![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
illusionofjoyI find myself sitting on the sofa, tapping at the keyboard of my laptop PC. My daughters are in the play area. The younger one, Amélie, is contemplating the intricacies of a child-size foam chair. Her older sister, Madeline, is running around the room in tiny circles. Their mother, who may or may not have deeper insight into these behaviours, is at work today. She wouldn’t usually be working on a Wednesday, but we are attempting to shore up our household finances.
It has been a long time since I’ve felt like I didn’t have a vacuum cleaner hose stuffed into the same pants pocket occupied by my wallet. As soon as I put a bit of money in – whoosh – it gets sucked right back out again. I don’t know what type of motor this metaphorical vacuum cleaner has, but I can only wish to find one as effective as sucking dirt out of the carpet. I’d never have to worry about the girls eating anything off of the floor ever again.
Dirty or not, the floor in question is most definitely mine.
It had been a long time coming, but it was mid-May of 2013 when I officially freed myself and my family from the tyranny of landlords. Frankly, my track record of satisfaction with “investment property entrepreneurs” hovers right around 50%. When I first moved to the Pittsburgh area in Winter 2003, I lived in an efficiency in a high-rise owned by the Barcic Brothers. No complaints there – I paid the rent, if anything broke they fixed it and I was refunded my full deposit when I moved out.
Steiner Realty, on the other hand, were not good landlords. From the Summer of 2005 through mid 2008, they took every month's rent and made sure nothing got fixed if broken, going so far as to blame us for recurring problems. When items started going missing from the apartment, that was when myself and my then girlfriend decided to move out. We weren't refunded our final month's deposit, but – expecting not to receive a refund – had already pressed the issue by putting it in writing to use the security deposit for the final month's rent instead. They still tried to charge us a $40 "cleaning fee," a bill to this day neither one of us has paid.
We moved to a place owned by Meyer's Management nearby. As landlords, we had nothing to complain about. The apartment was well-maintained and we were allowed to live our lives without constant interruption from the property owners. It was the other residents who eventually become the problem. Still, the decision to move out was made after my then girlfriend and I ended our relationship and I made the (now regrettable) decision to move into a house owned by my then new girlfriend.
Much of 2010 was when I lived in what I now derisively call "the flop house." Unless you are a needy "kid," I can not recommend the proprietor of "the flop house" as a landlord.
And this brings us to the property located at 3011-3013 Pioneer Avenue, owned by Angela and Spyridon Vasilatos, where my family lived from December 2010 until May 2013. Unless you fancy renting from a pair of slimy cheapskates and con-artists, I don't recommend doing business with this couple. Upon discovering that True and I were in the market to purchase a house, they first tried to sell us the property we were currently occupying. Being that we knew it was a white elephant needing numerous repairs suffering from years of neglect and miles of duct tape, we declined. Their treatment of us as tenants after that decayed in proportion to the number of days we were away from closing on a house we actually did make an offer on.
I'd already had it in my head that the Pioneer Avenue Elephant would be my last time renting and that when (not if) I moved out of there, that move would be my last. Originally, I had not expected to get into the housing market until 2015, but dissatisfaction with the living arrangement in the Elephant – particularly having strangers traipsing through our living area as the landlords tried to find a sucker to sell it to – had True and I searching for ways to move the time table up.
Traditionally, one is expected to have a 10-20% down payment in order to qualify for homeowner financing. It was with these numbers in my head that I had come up with the five-year figure. However, True had been looking into alternate programs and we found that if we applied for an FHA loan, that would only require a 3% down payment. I'd have the means to make a down payment on a home loan with only the amount I receive from one tax refund!
Armed with this information (and my tax refund), True and I set off house-hunting. The market in Pittsburgh's Brookline neighbourhood has been on the upswing, so we were nervous that we wouldn't be able to find a place where we wanted to live that wouldn't already be snatched up before we even had a chance at it. Of the four houses we initially submitted to a realtor to tour, we saw two – the remaining two had already been taken off of the market. True and I did visit four houses in one weekend, however, and the one we decided to make an offer on wasn't even on our original list.
