Landlady

Closing in on my nine year anniversary here at the Tiny T Ranch, it occurs to me a more apt name for the place would be Whac-A-Mole Ranch. Not a week goes by that there isn’t some crisis that needs to be addressed. The moles take on many forms. Air conditioners cease working. Septic systems back up. Animals get sick. Sometimes they die. Fences need mending. 

Unsurprisingly, the biggest ongoing challenges come in human form. For while it was never a goal of mine to become a landlady, somehow this became my fate. I provide long and short term housing, and, when times are particularly lean, I resort to using AirBnB. This combination means there’s a lot of traffic out here, not all of it good. My least favorite part of being in charge is when I have to let renters know they need to go. 

Recently—in addition to dealing with two animal deaths, root balls in my septic line that caused literal shit to back up into my house, and two of my eleven air conditioners crapping the bed—I had to inform two tenants it was over between us. Each partook in out-of-control drinking that was making life uncomfortable for the rest of us. I was kind and compassionate, noting my own experience with alcoholism, giving them ample notice, and wishing them well. To my relief, both departed quietly and without drama. 

This is not always how it goes. I have dealt with some genuine assholes, like Creepy Dominic the Airbnber who slept in his car outside my bedroom window and then, when I discovered him and sent him packing, left a bad review about his assigned camping space, which he had not stayed in. Then there was the guy who rented the greenhouse for a week to celebrate his “recent sobriety.” He tripped balls and grew so paranoid that he called 911 on himself, netting me a midnight visit from seemingly every emergency service worker in the county. And I still have not summoned whatever it is I need to summon to share the full details about the douchebag who got wasted and broke one of the antique chapel windows. After I threw a vodka bottle at his head (I missed), he sent a follow up email telling me he found my rage very attractive and would like to get to know me better. 

And let us not forget about Gerald, the 70-something father of a (now former) friend. Gerald, nearly blind, spent his days chain smoking in his trailer, cornering me now and then to inform me that the reason there are no ashtrays in vehicles anymore is because of—you got it—Obama. He also regaled me with tales of his time in ‘Nam, though his son told me he was pretty sure his dad never served. I didn’t charge Gerald a dime to live here. I had only one hard and fast rule, very reasonable, that he was not allowed to have firearms. His son decided he knew better and slipped his father a gun “for self-protection.” I only found out about this after Gerald shot a goat for stealing a tomato from a potted plant. Because, you know, it makes more sense for a blind man to fire a weapon than to simply move the planter. That was the end of Gerald’s ranch tenure. 

Hard to believe but he was not the worst. During the tumultuous period when I briefly lived in Shitville, I hired various people to live at the ranch and keep it running. This cast of characters morphed over time, but to a one they did not just bite the hand that fed them, they latched on, in the words of George W. Bush, “like a pit bull on the pant leg of opportunity.” This group included, but certainly was not limited to, a couple of gay twentysomething Trump fanatics who were lovers and, I eventually learned, brothers—one of them having been legally adopted as an adult by the parents of the other, who were entirely in the dark about the romantic part of the arrangement. 

While I felt sad about their politics, how they blatantly supported a party that condemned their orientation, I didn’t hold this against them. Early on they proved to be hard workers and kind young men. Familiarity breeds contempt however, and when they grew arrogant and subordinate, unwilling to work with a new manager I brought in, it was time for them to go. They greeted this information by calling the sheriff to report me for something I can no longer remember, only that the report was false. 

But these two were also not the worst. Despite the stiff competition for this title, it is still securely held by Jenn the Psycho. When I returned from Shitville to again live fulltime at the ranch, she was at the time occupying what had been my room. Not wanting to displace her, and coming from a long line of martyrs, I allowed her to remain in that space and moved into a 13-foot camper with five dogs as I awaited the arrival of the tiny cabin that would serve as my sanctuary as I recovered from the protracted MAGA assault I endured in Shitville. 

