Boomerang

By a/k/a Simon
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If, after two years of this column, you readers walk away remembering only one bit of wisdom I’ve tried to pass on, let it be this: Never, never, check your mail on a Friday afternoon. Looking inside your mailbox on a Friday afternoon is like asking a girlfriend how many men she’s been with. You’re kinda curious to know the answer, but there’s a good chance it’s going to ruin your entire weekend.

Kill All The Lawyers
Bitches be tryin’ to put the screws to me. Okay, so regular readers know that I’m a deadbeat with no job, who can’t even afford to pay his rent on time. I was in court in the middle of March (I’m tempted to say ‘beware the Ides of March’, if only to keep the Shakespeare theme going) for my first attempt at avoiding eviction. I say first because my financial situation didn’t show any signs of improving, and I fully expected to wind up back in court again, trying to keep my pale ass off the streets. I just didn’t expect to be back so soon.

At the first trial they were attempting to collect three months’ unpaid rent. I tried my best to avoid acting indignant, because I knew if I were in their shoes I’d want my money too. Arguing the eviction then was mostly a plea for some compassion. I knew I would have the money, it was just a question of freelance paychecks arriving. The trial was a good way to buy myself some time. And it worked, or so I thought.

As detailed in the other column about my first time in court, the lawyers for my landlord attempted to include April’s rent in the payment schedule. If the judge had approved the schedule and I didn’t meet all the dates, I’d be booted out without the right to argue otherwise. But the judge was looking out for me and told the lawyers that she wouldn’t sign off as long as April’s rent was included, because it was still March at the time and she would only issue an order for things that were past due. So the document was altered, listing the three required payment dates to clear up the debt, and specifically saying that the stipulation didn’t include April. As long as I made the dates I was out of the woods, right?

Last Friday I made the cardinal mistake that I mentioned at the beginning of this column. Watts had come to pick me up. We were supposed to meet up with Moby and some other friends for a big gay night of big gay dancing. Stupid fool that I am, I open the mailbox on my way out the lobby and find a letter from the marshal, inside, a nice pink eviction notice. Rather than the two or three weeks given the last time, this one was much more severe. First of all, I only had six business days. Second, previous dealings didn’t involve a marshal, so I knew we were getting hardcore. It was Friday night and there was nothing I could do. The last thing on my mind was dancing.

So I moped at Watts’s place Friday night, downing a whole pizza and a liter of orange soda. The next day I went home and moped the rest of the weekend from my couch. Monday I did my final leg of moping, before getting off my rear on Tuesday and heading out to the Civil Court. I went through my files and stopped at the bank, getting proof by way of cashed checks that all three payment dates were met. At this point I should mention that I’m late with April’s rent. I knew it was going to happen. Thanks to the court order I had to come up with over three grand in three weeks. That’s quite a pile of wampum to acquire in such a short time. There really was no way I was going to get April paid by the tenth. So I think what the lawyers did was tell the court that I didn’t make one of the payments. They tried to slip the April rent in despite it specifically saying on the stipulation agreement they couldn’t do that. Basically, they lied. Yeah, hard to believe from someone like a lawyer.

At the court I filed for an Order to Show Cause. The guy handing me the forms was too concerned with the woman at the next window bitching about squatters to give me his full attention. Because copies of the cashed checks weren’t included with the form, my first petition for an OSC was denied. I was told to fill it out again and, this time, include the proof that I paid. By a wonderful stroke of luck, this all happened just before the court closed, so, joy of joy, I got to come all the way back Wednesday morning to see if my second petition was approved. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night.

Short story long, the second petition was approved. I spent the rest of Wednesday trekking out to Corona, Queens, which is about as tasty as the beer when you don’t add the lime, to serve a copy of the OSC to the Marshal. Then I spent some time at the dingiest post office I’ve maybe ever seen, sending another copy of the OSC to my landlord’s slimy lawyers. I wonder if they’ll be surprised that I challenged their outright disregard for a judge’s order.

