Post #8: The Landlady Eviction and the Online Outrage That Followed

I turn onto my street from City Park Ave and I feel better than I ever. Sure, my calves are burning like little fires and my ankles are screaming bloody murder, but I’m barely aware any of that, I’m practically floating for this final stretch. Part of this sensation has to do, I imagine, with that runner’s high that athletes love to talk about. I’m finishing up a jog that took me through the park and along the bayou, and then down to the post office and back. That’s a good five miles that definitely sent me on an endorphin rush. So sure, that undoubtedly has something to do with it. 

But I suspect there’s more going on at play here. See, this isn’t just another average jog, this is a celebration jog. Because I’m healthy, because I don’t have covid. 

It’s kinda crazy to think that it’s taken this long, mid-April, week five of the madness, before I had my first real corona scare. And yet here we are. It happened last night around three am. I woke up to discover I had a slight fever, and then I coughed a couple of times. That’s all I needed to know that I was definitely infected and my days on earth were numbered. I suspect this sort of late night paranoid thinking is hardly rare these days, but that doesn’t do much to quell the fear while you’re in the middle of it. I didn’t sleep for hours after that, and I swore that my symptoms kept growing worse and worse, believing at one point that you could cook an egg on my forehead and wipe out an entire nursing home with my cough. 

But eventually I did go back to sleep, and when I awoke I felt completely fine. No fever, no cough, nothing. I laid in bed for a while, waiting for my symptoms to return, but they never did. Finally, around 2 pm I got up from bed and admitted I was in the best health of my life, at least in the last five to seven years. Of course, the thought hit me then how odd these times are, when one could rise out of bed late in the afternoon, unemployed, with zero guilt and in complete jubilation just because they’ve realized they aren’t dying. 

At first, I considered sitting down and writing something up about this idea, but the excitement was too much for me so I decided the only thing to do was work off my joy with a nice long run. 

Anyway, that’s the long way of explaining why I feel so light right now. For five weeks I’ve felt gravity turn on me, as if the gravity in a pandemic is actually far worse than normal gravity. As if pandemic gravity actually contains within it that brutal combination of heartbreak, job loss, and isolation that I can’t seem to escape. 

But now, I finally feel like the son of a bitch finally let up some. This little midnight scare of mine reminds me that nothing is more important than your health, and the fact that I have that in spades tells me that life can’t be all that bad. 

Oh yes, I’m feeling pretty freaking good.

So good in fact, that when I notice a white envelope waiting for me at my mailbox I can only assume it’s more good news. Even the fact the envelope is waiting for me not in the actual box but on the metal rungs that curve down under it, where outgoing mail is supposed to be placed, does not raise my suspicion. In true Randy form, my mind imagines a truly ridiculous scenario of an attractive neighbor leaving me a letter to tell me she’s noticed how much I have improved physically in these trying times and how impressed she is by this fact and perhaps we should date exclusively. 

So I open up the letter and find it’s not from a sexy neighbor at all but rather my scornful landlady, M. This is what it says:  

Dear Randy

I know this is a difficult time and that you are currently unemployed due to the Carona (her spelling) virus shutdown, but we need to get a few things straight. First, the rent is currently 1500 a month for the 3 bedroom apartment, NOT 500 per room. I know your roommates have moved on, but we are not willing to accept 500 for the rent as we did for April’s rent.

Second, the place has been filthy for the past several years, I was just informed by one plumber that the bathroom is so disgusting that he wants to wait til you move before he installs a new toilet and works on the tub fixtures.

Third, while the property is almost vacant, we are using the opportunity to raise the rent. It has not been raised in over 8 years and current properties in the area are going much higher. Starting May 1st, the rent will be 1800 a month.

Hopefully you have now received unemployment, and/or stimulus money and will be able to find a more affordable place in the area, and we prefer if you found another location as soon as possible. We would like to start repairing/renovating your unit. 

Sincerely,

Crazy ass Landlady, M

I read this letter. (“Filthy”)

Then I read it again. (“Disgusting”)

And then I read it again. (“Find a New Location”)

With each new read I feel my body crumple a little more inward. That brutal weight of pandemic gravity has returned. I feel my mind and soul collectively sink back to the bottom as my body drops to its knees before going supine on the porch floor. Oh yes, I am a sight indeed now, laid out spread eagle in the open, letting gravity have its way with me. My heartbreak, loneliness, and hopelessness have returned in spades. 

