Tenant Blues

Hostile tenants can turn the act of listing a house into a dangerous proposition for Realtors. We try to stay out of landlord-tenant problems, but sometimes get pulled in.

“The guy’s a dirtbag,” said the owner of this house I was hoping to list. “He doesn’t pay rent, and the neighbors complain about loud music and parties.”

“You need to evict him,” I said.

“It’s in the works. I’ve sent him all the notices, but the jerk ignores ‘em. He’s one of those bums who’ll take it to the limit. Meanwhile, I’m 200 miles away, getting no rent.”

Against my better judgment, I went to the house. I wanted the listing and it wasn’t going to happen with that bad tenant in the way.

I heard Johnny Cash as I walked up the weather-beaten staircase. The ornate front door with an oval-shaped beveled-glass window and Victorian filigree trim-work had seen better times.

The music stopped after I banged on the door a few times. A big guy answered. I was ready to run. He looked me over and rolled his eyes, apparently in reaction to my business attire.

“Come on in,” he said in a resigned tone. I followed carefully. He plopped onto an old sofa and grabbed a beautiful Gibson Hummingbird guitar.

“So you’re what, the rent collector or something?” He strummed an E chord.

“No, I’m a Realtor. The owner is talking about selling.”

“Yeah, well he can do whatever he wants,” he said. “I’m outta here this weekend. I got a job in L.A. starting next week. You can let the dear Landlord know I’ll be paying up on the rent.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “was that you playing Johnny Cash before I came in?”

He smiled and played the opening lick to Folsom Prison Blues. He sang like Johnny Cash. I harmonized with him over the lines, ‘If they freed me from this prison , If that railroad train was mine, I bet I’d move it on a little farther down the line, Far from Folsom Prison…….’

The guy smiled again. “You play?” I nodded. He pulled from under the sofa a Martin D-18 guitar.

We jammed and sang Doc Watson, Merle Haggard, and Hank Williams songs. A couple of his buddies showed up with beer and instruments and we jammed some more. We became great friends.

The next day I called the owner.

“Your tenant will be out this weekend,” I said.

“I doubt that,” he said. “I got complaints about loud music and partying again last night. The dirtbag!”