Tenemental

by Vikki Warner

  Published in 2018 by the Feminist Press

  at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center

  365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

  New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Vikki Warner

  ISBN: 9781936932221

  All rights reserved.

  This book was made possible thanks to a grant from New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First printing June 2018

  Cover design and illustration by Amanda McCorkle, colorquarry.com

  Text design by Drew Stevens

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for this title.

  To my parents,

  who never take on more house

  than they can handle,

  and to D. L., who proved

  more than willing to.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  Author’s Note

  Preface

  Prologue

  Anchor Down

  Buy High, Sell Never

  Three of Everything

  Renter-go-round

  The Wolf of Penn Street

  Digging Down

  Couples, Retreat

  Title T. P.

  Burn Plan

  People My Age

  Rumblings

  Baby Grand

  Economies of Scale

  Flip of Fools

  Record Odds

  Thrillingly Optimistic

  Closing the Circle

  This Must Be the Place

  Acknowledgments

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY FEMINIST PRESS

  ABOUT FEMINIST PRESS

  Author’s Note

  I have changed the names of many—but not all—of the people in this book. Some have given express permission for their real names to be used. In some instances, I stepped out of the actual chronology of events, assembling a timeline that would benefit the larger story. I consulted with some of the people who appear here both to check my memory and bring to mind further details. Outside of those caveats, this book is a true account of my experience as I remember it.

  Preface

  Imagine you own a large house. It’s a charming, old place with many rooms and decent-enough bones. Not stately, but attractive in its old-world, banged-up way, and historically significant to its neighborhood. Now imagine that—as in a hazy Stevie Nicks music video dream sequence complete with gauzy fabrics, silver bangles, and skeleton keys—you breathlessly try every door, but you can’t gain access to most of its rooms. They remain locked, secret; you stand dejectedly by. You’re the mistress of this domain, but you’re also the interloper.

  This is the life of a landlady.

  This is my life.

  I have chosen to own a complicated home.

  Over many years of gazing at closed doors, I’ve stopped worrying so much about what might be behind them. In the interest of my mental health, I’ve categorically stopped trying to fix whatever might be wrong back there. If I catch a whiff of rankness emanating from behind a closed door, I do not obsess over the piles of crusty socks, stale cigarette butts, and elderly pizzas that probably caused it. I just go to my own little cluster of rooms, burn some Palo Santo, put caulk on something, and live my own damn life.

  I’ve worked for years to come to this point of blissful, possibly counterproductive detachedness. I’m countering my natural state in doing so—a default setting that for years had me worrying over every little creak and every little crack. But no matter how diligently I try to disengage, I still occasionally awaken at 4:00 a.m., adrenaline pumping, with the certainty that the house is literally crashing down around me.

  Prologue

  In August 2004, when I was in my midtwenties, I bought an abused hundred-year-old three-family apartment building in the Federal Hill neighborhood of Providence, Rhode Island—New England’s third-largest (and first-freakiest) city. I’ve lived on the third floor, and rented out the two apartments below, ever since. It’s a standard triple-decker, that dime-a-dozen housing paradigm first built to shelter immigrant mill workers, visible everywhere in urban New England, and by the hundreds in my own neighborhood.

  Between endless repairs, unruly tenants, a trashed, party-heavy neighborhood described as “troubled” on the local news, break-ins, serial neighborhood house fires, accidents, and just paying the bills, the house has been a needy bitch. And although the two of us are still standing, maintaining our uneasy partnership has been a struggle from the get-go, often hindering my other relationships, and causing me to question the very trajectory of life. Is it all worth it, just to have this big, unwieldy house? Just to stick with this maddening yet adorable friend who is the very definition of high-maintenance? Exactly which of my life goals am I fulfilling by ignoring the mile markers other people use to measure their lives and opting instead to coddle a cranky and battered apartment building in a downtrodden neighborhood of a small postindustrial American city? And why, WHY do I find it acceptable to rent apartments to people who smoke crack, or break bathtubs with sledgehammers?

