Slumlords

My first experience with apartment life came at the beginning of our "empty nest" years when we moved from Oklahoma to Mississippi.
Our home in Muskogee had not yet sold, our jobs in Jackson were about to begin, so we had no choice but to find a rental.
I had never lived in an apartment before but I had many friends growing up who did. The number one bonus to apartment life, I discovered, was the swimming pool. And then there were the stairs.
My best friend Margaret lived in a two-story apartment when we were kids. We played Fisher-Price people in that apartment for years. She always let me build my "house" on the stairs, preferring the ranch-style design for her house and the little round family members. Once, when we were about twelve, another friend came to visit unexpectedly. Terrified that we'd be ridiculed for playing with toddler toys on the brink of our teen years, we quickly threw them in the closet, grabbed some of her mom's nail polish and a couple of magazines, and threw open the door. Never mind that we were fanning unpolished nails and reading Architecture Today, at least we weren't caught playing.
My grandmother had stairs too. She has managed an apartment complex my entire life. I spent countless hours on those red carpeted stairs, playing with Barbies, writing stories and poetry, and entertaining casts of characters in my head.
My dad and I visited her in Kansas last spring. I was thrilled to see a late snow and spent three days singing "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" (The answer from everyone, shockingly, was always "No!")  But I was most dismayed to see a remodeled interior corridor.
"The stairs were red." I sounded like a petulant five-year old.
My grandmother missed the surly tone. "Yes, they finally got rid of that old nasty carpet a couple of years ago. It looks so much better."
I did the math in my head and realized that 40-year old carpet probably did need replacing, but I had a lot of memories on those red stairs.
By the time we moved to Jackson, though, we'd lived in a two-story home for a few years and I was known to call downstairs with requests from my upstairs bedroom to my husband and children's chagrin, so having stairs in an apartment wasn't a necessity any more.
The swimming pool was.
Our first apartment was amazing.
We moved into the downtown King Edward building. It had been remodeled and now housed a full-service Hilton Hotel on Floors 1-8.   Floors 9-12 were luxury apartments.
They were gorgeous.
Our apartment had granite countertops, cherry wood floors, and beautiful views. It was small with no room for guests, but our new loft furniture and carefully selected accessories conveyed uptown yuppie. I felt like I'd moved into a New York high-rise.
I stopped in the hotel's coffee shop for a lemon-blueberry muffin every morning and a cream cheese bagel every afternoon.
I worked the calories off in the rooftop pool.
Sounds perfect. And it was. For a season.
After six months, the novelty wore off.
I loved being able to completely clean the apartment in less than an hour, but nothing was ever out of place. After twenty years of kids upending any cleaning I'd do, my apartment seemed a little devoid of life.
The views from my window were the closest I'd get to the outside once I got home from work. Downtown Jackson wasn't the safest environment and despite the recent push for downtown revitalization, there wasn't much to do even if we did venture out after dark.
On the evenings I came home after dark, the walk from the parking garage to the residential elevator was eerily reminiscent of many an episode of NCIS. I held my keys the way I'd been taught in a self-defense class my parents sent me to as a new driver.
My husband was working completely different hours from me and my life became about books, television, and fluffing pillows.
I needed more.
We made the decision to move to another set of apartments the following spring. The ventilation system needed work: the barking from neighbors' dogs came through the vents at all hours of the day and night, and despite the no-smoking policy, cigarette smoke would waft into our bedroom constantly. They were gracious and allowed us to break our lease without penalty.
My husband's son found us a new apartment.
For us, it was perfect. A downstairs unit, two bedrooms, an outside porch, and a huge swimming pool and hot tub less than fifty steps from our front door.
I'm sure it was a mere coincidence that it put Grandpa and Gigi less than a mile from his home.
We loved it!
The model apartment was more like an editorial spread than our actual apartment turned out to be, but it was still very nice. And roomy. The three grandkids came over often and once again my home had life.
We had Super Bowl parties, Miss America parties, game nights, birthday parties, and a few long-term guests. We knew a few of our neighbors, though mostly just in passing.
Any maintenance problems we had were immediately addressed.
In retrospect, the cabinet carpentry that lacked precision and the carpet that needed repair were minor details. As were the pet excrements on the lawn.
Because what I'm seeing now makes me yearn for such simple matters.


I have to conduct walk-throughs in apartments often. It's part of the homeless rehousing program and one of my least favorite aspects of the job. Because the clients must find an apartment in which they can sustain rent costs after the initial fees are paid, they must find lower-end places.
Some are beyond what I'd call low-end.
I put Kai in an apartment a week ago. Doing a walk-through is a bit like test-driving a new car. Some things don't show up right away. So after I'd signed off on the property, he moved in.
Or attempted to.
The stove shorted out.
The kitchen sink leaks all over the floor.
The a/c went out.
Repeated calls to the landlords resulted in empty promises.
Visits weren't much better.
Once I was able to have a conversation over the cursing and yelling of one man, the catcalls of another, and the incessant barking of two dogs who seemed to belong to no-one and had no leashes, I was at least able to negotiate a credit of one week on next month's rent.
But that's only because I have the backing of the federal government.
Anyone else would've been out of luck.
I don't understand how a landlord can be okay with this.
Or how they get away with it.