A good realtor can anticipate the needs and desires of their client(s). I have nothing but praise for Tiffany McKenzie, who was our agent during our home search. She is knowledgeable, professional and friendly. If you wish to buy a house in Pittsburgh's South Hills (or really anywhere in the metro area), I recommend her.
True and I toured houses in the late morning and early afternoon. By that evening, we'd made an offer on one and said offer was accepted almost immediately. It wouldn't be until I was signing my closing papers that I'd discover that, had we hesitated even for a day, we probably wouldn't have gotten this house. Another prospective buyer had toured the property the day prior and had decided the day after we'd made our offer to make an offer of their own. By then it was too late – True and I were well on our way towards transitioning from renters to owners.
On their own, purchasing a home and moving are considered two of life's most stressful events. Since the former is almost always coupled with the latter, the stress level is multiplied. One of the last thing anyone needs thrown into this mix is crooked landlords. Unfortunately, True and I were not so lucky.
Either by design or neglect, our landlords had allowed our lease to lapse into a month-to-month agreement. In the state of Pennsylvania, leases are signed for a set amount of time. If neither landlord nor tenant renew the lease and no one asks that or gives notice that they intend to vacate the premises, the terms of the now expired lease continue on what is called a "month to month" basis. This means that either landlord or tenant can give notice to vacate the property in up to thirty days. This is advantageous for a renter who is house-hunting because they are free from the worry of assessing penalties for breaking a lease. Knowing full well that True and I were house-hunting, I received a call from Angela Vasilatos about a week before we made our offer; she wanted us to sign a new lease – one which would lock us in for six months and which included a hefty rent hike of 10% over what we were currently paying.
The lease had been expired for nearly two months. I found the timing too convenient. Also interesting was that when we received the lease to sign, half of my initial deposit had magically become "non-refundable." As soon as I'd written out a handmoney cheque for the house we’d made the offer on, I gave the landlords a call to tell them our closing date and that they'd be receiving a letter stating the same along with our intent to vacate at the end of the month – May 31st. Dissatisfied with this turn of events, Angela Vasilatos called True and stated that she wanted us out of the apartment on May 10th, a full four days before we were due to close.
Meanwhile, a snag popped up on the financing front. While I'd been steadily employed for a year at that point, it seemed that the underwriter reviewing my case was hesitant about my work status. True, uncharacteristically pessimistic was all but convinced that this meant we'd lost our chance at the house and would have to beg our (now detested) landlords to allow us to stay in the Elephant. I refused to be deterred – there was nothing in the FHA regulations regarding my job status which should be preventing me from getting financing for a home. Any steady employment guarantee was so much vapour anyhow, especially in an "at-will" state like Pennsylvania. Thankfully, the loan officer at the realty company came up with a plan to work around this in the form of assurance letters which were graciously signed off on by my employers. In just a handful of days before our closing date, things were back on track.
True and I decided that if the landlords wanted to play hardball, we were going to squat in the apartment until we were damn good and ready to leave it. Rent for the month of May had been paid in full, meaning that legally we had the right as tenants to occupy the space until 11:59PM on the final day of the month. The landlords had already had people coming through to look at the place to rent (giving up on selling the place about two days after True and I told them we'd be moving out); they were apparently under the delusion that we were going to pay a full month's rent just to vacate prematurely so they could "polish the turd" and collect rent from the next tenant without any interruption between months.
Tuesday, May 14th, 2013: I sign a large stack of paperwork and receive a house key. I no longer have to search for apartments to rent or worry that I am giving my money to a crooked landlord. I am now living that American dream of home ownership. Of course, it is said that buying a house is no way to save money – and it is true. However, I take some comfort in knowing that if something breaks and doesn't get repaired it is because I am too broke to fix it, not because I am at the mercy of some cheapskate who doesn't want to cut into his profit margin to fix it.
After closing, True and I wasted no time in calling movers to haul our stuff out of what would be our final apartment. The conversation went something like this: "when is the earliest you can schedule a move?" I was given a date and I took it. True and I had already been in the process of packing for quite a while. With the apartment emptied out, we swept it up and did some basic cleaning before taking a photograph of every room in the unit from several angles. Three days before the close of the month, I wrote a letter to Angela and Spyridon Vasilatos saying that the property had been vacated and providing them with a forwarding address to send a cheque refunding the deposit. I dropped this in a package with the keys to the apartment and sent it via certified mail.
