“Down F.-Theresa-Road, Without A Paddle”

Status: Quo Minus

by F. Theresa Gillard

BOSTON, MA—(Weekly Hubris)—4/19/10—Once again, I find myself seeking a new abode. I’ve already had enough of this. My many failed apartments, condos and townhouses have started to morph into one another. Where I call home is essential to my wellbeing. I need a nice, quiet place . . . with a sane landlord.

I know this is a market in which to be a buyer not a renter. Give me a minute (for me, a minute is a couple of years), and I’ll be just that.

But, thinking back on the last three years and the last three rentals I went in search of, well, it comprised an adventure-not-of-my-choosing . . . which all started in 2007, when I sold my Charlotte, N.C. townhouse and headed north, moving in with my aunt and uncle. My plan was to move out by September.

By August’s end, I still hadn’t found a place. Now, I admit that I’d put undue pressure on myself. That final weekend, my brother, Brian, and my Mom were driving all of my stuff up from Charlotte. The plan was to put it in storage, but I had this crazy hope of finding a place first, which I did. Sort of.

I found a nice Massachusetts-reasonable (meaning about as good as it gets: housing is always less than affordable around here) rental house in Burlington.

O.K., did I mention that I’m really full of crazy notions? So, I figure, since I’ve decided on a place, I should look at a few other places just to be sure (Don’t try this at home). This is how I happened upon Ms. Wrong.

Seeing as I had to consider Xerxes, I always started my realtor conversations with, “I’ve got a cat, so I need a place that accepts pets.”

Yep, you got it. Here we go down one of those F.-Theresa-roads. On this particular road, the names of other intersecting roads have been changed to protect the stupid.

“Once upon a search,” there was a realtor named Ms. Way Wrong. Ms. Wrong assured me that she could find me a place lickety-split.

Ms. Wrong told me she had the perfect place for me that just happened to be right up the street (sort of) from my aunt’s house in Andover, a big plus.

I put in an application and was rejected by the landlord, who conjectured that, since I worked in Boston, I would not stay in Andover long due to the commute. The landlord was seeking a long-term renter, which he’d deemed me not to be.

Shucks! And, I’d really liked that place. But, not to worry: Ms Wrong said that she had another place that was beyond the right place for me. Just let her contact the owner and set up a time to check it out. I reminded her to make sure that the owner knew I had a cat.

By now, the realtor had relegated Xerxes to phantom-cat, since I’d informed her that he was living in S.C. with my little brother because my aunt did not allow pets in her house. Limbo-Cat: out of sight; out of mind.

For some strange reason, Ms. Wrong passed this misinformation on to the owner. The owner approved my rental application. (Lickety-split.) The realtor agreed to meet me at the condo that night to sign the lease.

Upon meeting up with her, I actually read the lease. The lease stipulated that only owners were allowed to have pets. Obviously, that did not include me.

Ms. Wrong assured me that the owner was aware that I had an out-of-state cat. Ms. Wrong wrote that fact on the lease and I signed. She was so proud of herself—she’d found me a place!—not to mention the fact that she’d just made $1,300.

Whew! Just in the nick of time. The ink wasn’t dry on the lease and I’d already begun moving my stuff in.

I got moved in and Brian and Mom headed back south.

This should be the end of the story. And, yet, here is where it all starts rolling down the usual F.-Theresa-road.

The owner calls me to introduce herself, Ms. Bamboozler. She has noticed the cat-amendment to the lease. She informs me that it really won’t be a problem. All I have to do is sneak him in and keep him quiet.

What?! I inform her that Xerxes is a Balinese, (if you please), so he might as well be a Shriek-inese. I told her that he was the least sneak-able in-able of all domestic cat species.

Ms. B. just carries on with her declaration of auspicious cat-outcomes and, besides, the cat isn’t even in the state, is he? Yet.

I assure Ms. B. that my cat, Xerxes, aka Shriek III, will soon be in the state, seeing as he’s stayed well beyond the few months that I’d promised my brother, Rinard.

“Let’s worry about that when your cat gets here,” she says.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “Xerxes will definitely be arriving soonest and I am concerned. There is no way that he’ll live here covertly. He routinely howls non-stop.”

“Just cover him with a towel when you bring him in or you’ll have to take him out,” she says.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m not going to be trying to hide him.”

“It’ll all be fine,” she says. “I’ll tell the association that it’s my cat. You just need to be discreet.”

I’m only on Day Two into a one-year lease, and there goes my sane landlord stipulation.

I end the conversation by requesting a pet approval letter from the condo association. She ends by saying everything will be fine.

Day Five. Ms. B. fails to provide any documentation. I inform her that, without it, I will be moving my stuff out immediately.

Day Ten. We’ve exchanged several e-mails. Ms. B. has accepted the fact that I have not accepted her it’ll-be-fine edict. She’s left messages saying that she’ll be showing the place with or without my approval to enter the rental property.

I move my stuff out and into storage well before September 30. Ms. B. is still refusing to return my monies; therefore, I’m in for $3,900., of which $2,600. has gone to Ms. B., and $1,300. to Ms. Wrong. (Bamboozler & Wrong: they should incorporate.)

I contact the Boston Rent Equity Board, seeing as Ms. Bamboozler has filed an eviction notice against me, even though I returned the keys and moved my stuff out prior to the eviction. And, mind you, I never stayed there, not even one night.

Ms. B. knew that having an eviction notice filed against me was tantamount to renter homicide. It would now be next to impossible for me to get any future rental applications approved.

The BREB advised me that I’d have to file a complaint via Small Claims Court and inform the condo association.

An eviction is serious business. So, I call in the big guns (lawyers). The big guns charge me $300. just to write a demand letter, which fails to garnish a response.

The big guns then advise me that it’ll cost $2,600. to take the case to court. Ms. B. is served and off to court we go. Against my fervent objections, the big guns refuse to seek the $1,300. from the realtor, since she’s agreed to testify on my behalf.

Yeah, whatever. Basically, she’s been paid $1,300. on my behalf.

Anyway, the court date isn’t until December 5. As a part of the court process, all parties have to try mediation prior to presenting the case to the judge. During mediation, Ms. B. agrees to my attorney’s terms and the eviction is null and void.

She writes a check for the security deposit portion ($1,300.) and agrees to pay the $1,300. balance in three monthly installments.

Well, it all took eight months and she still owes me $50. that she’s never going to pay. I contacted the court. Apparently, they make judgments, but they don’t enforce them. That’s another court process . . . .

So, let’s recap. This has been a very long mathematical word problem: How much money did Theresa lose, Children? How long did Rinard house Xerxes? How many months did Theresa stay with her aunt and uncle?

Yes, I’m on the search again. This time, I have absolutely no expectations but even less money. Do you know a place?

. . .but I’m not waiving the sane landlord clause.