The Family Business

Hallelujah! After Marty waited in line for 20 minutes the first time (he had to leave) and 48 minutes the second time last Thursday, he finally picked up Mrs. Spring's check. Amen.

However, as of 10 a.m. last Thursday, I hadn't communicated this to Mrs. Spring because:

1) I didn't know Marty picked up the check
2) I have a life and hadn't gotten around to calling her (this is her crisis, not mine)
3) I am a little annoyed at being accused of purposely sending her rent checks back

Mrs. Spring, who apparently had some sort of arbitrary deadline I was supposed to call her back, didn't let my silence stop her. She called my Birmingham cell phone a second time in 12 hours and left a long-winded message once again.

When Marty Sunshine came home for lunch, he proudly displayed Mrs. Spring's rent check, like a man who was coming back from a long, terrible battle and holding his prize. He made some rude comment about what he will do the next time someone sends a certified letter. I firmly believe he means it.

It appears the crux of Mrs. Spring's issues were she put on the wrong zip code. I don't know why. The lease has the correct zip code (I checked). Now, I'm not implying anything here, but for the first eight months of her lease, the rent checks went to the right zip code. Once her finances got tight, she started mailing the rent to a completely different zip code. I'm just saying...

Because Marty was already in a grumbly mood about the post office, I told him about the latest voice mail she left. Marty's solution was to call Mrs. Spring back.

Marty talked with Mrs. Spring for several minutes, reiterating the reason for the delay in us getting her rent was the incorrect zip code. He also asked her sweetly not to send any more mail certified mail. Ever. I seriously doubt the message got through.

Instead, Mrs. Spring chose to use several agonizing minutes of her end of the conversation to explain how she is surprised about the "poor customer service" she is receiving (from me). She also spend several more cell minutes voluntarily mentioning in so many words about how she is an upright and outstanding citizen (who happened to accuse me of sending her rent check back to her on purpose).

Marty just responded with some sort of benign comment that would translate into, "Bless your heart."

All the while Marty was talking, there was background noise. I was fixing lunch. Polly was singing. Buckaroo was vacillating between knock-knock jokes and sound effects.

At the end of their conversation, Mrs. Spring asked Marty his name and then asked him to spell his last name--suggesting it was just for her records in case there was a problem. Marty politely obliged.

I will bet Mrs. Spring's security deposit, even after she hung up, she never put together that Marty was my husband, not my employer.