True and I had no delusions about the likelihood of getting our deposit back. However, I was already laying the groundwork for filing a small-claims civil suit against Angela and Spyridon Vasilatos. I was expecting one of two things to happen:
- Likely: I would receive a reply stating that I was not getting my deposit refunded which would include a list of alleged damages.
- Less likely: I would not receive any correspondence within the legally required thirty days. This would leave me legally entitled to collect double my initial deposit if I chose to pursue the matter
I won't lie: I was hoping for the second scenario. What actually happened was unexpected, but in hindsight I should have seen it coming. Nearly three weeks after I mailed back the keys and a forwarding address, I received a reply from the Vasilatoses: as expected, they had no intention of refunding the deposit (which they'd miscalculated at half the amount I'd actually paid). However, they went on to claim nearly $2,000 in damages above their calculation of what my deposit would cover. I was told to write out a cheque and send it in. Instead, I went to my neighbourhood magistrate's office and filled out a form to file a small-claims civil suit against my now former landlords to get my deposit back.
The day my complaint was to be heard I dressed in a suit – appropriate attire to show respect for the court and the judge. I held in my hands a packet which included correspondence between myself and the landlords as well as photos of the property and a chart referencing the perspective that each photo had been taken from. It was my "defense packet," even though I was technically the plaintiff in the case. I sat in the lobby of the court building bright and early. One advantage I had was that the Vasilatoses had neglected to file a counter-suit against me. Quite simply this meant that even if I lost my case, they weren't entitled to collect any damages beyond holding onto the security deposit. As such, I would be out that money plus the filing fee for my claim, but that would be the end of it. In that they'd get no further money from me it would be a victory, albeit a minimal one.
Angela and Spyridon arrived in the lobby dressed like bums. They aimed to play poor and put-upon. Unfortunately, the ruse seemed to work. Despite not having any evidence of the damages (in the form of "before" photos or receipts for repair work), despite having a signed lease with the words "non-refundable" scribbled in the margin and despite showing blatant disrespect for the judge several times throughout the proceedings (the magistrate went so far as to tell Spyridon that he would have the bailiff remove him if he spoke out of turn one more time), the magistrate ruled in their favour. I wasn't particularly pleased with the decision; however I had my minimal victory. No more of my hard-earned money would go into their greedy pockets. And maybe, just maybe they got a clear message that screwing over tenants is not such a good idea (though I doubt it).
Better things happened in July of 2013 than my failure to recover money from greedhound landlords: Amélie turned one year old. My mother came down to visit for the event which was also attended by a few family friends and we all watched as my youngest continued to march into toddlerhood. Unlike her sister at the same age, who smeared cake all over her face and into her hair, Amélie managed to get most of it into her mouth.
Speaking of her older sister, Madeline, she had her third birthday in December. My adorable little babies are turning into obnoxious children. I'm hoping that my influence can minimise the obnoxiousness though…or at least channel it into something constructive.
December 2013 was more stressful than it should have been. For most of the year I've been having car trouble – the majority of which have had to do with the brakes (and one incident – during our move, no less – where I got a nail in my tyre). I brought the car in for it's annual inspection in February at which point a full brake job was done on it. Two months later, I brought it back to the mechanic because it sounded like one of the brakes wasn't releasing when I took my foot off the pedal. They did some adjustments and sent me on my way. Three months after that I took the car back because the brakes were feeling soft. Another trip to the mechanic, more adjustments and away I went.
It was a week before Christmas when during my morning commute to work, I put my foot on the brake pedal and ended up sliding through a stop sign. Thinking I'd hit a patch of black ice, and thankful that I hadn’t literally hit anything else, I continued on…slowly. It wasn't until the evening that it became obvious that something was really wrong with the car. True and the girls were riding with me out to the suburbs so she could pick up some last-minute things for the holidays. I was on the freeway and I was having trouble keeping the car at 50MPH, to say nothing of getting it paced with the flow of traffic. As I took the exit to our destination, the car was pulling to the right and the braking felt soft. I pulled into a parking lot, where braking into a space rewarded me with a horrible squealing noise and burning smell. I called AAA and had it towed back to my mechanic.
