Some things in life you should know as a rule. Don't eat yellow snow; keep your enemies close; and always pay your credit card bill on time. But the golden rule, especially in this informational-available age we live in, is also my favorite; Never (and I mean NEVER) piss off a writer. Especially not a blog-writer.
Such as myself.
Because I have faithful readers, because my blog is now found in Google, Yahoo and about 15 other blog directories. Because I also happen to be a closeted asshole. I want to thank Molly Glen and Raphael Diaz of Bed Stuy, New York for making my last days in a hell-hole apartment so unbelievably horrendous and disturbing.
This, is the story of the Hell-Sent Room Mates.
I met Molly in a women's lit class back home in Hayward, Ca. We became casual friends, going shopping together occasionally and meeting up for coffee. She was cool, laid back and artsy. The kind of friend you like to have because their vices out way their better judgement. It made her human, and therefore very likable.
Once D and I had entered into the last stages of breaking up, and I assumed our relationship was dead and buried I agreed to move to New York with her. She had already moved in August of 06 and I was planning on coming up in March of 07. After emailing back and forth with Craig's list apartment links and figuring out deposit amounts we agreed on a place in Bed Stuy. She claimed it was fabulous, in a not-so-hot location but none the less a steal. I thought that since she was a uppity chick from Fremont, her taste in apartments would be that of a higher standard. My first mistake.
The apartment was cramped, oddly laid out and directly next to an overgrown mouse field. It was tucked away between Fulton and Marcy st. Aside from the fact that it was located near an express train, groceries and shopping I was less then thrilled to say the least. Still, my excitement of being in New York surpassed my doubts about the apartment.
April came and so did Ralphy. Her Cuban-American boyfriend who had a selectively "black" vocabulary (meaning he called people "nigga" when he was in the mood, prompting me to give him my Martin Luther King speech). It was agreed he would "stay" with us, put in on bills and rent but not be added to the lease. I saw him as a silent partner. Only Ralphy rarely stayed silent at all.
The first altercation came in June, when the Verizon bill came. I walked into the apartment with mail in my hand staring down at the open bill. "The cable bill and stuff came." I recall saying. No one looked up or acknowledged I had spoken. "I'm going to call and make sure this is the right amount, but I think they're still charging us for the deposit, it was supposed to be prorated." Again, nothing except a casual, "Ok" from anyone. I went on about mine.
A few weeks later, I came home from work, and before I had even had a chance to put my things down, or pee Ralphy (who, being unemployed, was still in boxers and a tee and lounging on the couch watching TV) asked to see the Verizon bill. I grabbed it from my check book (since I had already paid it) and handed it to him. He mumbled through his thick (ugly) mustache and dragged his finger tip down the page surveying the charges. "Hmmm. See I don't even use the house phone." He began, "So I don't think Molly and I should pay for it." I started to protest, but he started talking again, "So I think we should split the cable, you pay the phone and we'll pay the Internet." I looked at the bill again. Funny. That little arrangement ended me with the bulk of the bill. "Um. I don't know about that, we are supposed to go in 1/3 each on everything." Ralphy started talking some more and my bladder was day dreaming of relief. "We'll figure it out when Molly gets home." I said, and retreated to my room to change my clothes.
Molly never came home. We never spoke about it. No one said shit.
The next day I called them both with no answer. So I sent a text with their portions of the Verizon bill (which I believe was around $60 each). Molly, who conveniently ignores any calls, messages or texts regarding money or apartment business, never responded. But Ralphy, ever the verbal molester, responded quickly. His basic point, "I'm not paying shit." To which I ultimately replied, "I'll simply take it out of my rent."
And thus the war began.
After having Cynthia, Molly's passive-aggressive mother, call me to ask why'd I'd canceled my rent check, and then accuse me of having no integrity; arguing with Molly who quickly retreated to her bedroom after stating in a whiny childish voice, "I'm pissed off" and battling Ralphy over the measly $60 difference that they refused to fork up, I canceled the cable (as requested) and took out an additional $200 for the cancel fee from my portion of the rent leaving me with a total of $115 to give Molly in cash. She was confused (simple math, she told me is her down fall). Ralphy was pissed. And Cynthia was enraged. I was not even slightly amused by the drama.
Needless to say, I made it clear that I would be moving out as soon as possible, and no later than September 30th.
