joe shaw

I opened the mailbox, and there was one piece of mail. It wasn’t addressed to me. No biggie, I figure. I never got much mail and a lot of the time it wasn’t for me.

I walk up the stairs. I see my door closed, but not completely shut. I figured my landlord or one of his lackeys had been there and not locked the door behind him. That’s really inconsiderate. I mean, I had fairly valuable stuff in there.

I push open the door, and the place is furnished. Some guy putting away things in a closet looks at me.

“Uh, hi.”
“Hi. Uhm, I used to live here.”
“Okay.”
“How long have you been living here?”
“Bout a week.”
“Okay. Was there any stuff here when you moved in?”
“Not a thing.”
“Funny. I paid up through the end of September. My bed was here.”

Context: I was supposed to be out of the apartment on the 30th on September. There were people living there something around the 23rd of September. There were zero items there, when there should have been a bed with mattress and box spring, a rocking chair, two wood-frame chairs, a coffee table, a night-stand, and some miscellaneous things (like laundry detergent). What The Fuck.

So I chat with them a little longer, supressing my rage and explaining the situation to them. After I headed home, I try calling my landlord. It’s a Saturday, but hey, I’ll give it a whirl, I have no fucking bed. No answer.

As I see it, he owes me a months rent, and he stole my furniture, which he needs to either return or pay up nice and good. One of those chairs was a chair that my mother used to rock me to sleep in when I was a baby. I’d like that back.

Monday, I call that pigfucker Pat Rao. Depending on the outcome of that, I call a lawyer.