Whistling Past the Courthouse

There comes a time when enough is enough. Mrs. Martin and I hit that impasse last week. Mr. H. showed up at her doorstep with a love letter from me that read, pay or get the *^%^&* out of my home. Mrs. Martin obliged and sent me a check that didn't bounce. Of course, this just delays the inevitable, allowing for another verse in the where-the-heck-is-my-rent tune. Right now she wants to try make things right. I know how this one will probably end.

Mrs. 508 is another story. She has been dealing with a tremendous amount of tragedy lately. I am not talking about job issues--though those still remain. I am talking about criminal things. Not her, but a dear friend has fallen prey, leaving behind a young child Mr. and Mrs. 508 are now guardians. To add to Mrs. 508's burden, she miscarried. Though I have a lot of respect for her and do not wish her situation upon anyone, I am becoming convinced her life is one big country song. And, her circumstances are counter-productive to paying me rent.

I had prepared a love letter for Mrs. 508 to be delivered tomorrow. I was no longer calling and e-mailing, instead deciding the best course of action was to let chips fall where they may. In a moment of psychic premonition, Mrs. 508 called today. She had a plan. She had money. Both apparently are mine.

There is a fine line between spooking a tenant who owes money and calling their bluff. I could be hard on Mrs. Martin and Mrs. 508. They would either figure out a way to keep the roof over their heads, leave or dig their heels in making me employ Legal Eagle. Right now, I am willing to work with them, in hopes what my gut tells me is true. Hopefully they will turn their sad song into a happy ditty.