Laura Russell is a well know slumlord even to the proprietors the esteemed web site www.luckyface.org. In the nearly five years that I rented from her, my roof was never leak free for a span of more than a few weeks. In fact every time a hurricane came through it left the gift of a hole in my ceiling where the water had weighed down the drywall to the point of collapse. The hole usually remained for a few months before being repaired. Last year New Orleans was hit by two consecutive hurricanes, and there in my kitchen ceiling were two holes gapping at me like the two large eyes of Laura Russell, and behind those eyes was rottenness.

She operates by suckering new students into her apartments, which look really cool upon a periphery inspection. They are usually old Victorian houses sectioned off into apartments, with hardwood floors and nice looking windows. But once your in and have signed the year lease, the plumbing is proved atrocious, floors give beneath your feet, and the whole fa�ade gives way to a deathtrap. If your break the lease your lose your deposit giving her an extra months rent and she starts the cycle over again. And, of course, you’ll never get your deposit back regardless of how clean, and in what shape you leave the apartment.

Having all this knowledge in my head, and being relatively passive as I am, I saw no need to move over the nearly five years, mainly because I’m too lazy. Also, why move from slumlord to slumlord, if they all keep your deposit, and you pay an extra month’s rent every year. I saw the deposit as my chance to live in the house as I desired, keeping the cleanliness to my standards, and not caring about others. If I wasn’t going to get it back anyway, why worry about the deposit, just use it to justify my lifestyle. The wall murals looked very nice to me.

Slowly over much time I hatched a plan to leave. I wanted to live next door to Clay in a double shotgun if I could. Buying would be nice, but there was a problem. Laura (Clay’s wife, not Laura Russell) and I had the down payment, Rebecca had the credit, and Clay had the future job. All together we made the perfect prospect for a loan from any reputable bank, but taken apart, I had no credit, Laura had bad credit, Rebecca was unstable in her work environment, and Clay was, as of yet, unemployed, so much for buying. We decided to rent for a year or two, and buy in the near future. Clay found a perfect place on Magazine a block from Audubon park, and all the sudden I felt I might could live in that cool a neighborhood.

It was July tenth, the realtor had called and said we were approved and could move in when we liked. Rebecca and I opted for the fifteenth, and Clay and Laura opted for the first of August. I got a call at work from Laura Russell, “Hey Phillip, It’s Laura, I got a call from . . . did you pay rent this month.”

“Yes I did.” I knew then that the realtors had called her to see if I really had put up with her for five years. When I was filling out the application for the apartment, the realtor saw Russell’s name and said she wouldn’t even bother to call her. “We bought from her once, nothing but problems, the whole place was falling apart. She doesn’t fix anything.” As I said her name is infamous. But apparently she had called and Laura had confirmed that my residence was for so long a duration.

I had, in fact, paid my rent and upon confirming that the check was sent, Laura Russell went into a long shpeal about how I must be sending it to an old P.O. box and they all the mail sent there gets forwarded to the new one. “It takes a few days sometimes, We can just wait” she said. Odd that she wouldn’t dare to give anyone her address eh? And why change the box so often? “By the way, I got a call from a realty agency, are you moving out soon?” Now I was intending to move out over the month and just let her keep the deposit which she was going to keep anyway, I told her I’d be out on the first of the month even though my moving day was the fifteenth, five days hence. “Well you know you’re required to give thirty days notice don’t you?”

“Okay,” I said “today’s the tenth, I’ll give you till the fifteen of next month and you can cut me a check for half my deposit.” No skin off my teeth, I wasn’t going to see that money anyway. Once again, I may as well use it, this time as a bargaining chip.

She laughed nervously. “Well it doesn’t really work that way, you have to give your notice on the first of the month. If it rents before the fifteen I’ll be fine with that, but if it doesn’t you’ll have to pay for August too.”

I wasn’t so sure about that first of the month part, but I went home and started cleaning my apartment vigorously. I didn’t want to cheat anyone, and I didn’t want to be an ass either, so I wanted the place to be clean for the next tenet, even though it would be much like a white washed tomb. I got my lease down and checked it. Still perfectly intact after five years, it said nothing about giving notice on the first, it did state that it renewed itself on a monthly basis upon it’s expiration, and written notification of termination was required thirty days before either party exited the contract. With this knowledge I typed up a letter informing her of my discovery and of my imminent departure I enclosed a copy of the lease with the pertinent portions highlighted, and I had two witnesses sign two separate copies as to the date sent, one for me and one for her. I felt pretty good.