  That’s right, this story’s not just about me and my crumbling, ancient house. It’s about me, my crumbling, ancient house, and a host of other disoriented humans stumbling through their third and fourth decades herewith. Starting out as a landlady, I didn’t have siblings, a spouse, or kids; no sweat, I thought, who needs such fetters when I have the volatile frisson of living with renters? As I age, my tenants get younger. As I get more settled in life, they become more erratic. It’s all very My First Apartment around here, a dude-centric assemblage of cigarette butts, beer cans, Black Sabbath, and Rock Band. Their cumulative comings and goings have shone a light for me into the reaches of the modern young male brain. It’s dry kindling in there, and I’m just trying to keep it from sparking up.

  I find myself attempting to predict my tenants’ next erratic moves, hoping against hope that they’re not trashing their apartments, and living in a state of low-simmering paranoia that something may catch fire or explode at their hands. I do not exaggerate when I say that a tenant’s late-night burnt toast once brought me to engage in a militaristic sweep of the house.

  Over the decade or so since this house has been in my name, I’ve filled it with an outlandish array of people (80 percent male) and animals (60 percent feline): punk farmers, herbalists, body piercers, musicians who play metal, punk, country-rock, psych, and folk (or some combination thereof), chefs, bike mechanics, angry straight couples, boisterous gay couples, couch-crashers, geeks, losers, insomniacs, hippies, alcoholics, artists, pit bulls, Dachshunds, Chihuahuas, ferrets, and a bona fide cat parade.

  You can smell the reefer a mile away.

  One guy has stayed for ten years and counting; another took off unceremoniously a week after his lease was signed. Another destroyed his apartment under the guise of “renovation,” then skipped out when he realized he could neither fix it nor pay the rent. Still another tried to have his baby grand piano professionally moved into his second-floor apartment. And a couple of pyrotechnically inclined tenants had a short but fervent stint of lighting fireworks in the driveway right around 3:00 a.m. While this is the most literal instance of combust
ion on the premises, most of us have endured slower burns of a psychic variety, sometimes setoff by the very people with whom we share space.

  Life objective–wise, I haven’t set up camp exactly where I thought I would. I’m stuck in an internal tug-of-war that one minute tells me I’m a champ for maintaining a house and treating my tenants well, holding down a fulfilling job, nurturing creative pursuits, and adoring my friends and family; the next minute, that I’m an aging loser with no blockbuster prospects, no big five- or ten-year plan, no babies growing up fast. I’m happy not clinging too heavily to institutions, but I’m not entirely solid on hanging my hat where I’ve landed, either. The middle ground is decidedly squishy, as it turns out.

  I bought PennHenge (why should only country estates get names?) in the summer of 2004, at just about the most bloated moment of the real estate bubble, and in those days even an insipid fixer-upper built in the Stone Age was almost over my head, financially. Rather than seeing that as a reason to wait, be cautious, save more, I dove in with abandon. It shouldn’t have worked. I should have been tossed out in the street with the hordes of foreclosed-upon McMansioners. The only reason I’m still doing the backstroke in this particular pool is because I bought a three-family building. The proverbial envelope of rent money slipped under the door, plus occasional credit overuse, has saved my ass during lean times of frantic money-shuffling.

  Driving to work in my rattling stick-shift Toyota in 2007, getting my NPR on, I remember that the news about the economy was starting to sound bad; on subsequent days that news got worse, and then still worse; and then the NPR guys were suddenly referring to something called the Great Recession. “Don’t give it a name, you assholes, you’ll only make it worse,” I demanded of my car radio. Now that I was going to have to dodge not just a diminutively named “downturn,” but a massive, looming, capitalized “Recession,” my anxiety quickly notched upward. I had a sickening feeling I’d only get by on incredible luck and off-loading valuables on eBay. I was working for a small audiobook publisher, and as my coworkers and I wondered how stable our jobs were, I’d yelp, perhaps a bit dramatically, “Who needs freaking audiobooks at a time like this?”

