Happy GLORIOUS Friday! I took a whole Ambien last night and experienced nothing until 6 am when I woke up having to pee, and thinking it was the weekend. Imagine my intense bitterness at being reminded otherwise by the alarm clock. And then my husband. And then Mika. Somehow, once I got to the office, I lost 4 hours just filing and following up on little things, but the phone has only rung 11 times today, and to that I say: It’s a Weekend Miracle!
Since I’m more or less caught up and crossing my fingers that nothing happens for the rest of the day, I decided to tell you all part one of the story of epic fail to which I referred yesterday.
Once upon a time, at another job two years and one mile away, there was a person, me, who used to babysit the front desk of a university affiliated student housing building. Some of those tenants were amazing people and I looked forward to handing out their mail every day. Some of them were insufferable, high-maintenance dinks who went on to become some of my current tenants and have graduated to insufferable, high-maintenance twats. Some of them were, and still are, too twisted for TV. And I’m pretty sure I mean that literally. Get a camera to follow them around 24/7 and you’d get every reality TV show out there canceled for being shamefully boring by comparison. This particular story is about one of those tenants who I shall heretofore refer to as “Bitcherella.”
Bitcherella moved in among a few hundred other residents, and my first impression of her was when she pushed to the front of a line of about 15 people while her mom got confrontational with anyone who objected. I promptly told her that I’d be right with her as soon as I had served the other people in the line. She, in turn, let out a little squeal of rage and stomped off, dragging her harpy of a mother away in the middle of an argument. She returned four hours later, happy as could be and quite literally skipped away to the elevator when I handed out her apartment key. I found the radical change in demeanor deeply unsettling.
This particular rental company offered roommate matching, and Bitcherella was “matched” with a roommate. I use the term “matched” very loosely, because the leasing manager (who later became the crazy professional liability of a general manager), was a lazy whore and decided that attending the same community college was a good enough match. Other than that, the two could not have been more different. Let us refer to her roommmate as “Vicki,” short for “victimized roomate” which is a pretty accurate description.
Whenever residents received packages, we’d post their name on the video monitor in the lobby so they would know to stop by the desk and pick it up. For some residents, I’d let them claim packages for their roommates if the roommates had previously given me permission. Not Bitcherella. She looked at the monitor on her way through one day, stopped short, and ran back to the desk where she asked me in a conspiratorial tone, “Can I get Vicki’s package?” I told her that I’d have to call Vicki to make sure that was okay and she stood up straight, yelled, “Nevermind!” and walked away in a huff. When Vicki stopped by the desk later that afternoon, I told her what happened.
“If there’s a way that I can leave an official note, it will never be okay for her to claim my packages for me. On a related note, how do I get a lock installed on my bedroom door?”
It turns out that she would notice things missing from her room, only to find them in her room again a few days later in a different place than she’d left them. Some of these items were clothes, and when she’d go to put them on, she’d find them horribly stretched out and stained with food or reeking of marijuana. I made arrangements to have maintenance key her room that day and left a note for overnight and weekend staff to never release packages to Bitcherella.
There were a host of other issues that popped up regarding Bitcherella for the next few months: Complaints from neighbors that she’d bark at people who walked past her apartment, random rock sculptures that she’d erect in front of people’s doors, complaints to me that her appliances were malfunctioning only to find that maintenance found them in perfect condition with no defects… she was a strange, hairy bird, and her roommate spent a lot of time sleeping over at her boyfriend’s place.
About 3 months after move-in, I arrived early to find a pair of police officers in the lobby, helping themselves to some coffee at our hospitality bar. I bid them good morning and sat down at the desk wherein they proceeded to ask me some questions about Bitcherella – Did I know anything about her class schedule, was she on file as taking any medications, did we ever see evidence of controlled substances in the apartment?
Come to think of it, I’d never really seen her come or go at the same time of day, or follow any set schedule. I’d never even seen her with a book bag. Her behavior had been suspiciously bipolar, but nothing I had been made privy to. Noise and drugs? It’s student housing. Of course there are complaints about noise and drugs, but no one is ever inclined to point a finger, lest they find one pointing back. The officers proceeded to give me a heads up that one of the resident assistants had called them early that morning because she heard screaming from Bitcherella’s apartment followed by loud banging and shattering glass. She refused to open the door to housing staff, but when the officers showed up, she was all sunshine and puppies despite the war zone they found in the apartment. She had “kicked the coffee table and stubbed her toe, then knocked it over in anger, causing a glass to break, hence the noise.” Of course, the officers didn’t buy it, but didn’t really press the issue. When they asked her where her roommate was, though? “That bitch locked me out of her room and then didn’t have the balls to come home last night.”
I assured the officers that I knew personally that Vicki had left the day before to visit her parents for the weekend and was safe and sound, but gave them the parents’ home number to verify, and promise that I’d pass the incident on to our general manager when he arrived that day. The officers recommended that we check the front door of the apartment for any security breaches (“you don’t need to give notice for that, you know.” *wink* *nudge*) and gave me a copy of their report.
An hour or so later, I saw Bitcherella slink out the front door, avoiding my gaze, so I called Vicki to get permission to do a walk through of the apartment, and the called maintenance on the radio.
“J, can you meet me at 804A for a security check?”
“Security check? Uh, sure.”
When we got upstairs, the front door itself was fine, but then we opened the door and were rendered instantly dumb and mute. There were fist sized holes in the wall every two feet or so, the couch had been tipped over, the bathroom mirror was cracked, and Vicki’s bedroom door looked like a feral wildebeest had tried to scratch through it.
“What. The. FUCK.” was the only thing J was actually able to articulate for the first few minutes. He took photos of the damages (while taking photos of the broken mirror, I caught a glimpse of the medicine cabinet and saw full bottles of Paxil AND Risperidone with her name on them. That would explain the police questions about meds…) and then we both headed to our GM’s office. I gave him a brief synopsis of my earlier conversation with the police and then handed him the police report.
“Well, that’s definitely odd, but not entirely unheard of. How was the apartment?” J handed over his camera phone and GM flipped through all of the photos. “I take it back. This girl is nuts. Guess I need to call her mom. Meanwhile, start cleaning up the apartment and fixing the damages. We don’t want to alarm her roommate.”
It should come as no surprise whatsoever that mommy read him the riot act about trying to slander her perfect little snowflake because how did he know that her awful roommate didn’t do it, and how dare we enter the apartment without permission, and she wanted the RA who called the police fired for violating her daughter’s privacy, etc. My GM the dumbass stumbled all over himself apologizing and swept the whole thing under the rug, writing off the incident to “adjustment issues that would settle themselves in time.” A month later, he transferred to a community in another state and left the whore of a leasing manager to take over as GM.
I wish I could say that Replacement Whore GM settled the matter quickly and proficiently, but she just wasn’t that competent. I wish I could say that things quieted down on their own after her initial psychotic break, but I have never been blessed with an abundance of luck. No, things did, in point of fact, get worse. Much, much worse.
Hilariously worse. But this installment is already very long, and that is a sequel for next week…