The things that were taken were things people might not miss. Old cups, old dishes, old towels, old blankets and other bedding went missing from my kitchen cabinets and from the back of my linen closet. Even old clothes disappeared. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I am a freak about having a place for everything and everything in its place, and I noticed.
At first it was little things I would notice. There was a large footprint in my kitchen. Too big for it to have been mine, and I could have sworn I bought a can of my favorite soup the last time I went grocery shopping, but I couldn't find it.
At first I ignored the footprint thinking it was maintenance spraying for bugs or something. They never let me know when they were coming and they had done this before.
No. It was not maintenance.
When too many things disappeared, I decided I had a thief visiting when I'd be at work, so I contacted the apartment office and told them to be on the lookout. They checked out my apartment thoroughly and said there were no signs of forced entry at all. No one could figure out how anyone could be getting inside to take my things. The office people promised me that the master key was well protected at all times.
We were stumped, and all of us (including me) started thinking I might be a little crazy.
It never even occurred to me what was happening nextdoor. I noticed a lot of people going in and out of the apartment, but they were extremely quiet and reclusive. Then one day I was talking to the couple who rented the apartment and one of the other people living there opened the front door, and I saw inside.
Wow. I couldn't believe my eyes. There must have been at least thirty people sleeping on the floor in there. Packed in like sardines. I asked the couple, "Visitors?" The man said, "My wife, here, has a large family from Colombia. We are helping them get jobs in America. They will leave when they can afford a place of their own.
I asked them what kind of jobs they were looking for because I might be able to help. He said the women cleaned houses on Kiawah Island, and the men were mostly...get this...locksmiths!!!
That is when I decided I had to move right away, so I started looking for other apartments. I looked at a bazillion apartments. They were all too small or too expensive or located in a part of town where I would need a gun and a bodyguard. I just couldn't find one anywhere.
I became desperate. Seriously desperate. I was afraid one or more of those men would come in my apartment when I'd be there alone late at night. I couldn't sleep.
Finally I started calling realtors. No one could help me until I got in touch with a realtor named Alice. Now, I don't know if she helped me because we had the same name or not, but I suspect it may have played a part in her decision.
At first, when I told her I presently lived in North Charleston, she said she didn't have anything, but when I decided to tell her my life story...how I moved to Charleston with nothing...how I was a former school teacher...how I was presently (at that time) working in the MUSC Library...how I always paid my bills, lived alone, and had no pets (at that time), etc. She finally said, "Well, there is this one thing."
She showed me a house in Riverland Terrace on James Island that she owned. She rented three apartments in that house and the upstairs apartment was for rent. It had no washer and dryer hook-up, but it was in a very safe neighborhood close to MUSC, so I took it, sold my washer and dryer, and moved.
That is how and why I moved to James Island. It was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I lived there five and a half years and loved my little upstairs apartment until...
I ended up falling down those rickety, curved, and rotten stairs. My arm and hand was in a cast for eight weeks; and my ankle was in a brace for longer than that. That is when I started house hunting and bought my present house, but that is another story.
No comments:
Post a Comment