Now, I don’t want to seem like too much of a prick here. I know that, overall, I’m in the wrong. I should be paying my rent when the lease I agreed to says so. And when they try to evict me because I can’t hold up my end of the agreement, I can’t really be too disgruntled if it becomes a hassle to keep a roof over my head. Still, shady tricks like this rub me the wrong way. In the past, when I was late with the rent, they’d tack on an extra fifty bucks as a late fee. Under the circumstances I wouldn’t bitch about having to pay it. But to try and sneak around the word of a judge and flat out have me evicted seems a bit harsh. I’ll have the money by the court date next Wednesday, but I’m going to have to wait until my tax returns arrive before I can pay May’s rent. That means it will probably be late. Makes me wonder if I’m going to be going through the same bullshit this time next month. Place your bets.

OK, Maybe Not AllThe Lawyers
We can keep one around, at least for the next six months or so. That one lawyer would be my new favorite person in the world, my bankruptcy lawyer. Yup, I’ve sunk so low that there doesn’t seem to be a way out. With each of four credit cards calling me at least twice a day, a cumulative debt just under $35,000, being in court every few weeks to stop eviction, and reaching seven months of unemployment, I decided it had to be done. Despite it being counter to so many things I believe, I’ve begun the process that will have my entire debt wiped free.

Watts first mentioned the idea to me a couple months ago. I haven’t paid my credit card bills since November. At first I figured they’d grant me a little leeway, since historically I’ve always sent the money on time, and my large balances make for some wonderful monthly finance charges. And they did. They would call every so often and we’d have a short conversation. They’d suggest payment options or some such. But once chances of the first book being published anytime soon tanked and my search for a job didn’t pan out, I knew I was going to be in trouble.

For a while now, if you called my apartment, you would only get the answering machine, the message saying, "I’m either out, asleep, or screening my calls. Guess which one." Friends learned to talk for a little bit before hanging up, to see if I was actually home (hint: I usually was, proofreading awful Terry Brooks manuscripts or watching Insomniac with Dave Attel).

Living in denial, I kept telling myself that my second book would get sold someday and then I could just hand the credit card companies a wad of cash and make them happy. But by the sixth month of non-payment my credit rating was completely shot. I had letters coming to the apartment telling me to just cut up my cards now, because I wasn't going to be able to use them anyway. I felt like the dad in Say Anything. Even with some new developments on the book front, signing any deal is still months and months away. I’d be in an orange jumpsuit trading stock tips with Bowski by then. With a mountain of debt, no way to pay it, and an obliterated credit rating, there really was no other alternative but to declare bankruptcy.

The problem with bankruptcy is that it’s a double-edged sword, at least from my perspective. I’ve never been all that fond of government assistance. You could probably trace it back to the welfare kids in my elementary school having all the better Transformers than me. I mean, come on, my friend Adam from the projects has Omega Supreme, Ultra Magnus, and Tripticon, while I’m stuck pushing around Bumblebee? I don’t even like Volkswagens!

Back to the point. Bankruptcy is a like a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders. With the exception of a couple of stupid gifts along the way, the majority of my credit was used up on practical things like food, clothes, school supplies and moving. Sure, there were a few CDs along the way, but for the most part I live a pretty frugal life. The food was a lot of cheap takeout and generic cereal, not prime rib. Clothes came from H&M or Target, not quite high fashion. To the dismay of several of my teachers, I always opted for the least expensive paints and brushes I could find. And moving was a matter of life or death. So it’s not like I’ve been out living the high life all these years. But, just like they warn you, credit cards are a slippery slope. Eventually my minimum monthly payments got so large that all my cash went to covering them, forcing me to put more on the cards if I wanted to do something as simple as see a damn movie. For the last three years I’ve been the brokest person I know. And the only solution, the inevitable solution, was bankruptcy.

At the same time, bankruptcy is admitting defeat. It’s asking for a hand out. As someone who values his independence, I’m really uncomfortable with admitting that the problem has gotten out of control, that I’m powerless to fix it of my own accord. But it has. And it’s not like I’m not the first person to have to do this. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a loser for passing my debt off to the government. It makes me no better than the welfare mom that bought her kid Omega Supreme. Still, I just heard about Bush’s new tax cut plan, and it makes me not feel so bad about sticking it to the government just this once. I always did think Tripticon was kind of cool.

From The Monkey House
a/k/a Simon
Tabula Rasa, baby

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