  I gritted my teeth and avoided the headlines about plummeting home values. I didn’t lose my job—the company I worked for was headquartered in the UK, which perhaps helped to keep a lid on things—but I did watch as a number of houses on my block were boarded up or burned down, and the neighborhood’s population decreased to an unnerving low. In the past five years, as the worst financial hangover in modern times has lifted, everybody in Providence has seemed to have a trailblazing business idea—due equally to their own resilience and drive and the utter dearth of jobs in Rhode Island, a little epicenter of extreme unemployment during the recession. The city’s precipitous nosedive was cut short by this slew of individuals and small businesses doing their own thing just at the moment that “Shop Local” became a bumper sticker.

  In some neighborhoods of the city, and prominently in the square mile or so around my house, the past half decade has seen foreclosed or damaged properties being snapped up, fixed up, and resold to real estate corporations or absentee landlords; now, rents are climbing. The sounds of construction bounce between the houses on nearly every street. The long-vacant, goofy, crooked, idiosyncratic little buildings on the streets of the West End—once home to lunch counters, social clubs, and taverns—have given way to their modern equivalents: hipster chicken shacks, cocktail bars, coffee shops, and boutiques. Just about every space is in use again, or on its way there. Well-heeled people drive in from the suburbs to eat and shop in parts of the neighborhood that inspired heavy purse-guarding a few years ago.

  Now, I love small businesses; I love good coffee; I love adzuki and oysters and botanical gin! I don’t begrudge new business owners their chance to reach for the damn stars. But it’s happening so fast, and it’s already changing the character of the neighborhood. Where there is success for some (mostly white) people, for others (mostly people of color) the neighborhood is creeping toward untenable cost. I have to make sense of my own possible contribution to the change, whether—having paid too much for my house in 2004—I somehow helped to boost the financial outlook of the block, the street, the neighborhood.

  Though the upmarket niceness is closing in around us, Penn Street is still a strange jumble of lawlessness and grime within this illusory bubble, which gives me a counterintuitive little thrill. Some places are insulated against attempts to gussy them up. Those of us owner-occupants who have been here awhile stay quietly in place, taking our trash out on Thursdays and giving the side-eye to abandoned mattresses that stick around a little too long. Though we all make our small improvements, they don’t tend to last, and in the meantime more litter and graffiti and broken stuff appears.

  Stay nasty, Penn Street, you gem.

  I won’t make excuses for the landlords of my neighborhood or anywhere else—especially those who don’t live in their “investments.” Every renter has a nearly implausible story about their shadiest landlord(s) ever. From what I’ve seen, many of my rental-property-owning colleagues are short-sighted, cheap, greedy, hardened, ruthless corner-cutters—including most of those I rented from before I joined their shadowy ranks. Some landlords own so many buildings they can barely recall them all. Here in Providence, the average landlord is one part blowhard boor, one part petty miser, and one part used-car salesman. Nice people put up with being strong-armed, ignored, ripped off, and cajoled by their landlords. The promise of a really stellar apartment is just about the only thing for which Americans will hold their tongues and take such abuse.

  It’s no mistake that I’m referring to land “lords” and not “ladies” here. What reasonable single woman would sign up to do this job? Especially when our culture’s perception of a landlady (hairnetted, lonely, overreactive, spiteful) is decidedly less flattering than its image of a landlord (prosperous, shrewd, in control, assholery somehow justified as toughness)? The women I know who rent apartments to tenants are fairly young, dangerous with a spreadsheet, and firmly in charge of their homes and lives, so we might want to update the accepted shorthand “generic landlady” image of an angry, broom-wielding old lady.

  When I lose myself in overwhelming thoughts about the house, about where it’s all going, a guilty urge erupts to the surface: “Go,” it whispers. “Take refuge in a neat, sturdy cape in the nearest upper-middle-class suburb, one with precision-cut lawns, shiny late-model cars, and aggressively ordinary families.” But that fantasy is largely based on fear: fear of the disorganization, dirt, and unpredictability of my current situation. Something else drives me to stay here—and it’s not just that I may be slightly underwater on the mortgage.

