You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

SLUMLORD

Those of us who provide low-cost housing are often referred to as slumlords. The implication is that we are villainous types who charge too much for poorly maintained houses and apartments. Heartless beasts who continuously raise the rent and evict helpless single mothers and their children. While there may be those for whom the “slumlord” stereotype is appropriate, there are circumstances that may make it reasonable for a landlord to have a cynical attitude. I was the landlord of two low-cost dwelling units in Portland, Oregon, so I feel qualified to express the landlord’s point of view.

After renting to irresponsible people, a landlord can become less sensitive to the difficult situations in which some folks find themselves. There is a difference between a person who has fallen on hard times but maintains their self-respect and those who are slovenly and possibly sociopathic.

Two women applied to rent an apartment I had just completed remodeling. It was next door to the house where I lived on Mississippi Ave. in Portland, Oregon. Raisa was a single mother. Armina worked at Meyer and Frank, a local upscale department store. They seemed friendly, trustworthy, and sincere. I showed them the place and gave them a renter’s application. They quickly returned with the completed application. It looked good. I called their current landlord. She gave them a positive, though not enthusiastic, reference. I called them to say they could have the apartment. A couple of days later, after they had started moving their things into the apartment, I had a question about keys, and I needed to talk to one of them. This was before cell phones; I called their home phone. No one answered. So I called the work number Armina had provided on the rental application. The woman who answered the phone at Meyer & Frank did not recognize Armina’s name. I phoned the store’s personnel department and learned that they had no employee named Armina. I later learned that the work number Armina had written on her application was that of her aunt. The aunt happened to be away from her phone when I called. Had the aunt answered my call, I am certain she would have told me some excuse as to why Armina was not at work. By the time I learned of her lie and lack of employment, they had moved in. While I could have told them to get out for misrepresentation on their application, I let them stay. I felt that since I had told them they could move in before checking on them thoroughly, I owed them the opportunity to demonstrate their good character. This was a big mistake.

A couple of months later, I found Raisa’s four-year-old son on the roof of the shed, which was attached to the apartment. He had crawled out of a second-story window onto the sloping roof. I used a ladder to get him down. I brought him to his mother and told her that I had found him on the roof. Her response was not, “Oh my god! Thank you.” Instead, as she took the boy from me, she said, “It’s none of your business where my boy plays.”

Living next door, I noticed that they had frequent visitors. These visitors would come to their apartment and leave a few minutes later. I was suspicious that the women were selling drugs. My concern was elevated by the fact that they paid their rent with cash in twenty-dollar bills. My suspicion was confirmed one afternoon when I saw a pickup pull into the driveway behind their apartment. A woman got out and went to their back door. The male driver waited in the truck. After a couple of minutes, she returned to the truck with something clenched in her fist. She climbed into the truck and emptied the contents of her hand onto the dashboard. I could see that what she had held in her hand was a half dozen white pills.

Now I knew for certain. Later that day, I told Armina what I had witnessed and that I had no choice but to insist that they find another place to live. She responded as if she had rehearsed the string of vulgarities and racist expletives that she spit at me. She followed with a statement that also seemed rehearsed or perhaps one she had told her former landlords: “I will stay here for three months. I’m not paying another f***ing cent of rent. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

The women stopped their garbage service and quit paying their utility bills. They tossed their garbage out the back door into the parking lot. This stinking pile of trash, food waste, and baby diapers and everything else which would go into a garbage can, was next to the back door. It filled the parking area behind their home with the appearance and stench of a garbage dump.

I proceeded with the legal eviction process, which required a court hearing. It was three months, to the day, that the sheriff came with me to lock them out of the apartment. The women were ready to vacate. It was clear that they had done this before. Raisa’s brother was there to help them empty the apartment. As they carted their things out, her brother came over to where I was standing. He loudly said “Hear this Honky, you are going to pay for evicting my sister.” Fortunately, the sheriff’s deputy overheard this statement. He called the brother over and told him, “I heard that threat. If anything happens to Mr. Lundy, you are going to be the first suspect we come after.” Nothing happened.

After they were gone, I entered the apartment. I was confronted with a putrid smell, filth and badly damaged place. There were chicken bones and grease stains ground into what had been a new carpet. The walls were smeared with filth and fingerprints. The doors were broken, some were off their hinges. The kitchen was the worst mess. There was trash in the corners, the sink was plugged, and the place was crawling with cockroaches. They had apparently been broiling chicken in the oven without having a pan under it. The bottom of the oven was filled with chicken fat. The fat was so deep that it was just about to be in contact with the lower element of the oven. Had someone turned the oven on to bake, the fat would likely have ignited. The pile of garbage had grown to be 4 feet tall and 12 feet in diameter. Less than a year earlier, it had been a newly remodeled apartment. A few months later, the city of Portland passed an ordinance that required all landlords to provide garbage service for their tenants. I suspect that the pile of garbage behind my rental had something to do with that new law.

Not all renters of low-cost housing are irresponsible. After I had remodeled the apartment a second time, I rented it to a native American woman and her African American partner. They maintained the apartment well. They paid their rent, though it was occasionally late. I kept the rent low despite the improving character of the neighborhood. They stayed for thirteen years and left only after I had sold the property.

I hope that this account has given you some appreciation of the experiences that can harden the attitudes of those who provide low-cost housing.