I came face-to-face with a rotund javelina a few nights ago. I think it might be one lonely female who wanders the trailer park nibbling on weeds. She moves slowly. I don't think I could call it a saunter, after getting a better look at her. I think she's moping. She is always alone, and javelina normally travel in packs. I think she's lost her family.
Her preferred weeds might soon be gone too. A man in boots carrying a two-gallon jug of some liquid I suspect I would not want to get on my hands came around a couple days ago. I am guessing it was a man. All I saw were hairy legs and large shoes.
I was sitting at the kitchen table in front of my laptop reading the online news in order to avoid preparing for my Zoom class when I heard a strange rhythmic groaning sound outside. Through the window blinds, I saw a pair of hairy legs and booted feet walking on the rocks between the trailers. Every few moments, the boots would stop. One human hand holding a spray wand would appear and shoot a clear liquid onto patches of green weeds that had enthusiastically emerged after the first rains. Every now and then, the other hand would appear and push a plunger into the jug to prime the pump on the sprayer. That priming motion was the source of the noise. After jamming the plunger a few times, the spray wand was ready to attack more little green weeds. I never saw the man's face; however, I noticed he was not wearing gloves. Or long pants. And it was mid-day, easily 105°F. Wouldn't want that guy's job.
A few days later, the green weeds are looking peaked, but that could be because we haven't had rain for a week or so. Or it could be because they were murdered with herbicide.
Speaking of murder, on Thursday, after two long months of wanting to strangle the leasing staff at the apartment that supposedly had approved me to rent, I finally signed the lease. A link to the lease agreement had arrived in my email inbox on Tuesday. The lease agreement email came from a no-reply email address, not a strong signifier of good faith. Luckily, another email arrived from an email address I could reply to, telling me about an option to get renters' insurance. I quickly saved that email address into my contacts list.
I went through the lease's many pages and addenda, jotting a list of my questions. The main problems I saw had to do with the lack of specificity about the unit I would be renting and how the electricity charges would be calculated. Signing a lease without knowing which unit I was renting seemed wildly risky, similar to packing everything you own in a minivan and driving 1,500 miles to an unfamiliar city. I certainly didn't want to rent one of the units that fronted on the busy street. I practiced deep breathing. I was ready to accept the possibility that these two months of waiting might have been for naught.
I called the leasing office and left a message. No response. I sent a message to the legitimate email address with my list of questions. No response.
Nevertheless, I persisted. I visited the property management company website to find contact information and sent a polite email. Their website touted their fantastic customer-centric service, and proclaimed their desire to build relationships with tenants and property owners (probably more with property owners than with tenants, but I admired their inclusivity). Welcome home, they said. You belong here! Right. They manage many properties throughout Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. I'm a marketing professional (sort of, sometimes). I know how it works.
Because they recently took over managing this apartment complex, I had hopes. Almost immediately, I received a response. Miracle! We will forward your email to the leasing staff. Oh, and what are your questions, maybe we can help. Even though the email was not signed, I was heartened to receive a response from what I'm mostly certain was a live human.
I tidied up my list of laments, sent it off, and waited. No response. I wondered, are my expectations out of line? Marketing is all about communication. I know how it should work. I can recognize when it doesn't.
It occurred me to call the leasing agent again to leave yet another message. Maybe the property management company had succeeded in lighting a fire. Miracle! She answered the phone! The first time in two months, a real person answered the phone! I know it sounds silly, but I'd forgotten how low my expectations had fallen. I was so excited, I could barely speak. I stumbled through my questions, and she gave me acceptable answers! I asked if I could come and see the unit before I signed the lease. Twenty minutes later I had parked my beast outside the leasing office and met the leasing agent for the first time. I felt like I was in the presence of a unicorn. I wore my face mask (she did not), and I treaded softly, not wanting to scare her back into the jungle. After some tries, she found the proper key and opened the door into what I think will be my digs for the next year.
Even though I'm basically moving into a motel with a kitchenette, I signed the lease. The next day, I drove over there to get the keys. I was told I needed to procure a money order first. Would have been nice to know that first, but oh well. Off I went to get a money order, and returned, money order in hand. The hoop appears. I jump through.
Upon receiving the keys, I inspected the apartment (can you really call it an apartment, maybe postage stamp would be a better descriptor). I took lots of photos and made a list of issues. Compared to the Love Shack, this new place is clean and dry and free of mold. It's got a tub. It's got a full-size refrigerator and a Barbie-size four-burner stove that might accommodate one loaf of bread, not that I plan to do any baking. It has a walk-partway-in closet. The floors throughout are gray woodgrain vinyl planks—not hardwood, but I've seen worse. At least, the kitchen floor isn't a black and white checkerboard of poorly adhered, chipping, paint-stained linoleum tiles. The walls are off white textured, no holes allowed. Perfect Zoom background. It's going to be fine.
I just returned from my evening walk around the trailer park. I met the usual residents. For some reason, their tiny dogs decided not to bark at me. I discovered why, I think, thirty seconds later. As I came around the corner, the man in their dog-walking party appeared and said, "There's a javelina crossing the street down there. William in 65 feeds it."
Well, how about that. I'm sure now one sad lonely overweight female javelina wanders the park. We make our rounds at about the same time, just as the sun is setting. I'm walking to keep my blood pressure down, and she's walking to get handouts, which no doubt keep her from getting depressed. As I went along the street, I kept my eyes peeled, and there she was. I was a good hundred feet away. We had a standoff for a minute. She wanted to get past me, and I wanted to get past her. I went across to the other side of the road and walked very slowly toward her, trying to video the interaction with my phone. There was no interaction, really. She skulked along from driveway to driveway, trying to get past. She could smell me but not see me all that well. She tried to hide behind a bush that didn't have enough room to hide her. She seemed shy, morose, and not inclined to linger or nibble, so I went on my way.
