I rented to a commercial photographer who moved out after 23 years and left a store full of manila folders, invoices, developing trays and chemicals. Three dumpsters’ worth. He shouldn’t have done that. I had never hassled him about late fees.
Down the street, the Armed Forces Recruiting Center moved out after 40 years and left a punching bag, three couches, 27 chairs, a lot of “Army of One” promotional material and a 1970s stereo system. That wasn’t the half of it.
I’m sitting on about 3,000 perfume bottles. I’m not totally sure they are perfume bottles. Martha’s Beauty Salon left the bottles in the basement. The bottles are packed in cartons with zone numbers on them, not zip codes. (Pre-1963.)
Every month I serve an eviction notice on a lawyer. Every single month. Then I file an eviction on him.
The lawyer rents a storefront office. I pay the $85 eviction filing fee and get a court date.
The day before the court hearing, the lawyer pays the rent, including the legal fees. Like clockwork.
Until he doesn’t.
At eviction court he said to me, “I’m broke.” No tears, no dough. “You’re in business. You understand,” he said. “I don’t have the money. I’m moving out.”
He turned in the keys and cleaned the place.
He stole money from his clients. He was disbarred in April and convicted of grand theft in June. Sentencing is next month.
Note to the probation department: he left the store clean.
As my dad used to say . . .
Meaning: Pay the rent. We aren’t a loan company.