8
The strength
Rain II
Second Hour
His solar-plexus were sore, there was no cure for its comfort, he knew that, and the ongoing, oncoming chills, chills that reached into the marrow of his bones changed the pigment of his skin, it was the charging cold rains doing, its continued tedious haggling dominance; thus, bleaching his skin a pale white, an egg-white, blotches of egg and pale white stains. He remained, still remained, at a halt for a moment: thinking (not of his pigmented skin, or his marrow in is bones feeling like fruit jam), just thinking (perhaps of the old dead): the old Landlord had worked hard all his life (Gnter: being the landlord), was given nothing, took nothing, built a small business, was in the Great War, a true American, he believed he was (so he was thinking); but that didn’t’ matter now, now was now, and now would end up being forever; how many now’s does a man get? He asked himself.
He held it all together no matter what: the now, the maybes the houses and the payments to his employees: no matter how hard it got, or would get, he had to hold it together now though, it was a different now, the before: just hold it together a while longer, as if he had a specific time in mind; guts, courage, taking chances, it was what life was all about anyway ‘wasn’t it?’ to him it was. He worked side by side with the obnoxious tenants: face to face, mind to mind: hand to hand, the ones that wanted you to do every little thing for them; when they became tenants they became helpless; when they became house owners they became reasonable. St. Paul, of all cities in the world was the most notorious for being anti-landlord: it never changed in his life time, ‘it never will,’ he said. The tenant could do no wrong, and the judges would side, lease or no lease: what is a lease anyhow, a piece of paper for the tenant; it didn’t matter, and it was for the tenant, not the Landlord. Save, the consertive city of culture as it was becoming or was, presently a hardship on every landlord in the business; and taxed them just as well. The courts, judges, the police, all in favor of the tenant, but they all begged him to rent to them: least you be a heal and not have pity on the poor tenant. And so he was a blessing to the community, and was cursed by them. The whole city acted as if a landlord was suppose to be a counselor, father, banker, and god knows what else for the poor tenants; and they were as wicked as wicked could be.
Some tenants would, out of revenge, piss all over the carpets before being evicted for not paying the rent. Others would hang on the chandeliersloosing them from the ceilings (damaging the: ceilings, electric wiring, water pipes), or kick the walls in to damage water pipes, out of vengeance for being forced to pay the rent: what they owed according to the lease, the lease the Judges looked at only if it was in favor of the tenant, otherwise, they never cast their scornful eyes upon it. Some would pull knobs off doors, damage this and that call the mayor up call the housing inspectors up to get it fixed and they (they being: the authorities) would come out and enforce the law, that is, tell the landlord to fix it or get penalized: the law, that was the law, the real law that is: not the law on in the law books, but on the judges mind, in the courtroom of St. Paul, Minnesota. You had to be cleaver, or they would take you for any and everything you had, both the tenant and the city: and the state. They’d cry they could not pay the rent to the judge and he’d let them live there free for a few more weeks, perhaps a month, in protest of the tax paying landlord. Gnter would tell the judge: they spent the money on dope and drinking, but the tenants would not be asked how they spent the rent, and the landlord would be told to ‘…hush up;’ and on to another house, another embellished tenant, with his or her unfair reports, undocumented, hardly remembered, figured out five minutes before they saw the courtroom; would go into the courts room, cry to get a few more months free rent, supported not by the city but by the city’s tax payer, the landlord: not by the judge, who kept his money in his pocket, counted it when he got home, but by the landlord.
He had found out, it was a way of life for many. Smoke it away, drinks it until it was gonegamble it up, (the rent money), and simply change your smile to a sad frown when court day comes, and the stupid judge would fall for it, and feel sorry for them, and they did, it worked. He had to be there every hour on the hour when they got paid, so he could get his rent money, god forbid if he wasn’t, there would go his profit, and livelihood: to the corner bar. He earned his money, as was said, the old fashion way, he worked for it. The obnoxious, the thieves, the complainers, everyone blamed the landlord. The Government, the judges, the preachers thought he was cold to them: yet no money came out of their pockets. But not many were willing to step into his shoeseither. Also, the county attorneys, the mothers and fathers, the newspapers, all against the landlord, the legislators, the mayor (I suppose they counted votes, and there was more tenants than landlords); but when it came tax time, to pay the taxes, to make sure the street-lights worked, the roads were repaired, the schools were paid for, it wasn’t the tenants paying the bulk of the taxes, it was him, now everyone liked himgod forbid should he go out of business, and everyone like him go out of business. ‘No,’ he told himself, wading in the waters, ‘…something’s I will never miss, alive or dead,’ and this was one. He wouldn’t miss that at all, should he let fall of this rope: slide off this rope, this slim wet life line, he asked himselfhe’d not regret that he was done with the business?
He asked for no pity and gave little in his life time, unless a man was in a wheelchair, then and only then would he yield his seat to the man, or woman, or child. Pity was for the lazy, and that he couldn’t give. Pity was for the man in the wheelchair, the one that couldn’t help it. They called him “The Landlord King,” and he was: he gave little pity, and he got none, not from the judges, not from the city and surely not from the tenants.
He looked straight at the rope, or was it the rope looking at him, when you stare long enough, your mind can put eyes on many things [?] Could he even see it now in the dark-ink like atmosphere, in front of him? But he looked that way nonetheless. He could feel the rain on the rope; it slid right down to him: as if it was on ice, and it looked at him? Maybe he was looking into nothingness, just looking or perhaps, perchance, possibly he was trying to become of equal mind with the rain, but became weak to its steadfastness; weak and tired and feeble, and more drained by the minute.
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