So, my advice to you, fellow travelers (besides the obvious, which would be: don’t be in the apartment-renting market): if you’re considering renting an apartment at the Villages at Turtle Rock, don’t.
Back story: I have a singular gift for living in proximity to uncannily adroit Linda Blair impersonators masquerading as children (when I’m not rooming with prostitutes, drug addicts, and performatively sadomasochistic couples, that is, oh San Francisco, how I miss you). House, apartment complex, it doesn’t matter. This follows me from state to state. I’m not talking about boisterous, high-spirited children. I’m talking about head-spinning, crab-walking, green-projectile-spewing, The Sow-Is-Mining action here. I realize this is an apartment complex and not a mausoleum (now ask me which would be preferable to live in). I realize I have neighbors and I’m going to hear them. But you tell me, comrades, how would you like to try to decompress or get anything accomplished in an apartment directly across from ol’ Ponzuzu? Do you know what your #@&!ing daughter did? And all of that. Not the ideal soundtrack to one’s home life, I’m sure you can agree.
Historically I have internalized my anger at these (and other) situations, which has culminated in inner turmoil instead of anger appropriately directed at its source and corresponding action. This situation has forced this issue for me and impelled me toward the realization that I have historically mistaken being acutely aware of possessing intense levels of anger for having ownership over this and proactively advocating for myself. This is a loaded topic, replete with The Implications of Female Socialization, among other things, but since this isn’t Gender Studies 101 or Therapy Hour, I shall spare you, long-suffering readership, especially since some of you have already had the distinct pleasure of hearing me go on and on about this directly.
So, last Friday when I was having the Stupidest Day Ever, and little Linda across the way started up in the hallway again, after her dear parents had spent, I swear to God, the last five minutes ritualistically slamming their door over and over and screaming over her, I poked my head outside and asked if everything was all right.
“It’s fine,” they said, “She’s just screaming.”
Thanks, Ace. I had deduced that much for myself.
Realizing the raw material I was working with here, I understood that I had two choices: call a priest or talk to the leasing office. Since I was never very good at being a Catholic, I opted for the latter. I spoke with the property manager, who did a good job of hearing me out respectfully, empathizing, and nodding sympathetically, all of that. At the time I wanted to transfer units, because once a Ponzuzu, always a Ponzuzu, and Mom and Dad are fine with that and it clearly runs in the family. I chatted with a leasing consultant about my transferring options and felt much better about the whole thing. Until I got home and the catharsis had run its course and I realized there were a lot of unaccounted-for variables that I needed to answer for: whether my pet deposit was transferrable, whether I’d have to put down a security deposit for the new apartment (I didn’t for this little hell hole, as part of a move-in special), whether I’d have to move in on December 23 exactly (when the new place became available), or if I could postpone this due to holiday travel, et cetera.
I wrote an email. This email—the one addressed to the email address on their business cards—went unanswered, which didn’t surprise me, as previous emails regarding previous issues had met with the same fate. This didn’t actually bother me, because I’d written it later that Friday, after business hours. Upon further consideration, I changed my mind about transferring, since, given that my lease is nearly half-over, it’s not worth the upheaval and additional expense this might incur, especially when my time and money could be better spent investing next time in a situation the doesn’t so closely resemble hell.
So I wrote another email to cancel the transfer and request that they ask the tenants across the way to behave reasonably and appropriately in the hallway. This was on Sunday; the leasing office is open on Sunday afternoons. Nevertheless, I realize I’m not the only person who lives here, and other people have issues that also need to be dealt with, so when a response was not forthcoming, I gave it time.
I gave it time until this morning when I called the office to confirm it was understood that I’d decided not to go through with the transfer. I also wanted to confirm that I had their correct email address, since my attempts at email communication with them have been unsuccessful.
Back story: going down to the office and trying to talk with them directly tends to be a royal pain in the ass, since they are either elsewhere, or busy trying to cram new victims into their various units. I understand this situation, and it wouldn’t be a problem if they answered their damn emails, but…
The man who answered the phone indicated that he’d gotten my email, and that the transfer had been cancelled.
I indicated that I’d wanted to confirm that I had the right email address since I’d never heard back.
He indicated that he hadn’t seen anything to respond to, which I must admit floored me because a.) surely it’s somewhat self-evident that a tenant has an interest in confirming their unit won’t come up as available in December when they’ve decided to not to move and b.) surely it’s somewhat self-evident that acknowledging an email that requests the cancellation of an action to be taken by the leasing office is basic professionalism and courtesy.
I politely mentioned that, although I didn’t anticipate writing the office volumes of correspondence, it would be helpful for them to acknowledge receipt of the emails I did send, because otherwise I couldn’t be sure if they were being read or just sent into the ether. He told me he’d have tracked me down about the transfer if I hadn’t cancelled it, but I’m not a magic eight ball—how would I know that, especially with the poor precedent the office had set with previous emails?
The conversation ended with him saying something to the effect that they could do this for me, but frankly, this was accompanied by about ten tons of attitude, which sucked because a.) I’ve worked in customer service and I understand what this can do to you, which is why I try to be as low maintenance as possible in these situations, generally at my own expense b.) answering the damn email—which could have been accomplished in one or two sentences—would have spared me the phone call, and saved everyone’s time and c.) it’s basic professionalism and courtesy.
My dad used to say that you could argue with someone about the relative distance of the moon, but there was no point arguing with someone who insisted it was made of green cheese. Living here has been like bunkering down deep in the moon cheese camp—with both the neighbors and the leasing office. And while I’m not glad to be going through this, I think I’ll be grateful to have gone through it, after it’s over, because it’s forcing me to advocate for myself, and overcome my dread of conflict and being the Evil Bitch of the World (I hate that this affects me as much as it does). Even though I’m not necessarily getting the results I want, I think this is all a good, necessary exercise.
The moral of this exceedingly long post:
Don’t live at the Villages at Turtle Rock. They care about you until, surprise, surprise, they have your money and a legally binding contract. I’ve worked for a property management company before; I know they are evil, and this one is no exception.
Do stick up for yourself, but don’t argue with the moon cheese camp. It’s a waste of time. This is when you start exploring your other options.
When in doubt, The Exorcist unfailingly serves as an excellent metaphor for what ails you.
Word Count as of Today: 11,597.
How Not to Write Your Novel: have Apartment Drama and obsessively document this instead.
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