Forever Scarred

Scars, I have always said, add character. What doesn’t kill us only leaves us with... more scars. They create a divination all of their own, almost like the lines in our hands are telling to a palm reader - our scars can read like a road map of our lives. My dermal topography will take you through aggressive skate adventures and roller hockey on Collins Avenue in South Beach to back country mountain biking in Northern California, through surf safaris in Costa Rica and then circle back to slum lording in some of the most undesirable neighborhoods from east to west Broward County, Florida. Oh yes, been there, done that; have the scars to prove it. Only some scars were more fun acquiring than others.

Property, “1800,” wanted to see me dead. I was sure of it. That was the one with the peeling pink paint and dry-to-the-point-of-ignitable front lawn. The crook of a real estate broker, Daniel, did come through with his promise to help me get the property ready for tenants. He lent me his younger brother to put to work. This is the same younger brother that my dad told us about as kids - the one who couldn’t handle his automatic telepathy. Darren reminded me of a youthful Uncle Fester from the Adam’s Family with a vacant stare in his eyes, like Jack Nicholson after his lobotomy in, “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.” Alas, Darren knew how to use a paint brush, a hammer, and had a strong back - all which came in useful for the major projects necessary to get that dwelling up to par to meet the standards of a Housing Department inspection.

In the meantime, my tenants in “Progresso,” had yet to meet the difference of what their FEMA vouchers were paying for rent. After three months of insufficient payments, I gave them an ultimatum - relocate or be evicted. Daniel (said he) started the eviction process for me. Not even a year yet as an “investor,” and I had to have that “relocate or be evicted,” conversation twice. “These are families with children,” I lamented and reasoned with myself, “there must be SOMETHING I can do for them.” The banks don’t give a shit about charity....that’s what charities are for and I am hardly at the financial status of a philanthropist. And so, my tenants with the adorable twins started looking for a new place to live. I asked Daniel to stop the eviction paperwork. He had promised to help me with the property management of my investments purchased through him - he also only did a fraction of what he promised. There was no paperwork to stop.

The first day I showed up to tackle property 1800, I dreaded having to face the dilapidated shed in the back yard and all it’s rusting, rotting, and surely rat infested contents. That project alone would take me a couple weeks. Daniel was already there with his brother Darren, prepping the interior for painting. “This is encouraging,” I noted to myself. Through the den windows, the backyard was visible. From the paneled room, I looked out to an overgrown, weeds-waist-high yard and filthy pool. “What’s different back there?” I asked Daniel. We walked out through the patio. I could see clearly the fence was completely collapsed and covered by overgrowth. “Why didn’t I notice that fence before?” the dim witted property investor asked her broker. “Probably because the SHED was in the way,” he answered patiently and in waiting. My hand must have left a mark on my forehead. “It’s GONE! The shed is goooone!” I jumped like a child who found a shiny red tricycle under the Christmas Tree. Daniel was beaming. He took care of every detail concerning that catastrophe and I never heard anything about cost or effort. Generosity incited by guilt? Really, that was not my thought. All I noticed was that I felt supported - like someone had my back and I wasn’t alone.

For the next two weeks, we worked diligently on the property. I started by painting one of the front bedrooms. When I accidentally backed into a bottle of water on the tiled floor, I noticed it’s contents rolling toward the front wall. If there were a marble in the bare room, it would have rolled immediately in the same direction. “DANIEL!” I shouted in my discovery. He swiftly arrived from the den with a roller in his hand. Without words I pointed to the obvious pooling of water. “The foundation too!?” My question was also a proclamation. I dropped my roller and announced that I was going to work outside.

Outside required jeans, work boots, long sleeve shirts (several changes of them), sturdy gloves, a wide brimmed hat, ultra long playlists on the iPod, copious amounts of ganga, and a machete. Don’t worry, this story doesn’t end in disaster... er, rather a bloody disaster. It doesn’t end in a bloody disaster.... well, .... ack, never mind.

Before the lawn could be mowed, all the trash needed to be gathered. Before all the trash could even be found, the height of the grass needed to be whacked down. So I whacked away with the machete bringing the grass to only a foot high. Random trash from hairbrushes to old toys, empty potato chip bags to crack bags were collected from the back yard. I stuffed 10 heavy duty industrial garbage bags with light debris and machete shaved grass.