On the fifteenth of July, one month before departing the current premises, my new apartment became available for me to move in. I planned on moving in my refrigerated stuff on that evening, having already changed over the power, phone, and all other necessities. I would then leisurely move out over the month and give the apartment a good cleaning, to wipe away five years of my filth. Not that I believed for one second that I would gain my deposit for this, but only because I wasn’t intending on torturing the next guy for my laziness, and I was certain that Laura Russell would do little repair.

The day before this plan was to spring into action I got a call at work. “Phillip, it’s Laura . . .”

“Did you get my check?”

“No we haven’t got it yet, we need that money today, can I stop by this afternoon and pick it up?”

I was expecting this. I told her that I didn’t have the check number and couldn’t stop payment on the old one, so if she could wait till I got my bank statement and I could figure out the number I’d be glad to pay her after I stopped payment on the old one. So began a long battle that day over the phone. I figured she would keep my deposit, that is in her character from all the in indications I got from all the friends I made who moved out immediately upon the termination of her lease. But I did not expect her to try to charge me for another month, and turn around and tell me she never got my check for the past month either. Basically she wanted three months rent for one. I was not inclined to give it up. I’m not a hero, and can’t say I’m not nervous in the face of a bully, which she is, but I think I carried myself quite well.

We traded lines like boxers trade licks, sweat dripping from both foes. “I find it highly odd that the first time you don’t receive my rent is the time you hear I’m moving out.” I expected her to retort with the reverse, that it was odd that the first time she doesn’t get my rent is the time she hears I’m moving out, but I was not met with that counter. Instead it was a much weaker defense.

“Well I guess that’s just a huge coincidence.” Oh, that was lame. I was pretty sure now that she had my check and was going to keep all this money. If I complained she would say it was a booking error, and give me the run around till I gave up, banking on the fact that I didn’t have the gumption to take her to small claims court.

If I doubted that she had my check in hand when she made that slip I knew for sure when she asked to drop by and pick up the rent in CASH that afternoon. I told her point blank that I didn’t trust her and asked how could I be certain that she doesn’t have my check now? This of course made her livid. More than usual because I never complained much when my toilet broke or my roof caved in, or my doors rotted off their hinges. Because I’m so passive she was sure she could soak me for everything she could get, three for one! The fact that such a pushover would question her was infuriating.

“This company has been in business for over twenty years, we don’t just keep checks and cash them.” Oh yes, the company, another of her strong-arm tactics. The very word conjures up images of old white men in suits and lawyer filled bureaucracies, which no one can combat. I had heard the company bit before. Once I was sent to the company “office”, to pick up the keys, and it turned out to be the apartment of a lady so advanced in age shouting was required and everything was said five times. The apartment was, of course in one of her building. I wondered if she made this old lady pay rent above her clerical services, somehow having tricked her into thinking that indentured servitude was still legal. Every once in a while Laura Russell will make reference to the accounting department, the repair department, or some other such nonsense. Odd that I had never met representatives of any of these departments in five years. I wonder if her “supervisor” at this nameless “company” would like to know that she demanded the rent in cash that same day.

The company didn’t scare me all that much because I knew the truth. So now she was screaming, “If you don’t pay today the company will evict you!” It’s a convenient wall to hide behind I guess, so I called her on it a bit, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t play any games.

“What company . . . you?”

“NO! THE COMPANY!” very unprofessional to scream like that. I think even she heard how stupid she was sounding at that moment.

“I can be out tomorrow.” And why stay? I had a place to go and once eviction is brought up, why should I bother to stay. My fault in this was I didn’t realize just how much it took the wind out of her sails.

“Then you’ll be abandoning the property.” She said, her voice trailed off almost confused. I didn’t pick up the hint of dismay in her voice quick enough and made my only foolish mistake in the conversation.

“Is that acceptable to you?” I said. And that was all that was needed. Once I gave her the chance to negotiate terms she was back in the fray. Regardless of the fact that her only two leverages, eviction and deposit didn’t seem to matter a fig to me.

“NO that’s not acceptable.” She ranted and raved about cleanup costs and loss rent time and time to advertise. I was at work and the clock was ticking. I then started to lose heart.

“Alright”, I said, “Come by this afternoon, and I’ll cut you a check. Your just gonna bug me about this till you get it.” Her demeanor changed immediately from harsh bully to joyful victor. I didn’t know quite what I was going to do. I hung up the phone and called a few friends and talked it over. I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t pay a dime and I should leave immediately even though she couldn’t do anything for thirty days. I almost picked up the phone to call her and tell her right then but my distrust stayed my hand. As long as she thought there was money coming, I knew she wouldn’t have any reason to go poking around my apartment. When I got home I called her and said, “I talked to my counsel . . .” nice touch, “and you can evict if you want I’m leaving tonight.” The response was so unexpected it was eerie.

