Evicted_ Poverty and Profit in the American City - Matthew Desmond Page 0,70

of the cracked windows. He knew cataloguing every code violation was neither feasible nor, he suspected, in the tenants’ best interest.

Rufus the junk collector stepped into the office. “Are we safe?” he asked Roger. Although the city had renewed Tobin’s license, many tenants still feared removal.

“Yes,” Roger answered.

“Good. Now I don’t have to move my giant cat house.” When Rufus’s mother died, she owned seventy-two cats. Rufus was down to three.

—

Not long after taking over the trailer park, Bieck Management fired Lenny and Susie. After reading his termination letter, Lenny began removing his things from the office in which he had worked for the past twelve years. He gathered his tools and unscrewed his deer antlers from the wall.

The door swung open and a man with sunglasses asked, “Can I get an extension?”

Lenny paused. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’m outta here.”

What in the past had become routine was now far from certain. A worried look worked over the man’s face. He left and told the first person he saw. As news spread, a tremor of fear whipped through the park. Would the new management company honor the deals struck over a handshake? Would rents go up? Would evictions? Some tenants hated Lenny and Office Susie, but at least they were known. “Ain’t gonna get no leeway with this setup,” Dawn said. “People that were working at the office worked with people because we’re just making poverty over here.” When the news reached Dawn’s neighbor, Tam, a seven-months-pregnant drug addict, she walked into the office and gave Lenny a long hug.

On their last day, Office Susie erased her greeting from the voicemail system, and Lenny laid his heavy ring of keys on the desk.

Bieck Management replaced Lenny with a recent graduate of the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire. At twenty-three, young enough to be Lenny’s son, the replacement was clueless and patronizing, but he stuck it out. The new maintenance man quit after a week, saying, “I mean, ninety-nine percent of the houses in here are just too far gone….I’ve been working on mobile houses for seven years, and I’ve never worked in a park like this.”

With Lenny and Susie gone, Tobin had to take care of some matters himself. It didn’t bother him; he had always been a hands-on landlord. In his twelve years at College Mobile Home Park, Tobin had learned to pull profit out of 131 dilapidated trailers. Most impressive was his ability to transform an utterly trashed trailer into a rent-generating machine in a matter of days—and for next to nothing.

After evicting a tenant named Theo and his girlfriend from E-24, Tobin needed to have the trailer cleaned out. Theo was known in the park as a “never sweat,” a lazy slob who didn’t work. His trailer was a disaster.

Tobin hired Mrs. Mytes to clean it out. Unlike some of the other older residents who seemed to be waiting to die, swallowing prescription pills and nodding off in front of the television, Mrs. Mytes still had plenty of fight left. She and her adult daughter, Meredith, would get into foulmouthed shouting matches first thing in the morning. While driving to or from their jobs, trailer park residents would sometimes spot Mrs. Mytes several miles away from home, pushing a shopping cart brimming over with aluminum cans. She was strong and knew how to work.

Mrs. Mytes was grateful for the extra money, even if it was E-24. She could smell the trailer standing ten feet away. Inside, the mess was pathological. There were ashtrays and cigarettes on the floor; the sink was piled high with food-encrusted dishes; black grime had overtaken the toilet; trash was everywhere; several spots in the carpet were damp with cat piss; and honey-colored strips of fly tape dangled from the ceiling. Theo and his girlfriend had moved in a hurry, leaving behind piles of stuff: a pair of roller skates, a motorcycle helmet, a couch, a full toolbox, a toy helicopter, a driver’s license. Mrs. Mytes began hauling everything to the Dumpster. After a few loads, she asked Office Susie for a pair of rubber gloves.

Rufus the junk collector appeared at the door. “Whoa,” he said, looking around. “I hate to say it, but even niggers are cleaner than this.”

Mrs. Mytes let out a loud “Ha!” and kept working.

Rufus was there for the metal. He had been a full-time junk collector since 1984 and was proud that his life “didn’t revolve around a mailbox” as it did for his neighbors