One gallon of water, two bowls of chronic smokey-weed and four hours later I had a fantastic pile of trash accumulating on the northwest corner of the lot, and I was just getting started.

Parts of the fence were peeking out from climbing, crawling foliage. It looked like a giant, green humpback was sleeping in the back yard. So I started whackin away at the overgrowth to gain my way to the collapsed fence. Before finding the once standing structure, I came across a hidden cactus. Actually, it came across me first. Moments after starting this new part of the project, I was plucking 2” long cactus needles from my forearm. After removing the last one, I thought of calling it quits. I looked around the much to do yard, “Still plenty of sunlight left,” I spoke to myself, “keep swingin, girl.” Zing! “Take that!” I Zorro’d a fluffy patch of green. FFFfftt! “And that!” I whacked at a woody weed close to the ground. “Don’t mess with me,” I was having too much fun with the machete, “you’re nothin but ..... WHAT THE FUUUUUHYEEOOW!” Just then, I unleashed a barbed demon. It was a coiled cactus with vicious barbs that somehow wrapped its way up my leg. The ankle was covered by my boot but my jeans were no match for this mess. Carefully, each barb was plucked from its grip. I slung the machete, blade first into a sandy patch of ground and clocked myself out for the day.

Two more solid days of that kind of work and the back yard was done. The fence didn’t put up much of a fight and most of it was dragged to the collection of trash and weeds. Kudos to the creator of “1-800-GOT-JUNK,” they came and picked everything up from the trash pile that grew into quite a heap. For a super reasonable price, they even swept up loose pieces that were on the concrete slab. (“Where did all that broken glass come from?” I remember asking under my breath.) The service came complete with two congenial, tidy gentlemen(!). The guy driving the truck explained that I didn’t have to work so hard making such a nice pile, “We would have gathered everything for you.” “Thanks. Good to know, I’ll remember that for next time,” I grinned looking at the clean and freshly mowed lot. “I guess I make it look easy,” I mused to myself.

Fresh paint inside and out, new window and patio screens, polished porcelain, and a shock treatment to the pool made 1800 ready for new tenants. And soon they came, with vouchers...that only covered half the rent. “It’s not a problem,” Daniel reassured, “her credit checks out fine and she has a job to cover the difference.” “Would you let her move in to one of YOUR properties, Daniel?” I thought I was soooo clever asking him that way. “Absolutely. Besides,” he added, “the grace period is going to be over soon and you need to make your first payment on the mortgage in the next few weeks.” “Okay. Should I do a lease agreement?” I asked. “Don’t worry about a thing. I got it all under control.”

Shortly after 1800 was occupied, Progresso was vacant. Almost. The family abandoned an entire room of personal odds and ends. A short list of things that were left behind included family pictures and clothing, games, toys, tools, and battery-operated-personal devices. That right, she was kind enough to leave her anatomically correct vibe-rate-or on top of the knee deep pile. It rested right next to a hand-made Christmas ornament constructed of popsicle sticks and glitter, complete with her daughter’s school picture in the center. “Oh, fun. Another scar for my eyes. Yay.” At that sight, I dialed an easy to remember phone number, “Hello, 1-800-Got-Junk, how can I help you?” the operator cheerfully answered.

It was early February. Wilma wrecked this lot in late October and I still had a huge tree fallen in Progresso’s back yard. I figured since the Junk guys were on their way in a couple days, I’d get the tree ready and borrowed a chainsaw from my brother. “What the hell are you up to? A few weeks ago you wanted my machete, now you’ve moved on to chainsaws?” little brother showed some concern. “Yeah, well it’s a tough town,” I half joked, “don’t worry, I’ll be sure to return them clean and without fingerprints.” Before pull starting machinery that could easily remove a body part, I made another call to my neighbor and ex-boyfriend, Chase. “Hey, I’m next door getting ready to cut that tree down that’s been draped over the property line.” “Okaaaay,” he wasn’t sure why I was calling him. “Well, I figured I should let somebody know in case, you know, something happens. Just a precaution.” “I’m only going to be here for another two hours and then I gotta go,” he was still angry with me.