As I lie here, I feel two waves inside me crash into each other. One, a wave of anger, the other, a wave of defeat. But as they collide, the oddest thing happens. I feel a swirling of energy above both my shoulders, and within a single second I feel that energy transform into two different beings. 

 bnAn angel, and a devil. 

Yes, I know that sounds as impossible as it does cliche, but that doesn’t change the fact that that’s exactly what happens. Like some cartoon from the sixties, I have the representation of both good and evil on my shoulders. Without even looking I can feel their physical presence, I know that they are there and they know that I know they are there. And of course, as these things tend to go, they both make their cases. 

You need to take this as a sign to let go and move on, find the next chapter of your life, the angel tells me, her voice sounding annoyingly similar to my ex-girlfriend. 

Fuck that, you need to make a stand and take this bitch to town. This is war. You didn’t ask for it, but it’s here now and you need to show her who’s the man. This is the devil, and he sounds like Luke, my best friend/bad influence back in college. 

My head is spinning now, as I fluctuate between what is healthy and what is vengeful.  When it stops spinning it lands on the vengeful shoulder, with the devil whispering in my ear. 

Send your landlady a text right now, a vicious, nasty text, letting her know exactly how you feel about her. Tell her you’re not going anywhere and you can she can’t do a thing about it. 

No, don’t, I hear the angel cry out in the distance, nothing good will come of it. 

“Should I call her a bitch in the text?” I ask the devil. I can feel him nod feverishly, and I whip out my phone prepared to make what is undoubtedly a terrible mistake. 

Wait don’t. These words come not from the angel, but the devil. I have a better idea, actually, Post the letter on facebook, and fucking destroy her publicly. 

“You really think that’s a good idea?” 

I don’t, says the angel. You really think she deserves that? You don’t think she has a point about how she’s getting screwed out of a lot of money for something that isn’t her fault? 

Don’t listen to her! The devil screams. Of course it’s a good idea. Think of how much shit this will stir. Everyone is looking for a fresh outrage right now. They need something to focus their anger on in these trying times, and this will be like a localized, personal issue that they can actually do something about. Think of the attention you would get, think of all the supportive comments, all the angry and heart reactions, Pity and encouragement will rain down upon you for weeks to come! 

“Yes, that does sound lovely,” I agree, and two minutes later my phone is hovering above the letter which lies on my writing desk, and I’m ignoring the angel (who sounds more and more like my ex with each new comment) as she rattles off reasons why I shouldn’t do this. But at the last second, she finally comes up with something that gives me pause. 

Wait! she says, if you’re gonna post it at least block out her name. You’ll still get all the attention and outrage you want, but you won’t necessarily be harming her name or business. 

“But what if part of me wants to do that?” 

You’ll still have that option later, you can add it in the comments. But if you look into your heart now, and I think that you, or at least most of you, doesn’t want to do anything that rash right now.  

Reluctantly, I agree this is the best move and place a book on top of the letter so that M’s heading is blocked. Once I get a picture to my liking, I add a snarky comment to the post and publish that shit. I feel a rush of excitement run down my spine and a cold tickle on the back of my neck. Something tells me I’ve pushed a snowball down a huge mountain and it’s about to grow real big real quick. 

It’s all too much for me so I hide from my actions by immediately taking a nice long shower. But I soon find out this is no escape, as my two little consciences sit on opposite shoulders,  take out little tiny, waterproof laptops and start monitoring the progress of my post.  

Your post already has twenty reactions and thirty comments in two minutes! The devil says. 

“Really?!”

Yes, the angel sighs, and they are all giving you exactly what you want. Support, pity and anger. 

“Fantastic!” I say before adding, “Wait, is anyone making the same point you made? About how she has a legit reason to be frustrated that she’s losing out on so much money?” 

“…no,” the angel admits. 

“Fantastic!” 

By the time I end my shower, the devil is reporting reaction numbers past fifty and comments over sixty, while the angel only continues to sigh, and it’s only been ten minutes. I am dripping wet and naked and thrilled by it all. 

Wait a minute, Randy, the angel says in the same way my ex used to say my name when she was upset with me, a new post just came in. One of your old coworkers just posted a comment with not only her full name but also the name of her business too. 

“What?! How would he know that?”

Lemme see, she says, and then a moment later, it seems that while you blocked her heading, you left her signature at the bottom completely visible.  

“What, that doesn’t sound like something I would do…”

Ha, are you joking? She says to me. That’s definitely something you would do. Typical obliviousness, just like the time you were supposed to pick me up from work that one Friday but forgot…

“Wait, I’m confused. Are you my angel or are you-”

Randy! Focus. You have to make a decision. Will you let this stand or no?  

