March 4, 2003

  • Taking a break from studying to snack on some high-pro brownies and get our rent checks together for Mr. Sayler.  He's rather an off-the-beaten-track fellow you couldn't help but describe as, well, seedy.  A thirty-three year old chain-smoking alcoholic reeking of b.o., he's usually grizzled, disheveled, kind of depressed and out of it.  I guess this has a lot to do with his getting arrested in an attempted pawn shop burglary some years ago in which his buddy was shot and killed by the L.A.P.D.  He's been in and out of prison ever since.   He inherited the property from his grandfather.  We can dig his "anything goes" attitude--he doesn't care how many pets we have, what sort of company we keep, what we do to the place, or whether we're a little late on our payment--but approach him over any repairs and it's "Say what?"  Unless we can scrape up the money to call a repairman ourselves and deduct the cost from the rent, it's no go.  Thus we put up with peeling, cracking paint and stained, drooping wallpaper, ancient linoleum with dirt so ground in that mopping the floor only brings up swirls of grime, and threadbare Berber carpets.  The plumbing's sluggish and sometimes leaves and flowers and other debris make their way up the drain.  But the stout old built-in 1950's turquoise refrigerator still hums away on its wide enameled cabinet drawer, and the old mismatched gas range keeps firing up.   There's a spacious bathroom with a Hollywood-style vanity, louvered windows, and red-hot electric coil wall heater; large peninsula kitchen with glass-fronted cabinets and breakfast nook; and plenty of craftsman-style storage space in the hallway and three good-sized bedrooms.  Front and back verandas and a cyclone fence to keep out the riffraff.   Not to mention rent that's nearly half the going rate, so we never complain.   And someday, somehow, we'll fix it up ourselves, at least clean up the walls and give it a nice coat of paint.  Sigh.  But you know how THAT is.