My Crosses to Bear

There seem to be several points of conflict that keep recurring in my life. I wonder why and what the struggle means. Today one of them appeared again which made me think about it.

1. Landlords. Can one person really have such bad luck with landlords? My first landlord was a typical East Village slumlord who was in a legal dispute with a group of tenants (including Allan Ginsberg) in the building. Their conflict with him was much more intense than mine, but I still remember some arguments. There was the Rochester landlord who "accidentally" touched my breast several times while petting Fatima when I was holding her and patted my butt while coming up the stairs from the basement. He's the same landlord who wanted to charge me to clean the cats' noseprints off the window when I moved out. Things were great for years with my 14th Street landlord until she decided to raise the rent 38% in one fell swoop. When I then pressed her to paint the apartment and she did a crappy job and I withheld some rent to finish painting it myself, things went downhill and she decided not to renew my lease. And who could forget my last situation in NYC where the landlord took J. and I to court to evict us for illegal subletting. That guy was also taking half the tenants in the building to court to try to get them to move out and jack up the rent. J's rent was $675 and the across the hall neighbor was paying $1,400 and because she was a foreigner, he made her pay the entire year upfront in cash.

I can't even remember when things went sour with the family who rents this place. It hit an apex last spring when one of the sons threw rocks at Che$ter, I threatened to kill his children, M. fought with him and I called the police. Since then, things have been great and my several interactions since returning had led me to believe we had turned over a new leaf. But today I went outside in the garden and said hello to the mother and asked if some chairs and trash that are in the garden area in front of my bedroom window could be moved. I had been tempted to move the stuff myself but thought it might be better to ask since we were on such chummy terms. La Señora replied (in Spanish) that the garden was hers, and not my concern, and I need to concern myself with my apartment, which is mine and not the garden which is hers. I stood there stunned for a minute. Was it possible that I had misinterpreted that? My eyes were wide, my jaw was slack, the wheels in my mind were spinning. How to respond? I simply smiled and walked inside.

What the fuck?! I'm still sort of shocked.

The other 2 major issues are taxi drivers and cockroaches but I think I've said enough for now.