Don’t do anything, the devil whispers, the bitch had it coming. 

I want to agree with this so bad, but I can feel a storm of guilt and fear just outside my house, thrashing at my windows. I see where all this is leading. An image of a future news report pops up in my mind, one that demonizes M for kicking out a poor, helpless tenant in the middle of a pandemic and her being out of business in a matter of weeks.   

You know you don’t want to deal with all that, the angel says. 

No, I don’t…

But if you delete the post all that sweet attention will be gone too…    

Ugh, I think, how do I get myself out of this pandemic pickle. 

I got it! The devil says,  just delete the post and then upload a new picture of the letter that has her signature blocked too…  

Orrr, the angel counters, you could just do the mature thing and delete it and leave it deleted and try to figure out the constructive response to all this… 

Thirty seconds later, the letter is reposted and I wait anxiously for my parade of support to return. This time though, I explain that I deleted the last post because her name was on it and I don’t want to take it that far right now. At first I fear that I’ve used up all my good karma and that my army of allies will have lost interest by now. But nope. Within minutes my two celestial conjurings are reporting back to me that all the virtual shoulder squeezes and forehead kisses are back, and I am basking in the glow of this delightful distraction all over again. 

Wait, the devil says, looks like we might have a problem here. It seems some people are upset with you for refusing to call the landlady out by name. 

“What? Seriously?”

I know right? The angel adds, you’d think they’d be more mad at you for acting immature and trying desperately to get attention while others have it so much worse than you right now. 

“Quiet, you.” I warn her, “You’ve hurt me enough already.”

Dammit, Randy, I’m not your ex, I’m your conscience! Get it through your head! 

Shut up both of you, the devil cuts in. My man,  this is exactly why we need to post her name immediately. If you don’t, this whole online mob will turn on you! Do you want that? Let the bitch have it. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s not go crazy. What exactly are they saying?” 

They’re saying you’re part of the problem. That you’re part of the system that holds the commonfolk down! That by remaining silent you are no worse than her! That your heart has turned black and cold and that you no longer remember what love is. 

“They’re really saying that?!”

No… but they will soon enough if you don’t act now! 

I find myself longing for the good old days of thirty minutes ago when I was both the hero and the victim of this story.  

“Why do they care so much? Shouldn’t they just be concerned with supporting me?” 

Because honey, the real problem isn’t you or your empty house or the landlady’s letter, it’s the state of the world, and the tyrannical capitalist swine trying to squeeze the rest of us to death during a pandemic. Everyone feels rageful and powerless, which is a dangerous combination, so they’re looking at you to be the hero. 

“Yeah, you’re right. God you’re so smart.”

Get a room you two! Look, she said it herself. They want you to be the hero. So step the fuck up and be the hero and destroy her! 

“Yeah, I suppose so…” 

But is that the heroic move? Again, I ask, does she really deserve any of that? Yeah, she kinda sucks and she’s kinda mean, but at this point you’ve already kinda gotten your revenge by taking advantage of the pandemic and forcing her to accept a fraction of the money she’s supposed to get. At this point I would say the score has been settled. You both have acted shitty toward each other in your weird relationship but now it’s time for it to come to an end and move on. 

“That’s also a good point,” I reply, before adding, “and on another note, that last thing you said kinda could work for my relationship with my ex, who you kinda sound like.”

There is a long pause here and I can feel the angel’s eyes pierce the side of my head. 

Randy, it’s time to move on. From all of us. From this rotting, empty house, from your pain and heartbreak, From everything. You need a fresh start, you need to move on, and you need it now.

I wait for a response from the Devil, but only silence comes from my other shoulder. I realize what I have to do. 

I take out my phone again and send a text to my landlady. 

OK, I’ll move out at the end of the month. BTW the bathroom is fine as far as cleanliness goes, a bit dirty but nothing crazy. But this house is falling apart. You’ve done very little to help keep it up, neither of us have.  I hope you’re proud. See you in the next life. 

I smile and hit send. I can feel my gravity becoming less pandemic as my spirits lift. It took longer than it should, but I realize now that being evicted from a house falling apart is something to be grateful for. I don’t know what’s coming next, and that alone makes me happy. God damn rock bottom, I guess I’m kinda grateful. 

UP NEXT: Finding a New Place to Live and making a (Real!) Friend.