  You’re soon to learn why this house embodies the framework of every good and bad decision I have ever made. In over a decade of life here, things have gone way right and way wrong, and somehow it’s all connected to the bricks and horsehair holding this outfit together. It’s solace; it’s stagnation; it’s the high of love and the grief of watching it fall apart. It’s ugly; it’s beautiful; it’s an anchor; it’s freedom.

  Put your stuff down, and let me show you around.

  Anchor Down

  I let him convince me.

  His personality was stronger than mine. He spoke with a harsh candor that was by turns hilarious, grating, insightful, and performative.

  For five years or so, I’d been sitting back and listening to my artist boyfriend James, appreciating his casually sociopathic worldview and enjoying his unpopular opinions about world conflicts, government conspiracies, rich kids, and bad art. We’d been cohabitating in Boston for a few years, making vague moves toward living in a way we could live with—scratching out a small space to inhabit in a staid city. Accordingly, we’d been wide-eyed bystanders to the ruthlessness of the early 2000s housing bubble in Boston. We watched prices creep up and then skyrocket, and found it chillingly intriguing. The lazy walk home from dinner or the
bar often involved stopping to gawk at the listings posted outside the real estate agencies in the neighborhood. Such gawking led, naturally, to flamboyant complaining about the insane prices. $400,000 for a one-bedroom condo in an outlying area? $650,000 for a cute but dilapidated little house in a boring place on the outskirts of the city? Secretly ensconced within the grousing, though, there was deep longing.

  Armed with little information other than our own self-perpetuating opinions, we somehow insisted on wanting to buy in. Armed with little money, we wondered how we would ever do it.

  “This shit is going so crazy. It’s all closed off to regular people. Eventually you won’t be able to buy anything unless you’re one of these super-rich fucks.”

  “Totally. It makes me nervous; it’s like, if you don’t get in now, you never will!”

  James goofed on me a little for my seriousness, for my love of organization, for my mousy literary disposition. I typically buttoned up while he and most of our friends were getting wild. For a span of time he called me “Sally Blazer, Roving Reporter”—which I took as a compliment, an acknowledgment of my tweediness and tenacity.

  At twenty-six, in my third year of working a straightforward but uninspiring job as an editor for a medical publisher, I had a few dollars in the bank—somewhere around $15,000—on a major-for-me salary of about $56,000 a year. I was proud that I’d been able to save, considering all the obligations I’d stuck myself with: grad school tuition, rent, repairs to my broken little Honda, intermittent underemployed boyfriend support. I was paying the bills like a champ. But in so doing I had adopted a somewhat joyless lifestyle, scrimping on time and money, filling every hour with work and school and believing in my own American ambition to never stop doing stuff.

  I grew up in a trailer park, the child of two humble earners who worked hard, saved peerlessly, moved shrewdly, and still had just enough to get by. I felt a shaky charge when I gazed at my bank statement and saw that fifteenish grand looking back at me. I didn’t understand the relative scale of wealth; I thought my little bundle of cash put me into a new echelon, a bump up on the ladder, when in fact the sum total of my nest egg didn’t come close to moving the needle for someone with real money, those people who seemed to be everywhere around Boston: the ones who owned the beautiful houses on leafy acres, their BMWs parked on the heated circular drive, or the aloof downtown high-rise condos. At that brief moment in my twenties, stoked by the crude gratification of suddenly having more money than I’d ever seen before, I would have given up all of my punk ideals to double the cash in my savings account. The dot-com bubble had only just burst. This time was all about free-flowing money—the feeling had been that all you had to do was stick your hand into the bubbling wellspring and grab some. The lights had gone out on the economy, but the spending party continued, only getting nastier under cover of darkness. Buying stuff—whether with real or imagined money—was a national balm against recognizing that the economy was soon to puke on its shoes.