This happened on a Thursday night. The mechanic didn't look at the car until Monday, at which point I was told that they couldn't find anything wrong with it. After another drive where it felt like my parking brake was engaged, I took it to another mechanic. One complete brake job later and things seem to be working again.
Still, I'm annoyed that there was a persistent problem with the car which should have been caught and fixed and wasn't for the better part of a year. I can't afford to just get a new car nor can I afford an accident due to negligence regarding vehicular safety outside of my control! Hopefully the issue is resolved for good.
One issue involving the car that I'd like to resolve is how often I load it with my musical equipment to go perform somewhere. I played two shows in 2013 – good shows mind you, I'd play both again – but still, even by my record of comparatively infrequent performances, a mere two is…sad.
One of the things which appealed to me about the house for which I now pay a mortgage is that it has a large finished basement. I figured that said basement would make a perfect rehearsal and recording space. Indeed, aside from a few small issues (namely involving a need to acoustically seal off the furnace and laundry rooms) the space is perfect for rehearsing and recording. Once I get it to a state of – or as close to – perfection as I can, I’m actually considering opening it up for others to record in. I could fit a four-piece band in the space if the need arose!
In any case, I try to forgive or rationalise my lack of live performances…I was buying a house, I was taking former landlords to court, my car kept giving me trouble, my current job doesn’t have discretionary paid time off…and so on and so forth. While these are legitimate reasons I actually feel bad about not working harder at something I consider fun. “Figure out how to get people to pay you for a job you enjoy doing and you’ll never have to work a day in your life,” I’ve heard it said. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not a socialist because of some great moral revelation but because I know that capitalism is a lie and I’m so very bad at lying.
One thing which I’ve had percolating for Illusion of Joy’s future is to take a look back at the past. As it stands, No One Expects An Inquisition is the only album I currently have in print. I aim to rectify this situation. This, of course, means reissuing all of my past releases independently to bring them into the same light as my most recent CD. I’ll likely end up doing this over the course of several years, and it looks like I’ll be starting with Division since it is not only my best-selling release online but 2014 will mark it’s ten-year anniversary.
I’m not sure how I’ll feel listening to my old songs as I drag them out of the archives kicking and screaming. I’m quite certain that my newer stuff is greatly improved in comparison from where I started. I do feel strongly that simply leaving the archives out of print or, worse, re-recording and re-writing them entirely is a cop-out. If I’m to commit, I’m going in warts and all.
A few months back I decided to torment the open mic audience at Cannon Coffee with a song I hadn’t performed in around a decade. Back when I was a regular at Hurley’s (weekly, as a student, not the once a year gig I enjoy now) I performed a song entitled “Billie Jo,” which I had written in response to the unrequited infatuation I had with the eponymous character of the title. She was righteously pissed off that I’d written a song about her, but the open mic audience at Hurley’s loved it.
When I think of how and what I write about now and what I wrote about when I was in my late teens and early twenties, I can’t help but make a sobering comparison. “Billie Jo” was hardly a unique subject in my repertoire – like any hormone-addled teenage boy who thought he might become a rock star, I wrote about how girls didn’t like me. They say to write about what you know, right? The most recent song of mine made for public consumption, “One Step Forward,” by contrast was inspired by my ex’s miscarriage.
I’d love to tell my daughters that life becomes easier, less complicated as they get older. That is something I can’t in good conscience do.
After I’d finished performing “Billie Jo” at Cannon, I was asked if what I had just sung was made up or a true story. “A bit of both,” I replied.
Tomorrow morning I’ll be going back to work. This evening I expect to whittle away in a period of reluctant adjustment from the hyper-packed holiday season which makes up December. Tomorrow they may or may not be a massive snowstorm assaulting Pittsburgh and other cities in the Mid-Atlantic region. The weather forecaster seem confidant that 2014 will open with snowmageddeon. I not so secretly hope that they are lying.
2013 was a hell of a year, filled with all sorts of personal excitement. I doubt that the twists and turns will cease in 2014. Let’s get on with this.