“Okay.” She said in a sing song voice leading me to think there was something in store for me down the road. But that was it. The battle was over. Once I left she kept the deposit, as is her right after abandonment, and it’s over, the lease is broken. Since I wasn’t getting it back anyway, who cares, and if she really didn’t get my check in the mail, all the better for all the stupid first year collage students she cheated.

That evening I was laying in the back of a van under a mattress like some criminal being smuggled across the boarder thinking it all over. I was crammed under there with all my worldly goods piled on top because there was no room to sit. I mulled over the fact that the move was orchestrated great. I had everything I needed lined up in a few hours, I was packed and out before nine that evening with only one night on the lamb. It was recommended to me to stop payment on the check, and with a little deducing I could have figured out the check number, but I resigned to destiny. If she really hadn’t received my check then it was her divine payback for cheating so many in the past, and I hadn’t really done anything illegal by abandoning the apartment, because she kept my security deposit. If she had gotten the check, she would cash it and according to the law of the land, she would be within her rights to keep both because I had broken the lease. She could have it, lest she repent the weight of that check, and the misery of all her ill-gotten gains will only serve to drag her to the deeper parts of hell. At least I keep telling myself that.

The “missing” check was cashed in less than a week, not much to my surprise.

Phillip G.

Ambrose Bierce delivers a blow but
purple mistakes brighten my life-line.
Steinbeck reflects on death
while I turn the page
and my childhood ends.

Bitterness unleashes its rapt attention
as Joyce and Kevorkian smoke
until quarter to three.
Eddie Vedder is oblivious to the world;
He sits in the corner
singing softly and softly singing.

Ladies and gentlemen,
check your pride at the door

We’re about to enter hellish humanity.

Capitalism requires a sort of mutual reciprocity. The type of love is called Philos in Greek: it’s a love interwoven with a common goal. Hence, my name Phillip is from Philos Hippo, lover of horses. This is not the type of love which will necessarily end in physical union, though the ancient Greeks were known for their quirkiness, but it is the love of comrades engaged in a task. Thus, the human feeds the horse and the horse offers transportation to the human. Some goals are limited in scope and once the goal is reached, the relationship can be terminated. For example, I go to a restaurant, I want dinner, and those on the other end of the relationship want my money. I love the restaurant in that it�s a place I can go and enjoy myself, and the restaurant loves me in that I am a paying customer. We serve each other�s needs and move on with life. Of course, from time to time relationships break down, especially capitalism.

I was eating with Rebecca at Copeland�s Famous New Orleans Restaurant. I have never had a good meal there, but this isn�t a restaurant review. It just so happened that my excursion into the prize box at work got me a $25 gift certificate there this time, and Rebecca had just landed a job she wanted badly enough so as to turn down a job that she hated which would have paid twice as much. So I took her out as a celebration, on my dime. Well, on the company dime. Actually, she ended up paying the tip–but who�s keeping tab?

We sat down to enjoy our meal and ordered. Just as our food came, the lady sitting across from me got up and came over, gave us look that was as blank as a zombie’s, her eyes at half-mast and mouth slightly agape. After a moment she walked on. Now, Copeland�s is not the most exclusive restaurant, but this woman looked like she had spent the vast majority of her life in an undersized trailer with an oversized family. But, apart from chastising myself for being so judgmental, I gave the incident little thought. Our meal progressed. They left the bacon off my burger, but Rebecca�s catfish came out in huge helpings to make up for it.

As we were stuffing the last amounts into our mouths, I saw someone run past the window. I just caught it out of the corner of my eye and turned to see the waitress glance out too. She got a peculiar smile on her face and then ran toward the door. After that, a few back-of-the-house employees came walking past the window outside, looking intently, their faces a mix of jest and anger. I assumed I was witnessing some sort of restaurant antics.

I remembered my days as a grill cook, a job of which I was very fond, and remember with an all-too-positive bias. One evening when I was on the grill and business was slow I heard a tremendous crash and several plastic cups came tumbling around the corner, quickly followed by a rather slow-witted dishwasher. He was followed by a frontline server with a damp towel in his hand, wrung into a whip. They chased each other on and off all night. After close we were all in the parking lot and the slow-witted dishwasher came out and started walking straight to the frontline server who was standing next to me. �I got your ass now,� he said, seeing him defenseless. Just as the dishwasher reached him the frontline server pulled a damp towel from a tucked position under his armpit and whipped him right in the gut, and proceeded to chase him around the parking lot whipping the ground for a firecracker like effect.