Communication from June to present day became null. If ever a money issue came up that could easily be resolved with 10 minutes of civilized conversation, Molly would hide behind Ralphy and insist that she had nothing to do with anything. Ralphy would say nothing loudly. I would state the facts and make it known that I would NOT loose any money over their ignorance. We ignored each other completely unless it was necessary to speak (i.e. "can you lock the door when I leave", "someone is at the door for you")
Then, my sister came to visit. And the towel incident happened.
Bri and I came home from a hearty evening of hanging out, returning to the hell-hole close to 4am. Molly appeared out of the bathroom, before we even had a chance to take a breath (they like to catch you before you have a chance to sit down). She was huffing and puffing and she looked at me and said, "Did one of you steal my towel?"
Pause. STEAL?? Really? Like that's my ploy for additional income. To steal used, dirty towels from my bathroom and sell them on eBay? Or perhaps I'm so obsessed with her that I keep her towels in my Molly-shrine. Or maybe her racist, schizo ass just assumes that every negro steals. Either way, I was bitter at the jump.
We had concluded that Molly had picked up the look-a-like towel in the bathroom and washed it then replaced it back on the door. The towel was actually mine and I had given it to Bri to use for the week. So when Bri used it that morning and hung it in my room, Molly assumed that the TOWEL BANDIT has stolen her (and by "her" I mean MY) towel. But this was all realized after Molly had a complete tantrum, yelled at my sister and stormed out (as usual) slamming the bathroom door behind her. I was livid.
I announced to her and her ragegy muff-head boyfriend, before slamming the door in her face when she came to fake-apologize, that no one would ever take that tone with my older sister, and that she should make sure and not speak to either of us for the remainder of my her visit.
Fast forward to NOW.
Ring, ring....
"Hello?"
"Hi Molly, this is Ashley. I wanted to go over a few things for my move. First, I told Solomon that I would be out this weekend, but it looks like my new place won't be ready till Tuesday night. If you have no problems with it, I'd like to leave my stuff in my room and move out Tuesday at 6pm."
"Sure, that's fine."
"Also, what out of the things we collectively bought for the apartment did you want to keep?"
"Well you can just have the dishes and stuff since I think you bought those. As for the wine glasses my mom gave me and stuff I was just going to keep that."
*At the time, I wondered why she would think to say that. Why would I take something her mother gave her? Why would she think to state something so obvious?
I came home Monday night with the intention of getting started on packing to be ready to go Tuesday night. I waltzed into my building, and took out my key to the front door. But for some reason my key wouldn't fit. Maybe I had the wrong key. I looked again. Nope, right key...WRONG LOCK.
That's right folks, the towel-hoarding, racist, money-grubbing wackos had CHANGED THE LOCKS. With my things inside.
I was speechless. I called Molly. No answer. After the 13th attempt she picked up and hung up. Tried Ralphy, nothing. Texted. Nothing. Finally, I called our landlord and he said that he was asked by Molly to change the locks.
Wow.
So I went ahead and took the train to my new apartment, as I had to meet my new landlord at 7:30 promptly. When I came back, no one was at the old apartment still. Molly sent a message: "I'll be home at 9:30 pm tomorrow through Thursday for you to pack and move."
WHO THE FUCK MOVES AT 9:30 AT NIGHT?? WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU AGREE TO ONE THING AND THEN COMPLETELY CHANGE IT UP??
I called my landlord, he agreed that I should be able to sleep at the old apartment, get my things and leave without their interference. I called the police, and they officers where pissed off for me. I ended up taking Tuesday off, and moving that morning. I had to show up when I knew those two cunt-holes would be home before going to work. *I found out why Molly had made a big to-do about keeping what was hers, when after noticing that three of my pots/pans were missing and finding them in their bedroom hidden under a pile of crap. I had to dismantle the lock (and of course I made sure that upon leaving I left the door WIDE ASS OPEN just in case anyone in the building wanted to steal a Mac laptop or any number of ugly clothing they surely have)
Thank GOD I have good friends in Brooklyn, I couldn't have gotten through all this without Tia and Etienne. And of course D's support.
Update: I'm in the new place, and it's fab, pics are coming. If u see either of these monkey-face, fuck-tard cunts please feel free to spit or piss on them.
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