorrow with a full truck.
With a shovel and a broken wheelbarrow, I quickly found myself moving 1.5 tons of mulch. Although I did not have an internship this summer, I gained excellent experience networking with the landlord community of Colorado Springs. Just one day into mulching, I was introduced to my neighboring landlord, who suggested I grab a pitchfork from his dark shed — a major upgrade from the shovel. I was breezing through the task when, to my surprise, I was greeted by another landlord who whizzed by on his electric scooter, attempting to court my services. “Sorry,” I said. "I'm in a time crunch." Eager to get this mulch out of the alleyway, I started to ask myself, "What doesn't need mulch?" When dealing with so much mulch, your sense of reality becomes skewed. I began putting mulch wherever I felt inclined: on top of the leaves in the front yard, filling cracks in the fence, and in corners of the garden shed. Impressed with my shoveling skills or because I didn't walk off the job, I was asked to mow Danny's lawn.
I found myself following Danny's car to his house. Our relationship seemed to be moving faster than expected. After successfully mowing his office lawn with only a few hiccups, i.e., starting the machine, I was invited to mow his personal lawn. While he watched through his windows, eating Chick-fil-A and commenting on the crooked lines of my mowing, I thought about all the ways I could destroy him — little ways, of course. While weed-whacking and operating the electric trimmer, he'd ask me to power wash the house or do a better job at cleaning the trash cans. Dangerous, I thought, operating such machinery...
How could someone operate in such a way? Danny's ex-wife, who I got to know when it was her turn to take Frank (they shared custody), seemed normal. But Danny's odd hours at the office and lack of verbal communication skills made me wonder who this man really was. His house was pristine on the outside, thanks to me, but inside were empty rooms and floor-to-floor carpeting with no furniture. I looked for signs of a past life, such as photos or mail. But all I found were coupons and a framed portrait of Frank.
I told myself I would continue to be at his beck and call until August, and then I'd cut it off. It wasn't me, it was him. Sorry! But when the opportunity to stain his fence arose, I couldn't resist. It seemed like a quick job, and I could coerce a friend to help me. Quickly, I realized staining twenty feet of fence was no easy feat. When we arrived at his house, he pulled out two large containers of varnish that appeared to be the same color as the fence. But we said it was a pop of color, encouraging Danny and his artistic liberty for his property. Five hours later we were a quarter of the way finished. The varnish fumes made time seem all too manageable as we stumbled out of the bushes coated in our own layer of varnish. Sometimes I still get whiffs, or flashbacks if you will, smelling the varnish baked into my shirts from the August sun. We stumbled toward the backyard gate in need of water and non-toxic air. Just as I turned my car on, Danny knocked on the dash and told us he wanted his neighbor's side of the fence painted, which was not disclosed at the beginning of the endeavor. On the third day, after going through almost eight quarts of varnish, we were determined to finish but needed more ammo. We asked Danny to pick up more varnish so we could finish today, to which he suggested I go pick it up myself. Begrudgingly, we drove over to Ace, covered in a yellow hue and slightly delusional from the fumes, and walked into the air-conditioned epicenter, a happy change from the midday heat.
As I stood at checkout, Danny said to put him on speakerphone to pay.
Cashier: That will be $75. Cash or Card?
The cashier looked at me, expecting an answer. I shoved the phone toward him.
Danny: Hello?
Lucy: I am at checkout, can I have the card information?
Cashier: That's not possible. We don't do that here, ma'am.
Lucy: Danny, can you come to the store?
Danny is silent…
Cashier: How are you planning on paying? We have customers behind you.
Danny: Lucy will front the bill.
Lucy: Right…sure, I can do that.
Cashier: $75
Danny: How much is it with the veterans discount?
The cashier sized me up. I suddenly felt self-conscious. Based on my sheepish demeanor, it was clear that I had never served in combat. I hung up on Danny and paid.
As August came to a close, my time with Danny seemed to be wrapping up. One lazy afternoon, I awoke from a nap. I heard Danny's voice calling out my name, then, to my horror, the sound of the staircase creaking below his weighted steps. He pounded on each door, looking for me while I lay paralyzed under the covers. It was clear he was not leaving. I could hear him walking up and down the stairs of the house and into the basement. Trapped in my own home, I felt defeated. I slinked out of bed to be greeted by Frank and Danny at the foot of the stairs. Finally, a power dynamic I felt comfortable with. From the top of the stairs in my groggy voice, I stated that I simply had other responsibilities these days, and I could not make him a priority.
Today, our communication is limited to a few texts and waves through the window. As his office is in my backyard, we never truly leave each other's side. When I reflect on my summer, I remember the good times and those small moments. Sometimes, I walk past his office, hoping for a glimpse of Frank through the window. But just yesterday I went to his office looking for help with a key replacement. I stepped onto his porch, excited for our reunion. He opened the door. Time had aged him, but his documents remained piled on his desk.
“Who are you?” he asked without any sign of recognition.