Tonight was the night. The final walk through with Nick for him to note what he thought were the aggregious ways in which we trashed his place.

I so fucking wish I brought a video camera. Words cannot adequately describe. They can’t. And, it was so fucking crazy, disbelief would be the obvious response to any retelling.

I mean, I showed up loaded for bear (or bare or whatever the fuck it is). I was ready, though. I tried to convince M. in the car that he could be the “bad cop” to my good. Together we could attack this guy.

M. pretty much wanted no part of my preemptive strike, saying shit about zen and open mind and maybe Nick would deduct a bit, but all in all it would be cool.

So, we walked into the place. Mind you, Nick was already in there. Legally, he was trespassing as we hadn’t yet surrendered the keys, and we had given today as our final move out. That shit just makes me crazy. He also had already started working on the place. ILL-fucking-LEGALLY. I so want my money back.

I’m edgy, but I follow M.’s lead. Then, Nick whips out the flashlight. Flashlight? You might ask, were there no lights? There were indeed lights.

The flashlight was the tool needed to highlight the grievous amount of dirt and dust and whatnot. I swear to god, he made M. stand on tiptoes to show him the blackness, the filth imbedded in the crevice of the top of the rubber gasket surrounding the freezer. He shown the light on the very top of a refrigerator where I am too short to get everything out of the freezer to highlight it’s woefully inadequate cleaning.

Mind you, this refrigerator is missing the bottom shelf entirely and has another shelf held up by duct tape. Tape that preceded our sojourn for sure, nicely preserved by the chill.

FUCK YOU, OLD MAN. Do you really expect us to have gone along with the ruse that the house was somehow dustfree when we moved in? A sterile environment was it?

I feel wholly culpable, in that I did what I always do when I move to a new place. I cleaned. I cleaned, and he and I walked around looking at wall cracks and loose grout that wouldn’t be our responsibility, admiring the cleanliness that I had actually brought with me. I scrubbed the floors, the stove, the cabinets. All was lined, re-lined, fixed and made new BY ME. Fucking me.

Two years later, an old man is griping in my face that he can’t rent it, it must be cleaned. YES, you are the landlord, that is your fucking problem. You MUST prepare for the next sucker. It’s the goddamn law, and not our problem in the least possible way.

I’m not exactly sure when M. broke. It was maybe when Nick lifted the lid on the stove top we didn’t use, because at any time only one out of four burners was operational, and shown the flashlight to grime, some of which had lived the life of the stove despite my scrubbing and chemical ablutions. Or, or when he did the old, white glove test along a venetian blind and found dust. Dust. Heavens to Mergetroid.

Or, it was the flashlight arc into the toilet, which I myself had cleaned a few days ago, where Nick made M. take a closer look to point out there was evidence there had been URINE in the bowl. Actual, presumably human, piss in a toilet bowl. M. urinated on Nick’s property, I was led to believe.

Also, mind you, the lid on the back of this toilet is held together by mismatched epoxy. Further evidence we weren’t exactly shitting on a golden throne.

Nick advised that (a) there wasn’t enough room on the page to cite all of the infractions so he was forced to leave some off and (b) it would take about an hour before he was done going through every issue he had uncovered with us. He turned a bitter, unhearing ear to any notion of normal wear and tear and our legal rights as tenants.

M. bottomlined it and asked, “What about the security deposit?” Nick explained with false patience and integrity how it was difficult because there was so much that would have to be done before he could rent again, and that’s why he would, he implied, be keeping our money.

A few minutes later, not the hour Nick insisted, we were out the door, letting him know he should send us the money or see us in small claims court, having refused to sign our agreement and consent to his insane litany of infractions.

The weirdest moment came at the end, when we refused to sign our OKs but provided our address for him to follow up, when/if we didn’t hear from him and to settle our dispute. He refused to write it down. I asked three or four times, quite politely, providing pen and paper.

What an ass. Apparently, Nick {Name deleted}, as is his full name, doesn’t realize that public records have him as landlord of note. As will every tenants’ advocacy group and better business organization I can find in the end.

A polite formality for me to ask. A final act by which Nick could annoy.

Of course, I’ve overheard four separate screaming matches with potential or current or leaving tenants and the crazy fucker, and I witnessed two young men looking about to coldcock him. Given his abilities as a carrier and catalyst for angry exchanges, I wouldn’t be advertising my home addy if I were him either.