I showed up at the gates of apartment heaven with the card of the President in my purse. His company owned just over 300 apartment complexes across several states. I was told to explain I was a friend of his and to outline the agreement to the on site manager. He said that I could have them contact him if there were any questions. It was a Saturday but he’d written his home number was on back his card so I felt I was pretty well covered.

The manager was a gal named, Ms.Thinkslow. In hindsight I’d say she didn’t like me on sight but I was truly brilliantly stupid at the time and I’d never have guessed this. I didn’t know I looked “ethnic” until I was about 30 years old and my sister broke it to me. This meant when I met people like Ms.Thinkslow, I was purely baffled.

Q. Why does she think she is superior to me?
A. I have no idea.

This was pure puzzle to me but Thinkslow was the kind of gal who is offended in a fear-based way of having to converse with someone who looks the way I do. She was probably daughter of someone affluent and had probably been isolated from anyone who was not her mirror image so result of standing toe to toe with someone with my look was basically total panic.

In her defense, I have a “street” quality. I got by living on the street so it is pretty authentic. I have it to this day and at this time in my life it was most acute, so you get the idea. There was a clash. Ms Thinkslow’s comfort zone abandoned her the minute I stepped in her office.

I knew she was a scared animal, I didn’t know why so I smiled and explained who sent me and what my deal was. She responded by trying to get me out of her office. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about. It was like I was some scary foreigner who’d best move along. I think it may have even crossed her mind to call the police because the look on her face was, “How did you get in here?” See? Panic. Where’s Daddy when you need him?

Since she was so stupid, I explained the deal again but this time a little slower. When the President told me I understood right away but never mind that.

“I can’t do that,” she said.

“Huh?”

“I can’t do that. You’re not over 65. I can’t just give you all of these discounts that you are not entitled to.”

“Sure you can! President said you can and he oughta know,” I said with a chuckle. I smiled wide.

“He didn’t tell you that. I don’t believe you,” she said.

I noted she just called me a liar and thought it was not very professional but I opted not to to confront. I have that little bit of Libra in my chart so  smiled gaily and pulled the card of President from my purse. I invited Thinkslow to call him to confirm.

“I’m not going to call him,” she said.

“Huh?”

“I’m not going to call him.”

“Hmm. Are sure about that? Because if you don’t, I’ll have to call him and then have him call you.  Because I’m supposed to move in here today,” I said, smiling to acknowledge the plain fact that she didn’t like me and the feeling was mutual.

“You can’t do that.  He’s not in the office. It’s Saturday”

I have dramatic timing that is innate, courtesy of my Leo Venus and I proved it when I looked her in the eye and flipped the card around with home phone of President on back. “No problem,” I said in my sweetly superficial Libra voice. I smiled and tilted my head. “Call him at home.”

I could tell by the look on her face she did not have the President’s home number so how does a gal like me have the home number of the President? Big mystery.

“I’ll give you one discount, but not three,” she said.

Grief process, eh? She was deal-making.  I didn’t answer.  Well, besides a little snort. I extended my hand with card of President, eyebrows raised. Trumped is trumped and she was  trumped.

“Ok. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” said Libra.

She didn’t respond and it turned out she was indicative of everything in the place. Looks good on the outside, but its all veneer.

I moved in and day two, I saw a roach. Within two weeks the place was crawling with them and I had no idea what to do. I bought a little can of “kill bugs” stuff because I don’t know much about roaches.

Three weeks pass and the roaches were now visible on the walls. I paid my rent a week early and complained to Thinkslow who promised to spray but a week later there were more bugs not less. I was back in her office and she was not glad about it.

I waved my arms around like Italian people do. “Bugs everywhere,” I said.

“Well they sprayed your apartment.”

“I don’t care. There are bugs everywhere.  You have to do something.”

“They must be coming in from the apartment next to you.”

“I don’t care.  Just do something. I can’t stand it,” I added.

They sprayed my apartment and the apartments on both sides of me. There were no bugs for three days, then I came home, turned on the lights and saw roaches on the wall again. I wanted to cry. I want to move. I wanted to tell President that “Royal Somewhere” was the most disgusting place I’d ever lived in my life but I didn’t because he was a pal of mine. He was my benefactor.

He’d started referring me to tend bar at private parties for what was a pure fortune. He was booking me at an exorbitant rate and people were paying it without blinking. It was gift-horse money and I didn’t want to make waves. The President was in charge of 300 apartment complexes – I decided I’d just have to work this out with Thinkslow.

I spoke with the neighbors and learned the roach infestation had been pervasive for a very long time which surprised me.  How have they endured this? That’s what I wondered but didn’t ask. They must all be getting military discount, you think?

I spent money I barely had on roach control potions and tried to get Thinkslow to comprehend she needed to bug bomb the entire place from the perimeter. I knew this because I’d called the bug people to ask. I had become educated on the subject.

The problem was repeatedly “addressed” but within a few days, right after I bought food, the bugs were back and it just kept cycling like this.

I was apparently the only one complaining, at least Thinkslow made it seem that way. I walked into her office and she’d greet me with “Oh. You again.” She didn’t seem to have the capacity to understand that I’d leave her alone as soon as she did something competent. I was in her office with increasing force and frequency because gross bugs freak me out and that’s no lie. Never mind I was going broke buying roach kill and food to replace food… to replace the other food that the roaches got into. When you are poor you only want to buy your food once, see?

Two and a half months passed and then one morning I got up and poured cereal into a bowl to see three or five roaches scramble from it. I’d just bought the cereal the night before so I screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs and then two things happened. First, I didn’t eat another bowl of cereal for 13 years and second, the gloves came off. I went to work and complained with vigor to everyone who came in and guess who was there?

It’s Grocery Man and he had an idea.

“I rent a small house. It’s really nice,” he said. “The landlady is nice too. I’ve lived there for about 3 years.”

“Oh really? I live in a roach motel and spend more money on bug spray each month then I do on rent.”

“There are two duplexes across the street and the people in one of them just moved out. Do you want me to check it out for you? I could talk to the landlady and see if it’s available and how much the rent is. My rent is pretty reasonable and it’s close by.  It’s close to your work.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. I guess. I just can’t deal with these bugs,” I said, disturbed to the bone over the cereal.

I was miserable, pouty and on the verge of brooding. Not only that, I was a little afraid. I was not sure I’d have the money to move. President waived the deposit on the bug apartment, but that wouldn’t happen twice. I didn’t know how I was going to pay for the next place because I’d really spent and spent and spent on bug control and I was broke.

I was working constantly, but I was supporting my mother in large part. Her rent was my responsibility for starters, so money was very tight and damn. At least I didn’t blow big bucks on the Mary Tyler Moore hat.

Skip to Part 3 – The Duplex