Texting Tenants

I copied one of my run-of-the-mill text threads into this blog to give you an idea of how my tenants and I communicate. Why be boring when you can be an asshole? 😉

I had a call from my downstairs 28-year-old tenants. They were up in Oregon at a bluegrass music festival, following (but not so hot) in the footsteps of the Woodstockers. They wanted me to be present when a buyer for their 1971 Chevy truck came by to check it out and asked me to leave the key in the pickup. 

First I had to get the keys from their apartment. I was at a disadvantage from a long day in the sun, my keys possibly mismarked, my Parkinson’s acting up, and old wrist fusions from athletic injuries which limited manipulative placement of my hands. 

They gave me an approximate location of the truck key: the glove box or inside on the desk. I couldn’t get into the glove box, which required pushing the button and turning the latch. Was it locked? Was it my fused wrists that refused me? The sun was beating down on my back and sweat started beading on my forehead. I struck out and headed to their apartment. I have copies of the keys, three on one ring, but as soon as one would work the other would somehow mysteriously re-lock, get stuck, or stick. When I tried to use an additional key, nothing whatsoever would happen. Is this some kind of joke? After an hour of trying to get through their locked door, I was in. I was close to stripping the house, even digging around the foundation. Finally, I found the truck keys under a pair of panties on the desk top (Okay, that part’s made up but a man can dream). 

I went outside and tried to climb on the high truck seat, almost impossible due to the hip fracture I endured over a year ago, which required a more recent follow-up surgery. I had slipped on an extremely slippery spot loading my boat into the Sacramento River. I eyed the truck’s very high seat with dread, as it wouldn’t be too easy to climb up there. Jauntingly lurching myself in, I started the truck and the battery barely made its grumble to life. I had been instructed to leave the key “straight up and down” when turning the engine back off to keep the truck from dying completely. 

Straight up and down like the key with engine turned off, body and leg rebroken to a right angle, I slipped and twisted on the hot leather seat. What a way to die – heat stroke – locked on the front seat! The cussed phone kept ringing and the sun streamed full on. My retinas tingled from the sun, similar to the tickling of that fucking phone ringing incessantly, giving me its location – up my ass! It was a nice vibration, like the sun on my corneas, which originally felt like burning, but which transcended to a nice vibration along with the phone. I retrieved my phone, and sticky fingeredly dialed 911.  

Now, I’m texting my tale from the ER as I lie here on the gurney. Being re-hydrated for heat stroke, the surgeon is just about to arrive to the repair my re-fracture. 

Good luck with the sale! 

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