Chainsaws are so satisfying. Some parts were like sinking a knife into soft butter. Other parts of that old stubborn trunk took more patience and muscle. Then the inevitable. After pushing through a less giving layer of the tree, the chainsaw suddenly advanced through. My wrist bent, my weight stumbled forward...I caught myself. “Did I just hit my....?” I looked down to see a very well singed left wrist and forearm. Luckily it was only a wicked burn from the hot motor. While assessing the damage, Chase came out of his house with a chilled can of raspberry La Croix, my favorite drink-treat. Pain from the burn was on a crescendo and starting to make me dizzy. “I’m getting ready to leave soon,” he handed me the ice cold can. “Thanks, I’m almost done here. Just a little more cutting to do. You don’t happen to have any aloe, do ya?” I pressed the icey aluminum directly on my fresh burn. Oh yeah, that left a mark.

******************************************************

“The pool is turned green,” my new tenant called. “How is that? It’s only been two weeks since it was shocked.” So I went back and shocked it again.

“Is green again,” she called shortly after I thought I had it stabilized. I asked the tenant of 1800 to call me if the pool started showing signs of ickiness. This time when I arrived, the green, cloudy pool also had a seven year old little girl swimming in it. “Uhm, can I suggest...no, I urge you not to use the pool when it looks like this,” I told the mother. “Here’s what I’m going to do, I am hiring a pool guy to come here once a week to get this cleaned up and maintained. Sounds good?” A few days later, I met the new pool guy at the house. When we walked into the back yard, there was a new puppy on a long chain that tore through the patio screen, feces on the decking, and paper plates and chicken bones floating in the pool. “I am in so much trouble,” I said in disbelief.

“There’s an awful stink on the side of the house,” was the next call I got. That day, I learned something about plumbing. Apparently, the previous owner removed the proper drainage from the kitchen sink and allowed the gray water to just fall out of the house into the dirt - something that I never thought to “inspect,” when purchasing a home. (The things we take for granted.) Since there was no garbage disposal, I didn’t think I would have to tell them, “Don’t put food down the drain.” But it was important instruction that they needed to hear. “Have you guys been putting meat down the drain?” I asked. “Yeah, maybe,” she tried to think back. “Until I get this plumbing fixed, make sure that you put nothing but soap, water and dishes in the sink. The stink you smell is rotting meat and maggots.” Guess who had the joy of cleaning that funk? My olfactory is still scarred by the stench.

After replacing the pump, it was determined, finally, that there was a leak in the pool. I was ready to just make a skate park out of the place and charge entry.

“Daniel, help.” I whimpered in the phone after three months of 1800 messiness, costliness and short rent payments.
“She hasn’t paid the balance for the past two months. There’s some young guy living with her having parties, gargantuan tires are piled in the car-port, and a poor, sad, tick infested puppy chained up in the back yard. What do I do?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”
“That no longer comforts me, Daniel.”

Without his help, my tenants left shortly after I made that phone call to my client-turned friend-turned real estate broker-turned property manager. She lost her job, the boyfriend got busted, and the kids were sent to grandma. It broke my heart to see such sweet kids and innocent animals to have to suffer through such ignorant adults.

Another mess was left for me once 1800 was vacant, but the pile of abandonment was much smaller than what I faced a few months earlier at Progresso. It was actually, quite manageable, except for the food left in the refrigerator. Did I mention her power was turned off at least a week before she left? “Why do I have to have a bionic nose?” I said out loud as I discovered moldy ice-cream and jello-ized meat. The last hurrah was delivered by this one clunky, awkward, unidentifiable piece of metal furniture. Was it a desk? Was it a bed frame? I didn’t care, it needed to get out to the front lawn for bulk pick up. As I pushed, dragged and wrestled with the hunk of metal I noticed a warm, sticky sensation on my left calf. Only moments before completion of clean-up, 1800 made it’s final mark on me and sliced my inner thigh with a sharp edge which went unnoticed until that moment. I let the blood run until I got everything out to the curb. And then, before getting in the car, I stood in the front yard and flipped 1800 the most sincere finger and fongul you have ever seen.