As we were preparing to leave Rebecca went to the powder room as I waited at the table. At the table next to me a cop sat down with one of the servers. �So what happened?�

�I saw it coming, it was a classic walk out. The woman got up and left and the guy went to the bathroom, but he left his hat and glasses. When he came back to get them I asked him to please pay. He asked if he could work it off, but I told him he either had to pay or go to jail. We argued and he pushed me out of the way and ran out the door. I chased him down and tackled him but my manager told me to let him go, he didn�t want the liability. So I just ran after him till I saw you.�

�How much was the bill?�

�Eighty five dollars. Can you imagine going to jail over eighty-five dollars?�

I could not. We gathered our things and left, noticing the lady in the back of the cop car on the way out. It is always sad when the system breaks down, for whatever reason.

Contrary to the Philos model is the Agape type of Love, which entails the lover and the beloved. The lover only desires to pour out goodness to the beloved. If the beloved is also a lover, in the Agape sense, toward the lover, the relationship that ensues is one of the more beautiful types. This is the model that the Christian community is called to live, member to member as well as institution to member. One problem today is that some people see the church under the Philos model, as an institution to be dealt with, as opposed to the Agape model, as something to which to give your all, and which gives its all to you. In Catholicism, one might go to church expecting that, in exchange for showing up they are entitled to receive the sacraments. The institution expects those who show up to pay for the services rendered through �time, talent and treasure� and a little more treasure wouldn�t hurt. One would hope for a more interactive model.

I was meditating on these things as mass started the other day, and how the Philos model would apply to the homily. The priest hopes that those who come will be inspired enough to return, and become active members of the community, and the congregation hopes that what is said from the pulpit will inspire them to live their lives with meaning and trust in the almighty, or will at least not be the all-time cure for insomnia. Given the state of homiletics these days, both sides are likely to be disappointed, resulting in a mutual dine and dash. Neither side gets what it wants and respectively gives up on the other side.

I decided that there needed to be a way to remedy this situation. It appears to me that no one is even teaching the rudamenteries of speech making to these poor priests. (Have they never heard of a thesis?) Thus was born The Counter Homily Initiative, to aid the priest in ascertaining what the people want. Of course there are the regulars who go up to Fr. Joe Shmoe and tell him what they think of his homily, but my plan was more grass roots. I decided that I could make a form to be filled out in ten minutes for any given mass and e-mailed to the presider. It would include the time and presider of the mass, his strong points in the homily, weak points, suggested alternate topics relating to the readings, and questions regarding the homily. It would help the priest by giving him constructive criticism from those to whom it mattered most. It would help the congregation in that it would force them to pay attention and, even if they didn�t like the priest�s agenda, make them take home a positive thing they learned from the homily.

I mulled over how I could start doing this by myself and spread the word through various ways and means, including the Internet, bulletin and church socials. I figured in my wildest dreams that even the priests themselves, delighted to find out that someone was actually listening, might take heart and pass on the proper documentation. Then I envisioned the form evolving into true counter-homilies where people were allowed to stand up in mass and give opinions on the priest�s strong and weak points. The vision of myself standing on a very tall pulpit totally tearing down a preist for his lack of focus, doctrinal soundness and poor exercise in diction came very clearly to me.

I was thinking all this through during the Eucharistic Prayer when we proclaimed �this mystery of our faith.� �Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.� It is sung to the same tune as the amen at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer and I was off in a daze. Then a chain reaction began that showed me that perhaps I too had succumbed to the mutual dine and dash. The poor teenager who was sitting in the front row stood up, not being able to see that all those behind him remained kneeling. Then that guy who came in a little late, and looked like he didn�t really know what was going on anyway, slowly rose. Following him within a second was a very old man who is at mass every Sunday. The primitive functions of my brain, working on auto pilot while the Counter Homily Initiative was occupying the conscious cerebral functions, took in the tune, though not the words, and saw the others standing on the periphery of visual sensation. Taking this information it acted quickly, bolted my knees up and I stood. The movement jolted my conscious brain back into sense gathering mode and I quickly took stock of my surrounding. Almost everyone around me was kneeling. Only a few other people were standing and even the old man was heading south having already figured out the shamefulness of his action. I looked at the kid with scorn as I kneeled back down, blaming my lack of attention on him. It seemed I was on the dash from my end of the spectrum.

The next day at work I wrote up a template for the Counter Homily Initiative and began my research. Since they were not in the bulletin, it would only be a matter now of looking up the e-mail addressees on the Internet and then I could begin. I went over to the parish site and found no luck. Then I pulled on over to the archdiocese site and was expecting to find a list of priests for the archdiocese, but there was no such thing. After much searching (even leading to the Vatican site) I gave up. How can you contact people who don�t want to be found? Given the recent scandals, I can see how priests may be guarded about their information, but if they maintain a fortress mentality, how can they effectively �pastor their flock?� It seems I’m not the only one on the dash after all.

Phillip (lover of horses) G.