Glad I am not a landlord. Those that are may relate to this commentary in today's WSJ.

Lakewood, Ohio

I went to my first eviction hearing in two years last week. I hadn’t evicted anybody, or lost any rents, during Covid. The neighborhood social-services agency had given out rent vouchers to six delinquent tenants of mine.

The tenant in apartment 403—a one-bedroom—was an exception. I had told him about the free rent money at the agency, but he never moved on it. His living room consisted of a sleeping bag, dozens of cigarette butts and a bong. Every Monday I knocked on his door to see if he was still there. He owed three months’ rent. On his application he had written “house painter.” But he was always home.

When my leasing agent rented to him seven months ago, the painter had been accompanied by his mother—always a good sign. He was 27. In hindsight we should have had mom cosign.



I wore a necktie and a polar fleece jacket to eviction court. A step up for me—the necktie. The policeman at the courtroom metal detector said to me, “Counsel?”

“No, landlord,” I said.

I sat on a bench outside the hearing room, wondering if the defendant would show. Several days earlier I’d told him: “You might want to move out ahead of time to avoid a public record, to avoid an eviction.” He texted me back: “You’re going to have to go through the eviction process while I work things out.”

I was paying for his heat, cooking gas, water and roof. That was annoying. I like to pick my charities, and he wasn’t one of them. I called his mother. Her name was on the application. She said, “I thought you were going to tell me my son is dead.” I knew what she was talking about.

Seven years ago, a 30-year-old tenant died from gunshot wounds in the same apartment building. The fatality was initially listed as a “suspicious death.” There were bullet holes in the bedroom wall. The detective told me, “I know more than you do.” For sure, he did. I was hoping it was a suicide, because that’s better than a murder, from a landlord’s perspective. A murder would have cleared the building out. The shooting was eventually declared a suicide, and I put up a note in the building entrance about a “suicide by gunfire.” Then I crossed out “by gunfire.” Everybody had heard the shots. Nobody needed to be reminded of it.

Last week, when I knocked—again—on the painter’s door, I said, “I’m just checking to see if you’re still here. I don’t want to go to court if I don’t have to.”

“Still here,” he said, smirking à la Dude, leave me alone.

“I called your mother,” I said. “She thought I was going to tell her you’re dead. Get it together, man.”

No response. No smirk.

He didn’t show up for the proceeding. He got “red-tagged”—evicted. I asked the magistrate to give us possession of the apartment in 10 days. Sometimes the court goes out 14. I got the 10 days—a pyrrhic victory. If the painter isn’t out by Sunday, I need to contact a locksmith, bailiff and policeman to change the lock. I predict the tenant will be gone. The cigarette butts—not gone. I’ll take that. Could be a lot worse.

LINK: https://www.wsj.com/articles/m..._opin_pos_3#cxrecs_s

Reads almost like a noir novel

Gonna stink badly, yuck

quote:

Originally posted by Jester814:
Reads almost like a noir novel

It does.

quote:

Originally posted by Jester814:
Reads almost like a noir novel

It does! I heard it in my head as I was reading it in Marv's voice from Sin City.

Couldn't be bothered to go get his free money so he could have his free housing. Guess he's free now.