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clavus · 01-05-2007, 02:45 PM

Growing up, my folks owned the building next door to our house. It was a Victorian, converted into four apartments. My dad had more kindness than sense and regularly rented to people who were down on their luck.

When a handicapped gentleman of Native American descent needed a home, my father and I built a ramp for his wheelchair, installed bars in the bathroom, and basically did everything we could to convert a 100 year old building to a modern day handicapped-accessible low-rent apartment.

My father dubbed our new tenant “the roll-away Indian.” Over time, his name was shortened to “ol’ Rollaway.” Political correctness and sensitivity were unknown in our household.

In hindsight, the ramp we built was little better than the stairs it replaced. Though solidly constructed and painted with textured porch paint, shot up at a 45 degree angle. This made wheelchair ascent impossible without aid. And descent was little more than a brief, harrowing fall.

Rollaway’s friends showed up shortly after he moved in and build a longer ramp with a smaller rise over run ratio. They did a great job. Then they all got loaded, raged into the night, had a fight and drove home drunk.

His friends did that a lot. And he got just as drunk as everybody else. It wasn’t uncommon to see “ol Rollaway” mired up to his axles in the muddy front lawn, yelling at his woman or laying next to his chair clasping an empty bottle of something cheap.

Eventually the rollaway Indian moved. To jail I think.

My Dad rented an upstairs apartment to a tall, obese woman with hair like a frightwig and the kind of stare that made cautious people skitter out of her way. She dressed in tight, violent-colored clothes and had the intense, twitchy manner of a someone who was too busy to cut her lines straight.

We called her “Gorgeous.”

Gorgeous had a lot of friends who rode motorcycles. And while they were always respectful to me, they had a tendency to yell at one another late into the night. One evening, I returned from Youth Group to discover a small number of emergency vehicles next door.

While I was out, a particularly loud argument had erupted, only to be cut short when one of the participants “tripped and fell” out of the second story window.

One day Gorgeous just wasn’t around any more. She probably tripped and fell into a shallow grave.

Then there was the time when my dad rented to a very nice young woman with a very ferocious dire wolf… er dog. And while the young lady was courteous and kind, and always paid her rent on time, she had a parade of visitors at all hours of the day and night. These people never stayed long, and they looked a lot like the friends of Rollaway and Gorgeous.

She was gone before my dad could come up with a good nickname for her. But I’m sure all her friends called her the same thing afterwards – Narc. Ya. Dad unwittingly rented to the undercover cop who brought down a whole web of speedfreaks, cookers and dealers.

Good times, Dad. Good times.

01-05-2007, 02:45 PM	#14 (permalink)
clavus pow! Location: NorCal	Growing up, my folks owned the building next door to our house. It was a Victorian, converted into four apartments. My dad had more kindness than sense and regularly rented to people who were down on their luck. When a handicapped gentleman of Native American descent needed a home, my father and I built a ramp for his wheelchair, installed bars in the bathroom, and basically did everything we could to convert a 100 year old building to a modern day handicapped-accessible low-rent apartment. My father dubbed our new tenant “the roll-away Indian.” Over time, his name was shortened to “ol’ Rollaway.” Political correctness and sensitivity were unknown in our household. In hindsight, the ramp we built was little better than the stairs it replaced. Though solidly constructed and painted with textured porch paint, shot up at a 45 degree angle. This made wheelchair ascent impossible without aid. And descent was little more than a brief, harrowing fall. Rollaway’s friends showed up shortly after he moved in and build a longer ramp with a smaller rise over run ratio. They did a great job. Then they all got loaded, raged into the night, had a fight and drove home drunk. His friends did that a lot. And he got just as drunk as everybody else. It wasn’t uncommon to see “ol Rollaway” mired up to his axles in the muddy front lawn, yelling at his woman or laying next to his chair clasping an empty bottle of something cheap. Eventually the rollaway Indian moved. To jail I think. My Dad rented an upstairs apartment to a tall, obese woman with hair like a frightwig and the kind of stare that made cautious people skitter out of her way. She dressed in tight, violent-colored clothes and had the intense, twitchy manner of a someone who was too busy to cut her lines straight. We called her “Gorgeous.” Gorgeous had a lot of friends who rode motorcycles. And while they were always respectful to me, they had a tendency to yell at one another late into the night. One evening, I returned from Youth Group to discover a small number of emergency vehicles next door. While I was out, a particularly loud argument had erupted, only to be cut short when one of the participants “tripped and fell” out of the second story window. One day Gorgeous just wasn’t around any more. She probably tripped and fell into a shallow grave. Then there was the time when my dad rented to a very nice young woman with a very ferocious dire wolf… er dog. And while the young lady was courteous and kind, and always paid her rent on time, she had a parade of visitors at all hours of the day and night. These people never stayed long, and they looked a lot like the friends of Rollaway and Gorgeous. She was gone before my dad could come up with a good nickname for her. But I’m sure all her friends called her the same thing afterwards – Narc. Ya. Dad unwittingly rented to the undercover cop who brought down a whole web of speedfreaks, cookers and dealers. Good times, Dad. Good times. __________________ Ass, gas or grass. Nobody rides for free.