Friday, February 12, 2010

The Security Deposit

As a tenant of the Academy House, I have to let Angie know if I'm going to have guests over. Especially if they are going to spend the night.

Putting aside the fact that I wouldn't try to squeeze a ferret into my room with me let alone another human, I thought this was odd.

"Utilities free," said Angie, who read my quandary. "They use shower and not have to pay."

There it is. Makes perfect sense to me. Who wouldn't want to share a shower with Crazy Eyes, who greets me in his boxers, dress socks and slippers?

Ah, but never fear, wayward guest.

"If they stay more than 10 nights, they must pay 20 dollar a night," Angie said.

Oh, Academy House. Who said you weren't a business.

This arrangement highlighted a rather odd exchange I had with Angie before signing my $400 security deposit.

Assuming I don't trash my room, insert joke here, I get my full deposit back, minus $40.

"What's that for?" I asked Angie.

"Carpets must be stinked," she replied.

I agreed, the carpets did stink, but I didn't see why that would cost $40. I mean, I've stunk up whole houses for less.

"Before you move in, your carpet get stinked," she said.

Thank heavens. What perspective tentant doesn't want to hear that their carpet will be stinked just before they move in?

Angie, once again, perceptive to my quizzical look made hand gestures.

"Stink your carpet," she said while making sort of a mopping motion.

Wait. I got it.

"Oh, STEAM my carpet," I said.

"Yes, yes, stink your carpet," Angie agreed.

The rest was pretty standard until we haggled over my ability to keep cats in my room.

"Rule say no pets," Angie opened the negotiations with.

"But they'd be small," I said. "You'd never know they were here if I didn't just tell you."

I had backed the old sage into a corner. She clearly didn't want to lose a tenant, but she's a slave to the rules.

"What kind of cat?" she asked.

"The small kind," I replied.

"Cats have claws and ruin apartment," she said.

"I will get claw covers for mine," I quipped. "They won't ruin anything."

"Cats stink," Angie said. And this time, she didn't mean "steam."

"Not mine," I shot back. "Mine won't smell at all."

"Mmmmmm," Angie mused out loud. "They make noise. Wake other tenants."

"Mine won't make a peep," I said.

And then it happened. Angie broke.

"OK, you have cats," Angie said. "But any tenants complain, and you don't have cats."

"Deal," I said.

"Write on contract," she said.

"Of course," I said and wrote in chicken scratch. "Cody Swann can have cats in his apartment, but if any tenants complain, he will give them to his parents."

Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

Things were looking up for me at the Academy House.

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