Owning
and living in duplexes for nearly 30 years can be interesting—especially if you
are a permanent resident. Sharing common spaces, landlord and tenant boundaries
must be established. For the most part we’ve been very lucky. We’ve had a few
interesting renters – the failed pediatrician who couldn’t keep her son (nearly
naked Neal) clothed and who shopped at discount stores daily. The stunningly pretty but dim
young lady who walked into our kitchen as Dan entered from the other way in his
underwear. The Doctor from Italy who was appalled by the dust between the
cracks of the hardwood floor although he never showered or wore deodorant, and
felt he needed to be three inches from your nose to speak. The woman who was
deeply disappointed with a beautiful replacement Kohler Brookfield kitchen sink
(replacing the dinged up stainless steel) by the prospect of POT MARKS. After
that heated exchange, I believe my comment to Dan was “the bitch is outta
here.” And she was. The med student that went to Europe for the summer and made
no arrangement to pay the rent for three months (surprise, you can’t live here
anymore).
On the
flip side, we’ve had some great long-term tenants as well. The very talented
mom and daughter who are still great friends; a different med student who would
study for days before bursting out of the flat to chase our 5 and 7 year old
sons around outside, tickle them until they were breathless (he was missing his
own little brothers at home) before “tying” them to a tree in the front yard.
They loved it—and him. Once when we refinanced and our payment was halved we
were able to reduce the rent for a young lady who was struggling with her
bills. I can still feel that hug.
Within
the last month our lower flat came open again. A quick ad on Craig’s list and
we had several prospects. You interview, test the waters with a walk-through
and application signing/chat at the kitchen table, conduct some background
checks and pray that you’ve made the right choice. Our new tenant will be
moving in next week.
We
mentioned that we’d be painting the flat and he expressed an interest in
picking out colors – something a bit warmer than the current gray, nothing
extreme. We agreed to look at his preferences and hire a painter. The painter
ended up being a bust – way too expensive, so we decided to do it ourselves,
with volunteer help from our new tenant and his brother. The new guy dropped
off the paint chips attached to printed digital photos of the different rooms
and Dan called me at work to say they were all beige—joking that he could buy a
five gallon bucket and call it a day. As all of my faithful 17 readers know,
Dan is colorblind reds and greens. I would trust him with colors as much as I
would trust Fox to predict an election or McDonalds to serve a gourmet meal. I
asked him to hold tight until I got home.
Dan took
off a few days to get some repair work done, and on Tuesday he started to
paint. I got home from work and came downstairs to help. He had gotten quite a
bit done, most of the big surfaces had one coat. The colors were wonderful.
There were some instructions about specific applications of color to make
features pop. Dan asked me a few questions about how to finish things off. In
every case my response was the same, “if I was going to live here I’d want … ,
but let’s wait until tomorrow and check with the tenant.”
On
Wednesday, the tenant and his twin brother came by to help Dan. They had made
quite a bit of progress when I arrived from work. We walked through and in
every instance his design decision matched my initial reaction. We are all
getting along fine. We painted for a while longer on Wednesday, then took a
break for Thanksgiving.
We came
downstairs on Friday and found Tom and his brother hard at work. Dan plugged in
his “Everclear” station on Pandora radio. I ran to the paint store to pick up a
bit more of one color and some white trim paint. When I returned the station
had been changed to OLD country – Tom T. Hall. It seems They preferred new
country and Dan’s compromise was country that told a story. Seriously—when’s
the last time you heard “”Convoy”, or “He stopped lovin her today”, or “The
Ballad of Bill Crump”, about a guy who builds his own coffin, or “Feleena,” the
follow-up to Marty Robins famous El Paso? (Dan is an idiot savant for Westerns
and old cowboy songs.) While I had to look this up to get it right, who the
hell can paint to lyrics like this?
“He
raised to kiss her and she heard him whisper
"Never
forget me - Faleena it's over, goodbye."
Quickly
she grabbed for, the six-gun that he wore
And
screamin' in anger and placin' the gun to her breast
Bury
us both deep and maybe we'll find peace
And
pullin' the trigger, she fell 'cross the dead cowboy's chest.”
Seriously, in another hour I’d
need a gun, but make sure there are three bullets in it. I declared mutiny and
changed it to something more modern (Sting, Genesis, 80’s, what’s not to love).
Dan’s dad
came by to help and we put him to work cutting in color and trim in the back
bedroom. Nearing the end of the pail, Dad came into the kitchen for a refill.
We looked at the cans of paint to determine which shade he needed. Dan pointed
to one can and declared this to be the correct color. Like adults smiling at a
slow child, Tom and I shook our heads and pointed to another can. Dan insisted
that the can with the dent was the can he was using earlier that day. Tom and I
exchanged glances, and in that instant I accepted the pity he sent my way. Dan
again explained that the can with the dent was the correct color, and in my mind
I patted him on the head and sent him back to caulking grout. I refilled Dad’s
paint cup. Tom, my new BFF, nodded his approval. Dan shrugged and left.
A little
bit later I had a question for Dad about painting a cabinet. I stepped into the
back bedroom and found him hard at work. I stared at the walls hoping it was a
trick of the light. Or it was drying funny—yeah, that’s it! Or…or…not that it
was the wrong paint and Dad was more than half done. It was like a sick,
two-toned brown leopard, as Dad had dabbed the paint on all four walls. Maybe
lower wattage bulbs? No, I would have to admit this to…Tom. Maybe he would have
a plan. Dan was still caulking—he might not have to know. Yeah, that’s it. We
just won’t let him in this room. I asked Dad to stop, and he said he was
wondering why it was drying so funny. I wanted him to be quieter—Dan can’t
know. To have to admit that the colorblind guy was right—and then sending him
off to do Charlie* work scrubbing grout in the bottom of a shower stall…I went
and got Tom.
Yes, he
knew this was serious too. That relationship between landlord and tenant now
had a new wrinkle. I had an alliance with Tom, yet we were both in the wrong.
To now need to eat beige crow the day after Thanksgiving was appalling. And I
could already see the little happy dance Dan was going to do. Dan walked into
the kitchen.
Silence.
Dan rinsed off his hands as Dad asked which paint can he should be using. Tom
and I exchanged furtive glances, then quickly looked at the ceiling, studying
the light fixture.
The bulb
came on slowly in Dan’s head. I watched as his hand washing slowed, then
stopped. He was looking straight ahead, processing the words “Which can of
paint should I be using?” “Should I be using?” “Should…” He turned and looked
at Tom and me. Tom faked a cell phone call (bastard) and left the room. Dan
stared at me, then walked past his dad into the bedroom. While I expected
laughter, there was silence. He emerged at least two inches taller and his dull
eyes were gleaming. He walked up to the dented can and offered it to his dad.
Dad resumed painting.
I had
imaged a few different exchanges, but I was surprised. Dan simply said he was
pretty sure he knew the difference between a dented can and an undented can,
but when it came to final color selection he would always defer to me. Tom quit
his fake call and returned to the kitchen. Dan picked up his now rinsed Charlie
rag and returned to his grouting. Tom and I exchanged surprised glances and
went back to our painting.
A few
seconds later I noticed something that both Dad and Tom missed. There was a
slight vibration—a shaking, as if someone was moving a heavy piece of
furniture. While both Dad and Tom would have dismissed it had they noticed it,
I knew it was Dan doing his happy dance all by himself in the bathroom.
*Charlie
work, for anyone who doesn’t watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, is the grunge work that no one
else wants to do.
Music that resonates:
Convoy – C.W. McCall