Entitled to the nth degree, Jenn played things as if our roles were reversed and that I was lucky to get to stay on “her property,” which she treated like her private resort. When one of her friends broke the refrigerator, I told her she needed to get it repaired. She agreed but never followed through. When, after weeks, I finally put my foot down, I did so with a raised voice. Her response was swift. She called 911, twice in one day, inventing sob stories for the confused deputies who found no cause to cite me for anything but who, nonetheless, seemed sympathetic to the psycho, possibly due to the way she employed her ample bosom to sway them in her favor. 

Though physically gone for years now, Jenn’s haunting continues. Once, she stole my identity on social media—a situation that took some time to resolve despite dozens of people reporting her. To this day she still receives mail here, steady correspondence that is a mix of coupons and samples for baby formula and piles of traffic tickets and toll bills. Some of this alarms me—did she have a baby? God I hope not. The traffic tickets are also cause for concern. They are always for the same thing—she is in the very regular habit of speeding in school zones, not without irony as Jenn—unfortunate on many levels—is a school teacher. 

I know, I know, I’m not supposed to open other people’s mail. I don’t care. For one thing, she’s not supposed to use my address. For another, I get a little joyful dopamine hit each time I tear open one of these notices as I imagine a day when finally all of the violations catch up with her and she’s staring at $10,000 in fines and—wouldn’t it be grand?—jail time. So, yeah, once again, paint me a failed Buddhist for delighting in imagining someone else’s suffering. 

Knock on wood etc, I am relieved to report that at least for today, with the departure of the most recent addicts, the tenant situation is calm here at Whac-a-Mole Ranch. I’ve got two rock steady roommates in the house, including Chad, aka my anchor and emergency contact, whom I’ve known for forty years. I’ve got a wonderful tenant friend in the tiny cabin. There’s the mysterious van life guy who never makes a peep. Dave occupies the Willie Nelson shed, helps keep the place running, and serves as a bonus son. 

Then there’s Steve, the young Frenchman, who recently set up house in the airstream. Three days after he moved in, the wiring on that camper went kaput, meaning, among other things, that he had no air conditioning. He was most agreeable about staying in the guest room of the main house until I could get repairs done, reassuring me he was just fine even as I panicked over the time it would take for the work to be completed. His attitude is a delight and a tremendous relief.

I currently have one opening available out here. My bank account would like me to fill this slot immediately. My central nervous system is in far less of a hurry to engage, yet again, in the crap shoot known as finding our next cast member for this reality show we have going on. Will it be a sociopath? A junkie? Will it be another lost soul seeking post-divorce sea legs? Or will it be—please Baby Jesus—some quiet someone who easily grasps the concept of being a good renter? 

Stay tuned.

Y’all—by all means: Amuse me! Console me! Tell me your tales of the best and worst roommates and tenants you’ve ever had. Crazy landlord stories also welcome. 

NOTES:

Thank you all so much for reading. If you’re in a place to become a paid subscriber—$5 per week or $50 per year—please consider it. Your generous support helps me keep the ranch and the writing going. One time tips also gratefully accepted at Venmo: @spike-gillespie. It also helps if you pass this along to folks you think might dig it. 

Tomorrow, Tuesday June 18th, I have a FREE writing workshop at the Hampton Branch Library in South Austin. This session is going to be different. As we get ready to break for the summer, I’m hosting a public reading by workshop participants. ALL of you are invited to join us in the audience. There will be wonderful readings, delicious snacks and refreshing drinks. 5:30-7:30. I hope you can join us.

On July 20th I’ll be leading a journal writing workshop—Write Your Personal History— at the French Legation in Austin. You can REGISTER HERE.

If you are in the Austin area and have stuff you want to donate to help Austin’s homeless population, I am happy to do a pickup. I volunteer for a great program at the Central Presbyterian Church. We always need men and women’s clothes and shoes. Toiletries, linens and gently used water bottles are also great. Oh, and reading glasses. I’m happy to help you lighten your load while providing much needed basics for the Unhoused. Thanks.