Haunted By Mom

After I wrote the below paragraph, the man called. He questioned something on my bank statement; another debit card purchase that he thought was a debt. I clarified the issue for the second time, shocked to have heard from him at all. He said I needed a financial adviser and could not believe I had so little money saved. “You are not in control of your finances. You don’t need all the items you have; they don’t make you happy. Get rid of the clutter. You probably have 200 pairs of shoes that you don’t wear. You need to pay rent, Con-Ed, and cable. For a treat, you can eat out or go to the movies.” Wait a minute. Am I really hearing this? “You must dress better. You need to get your hair done. You have to respect yourself. When I say good morning to my tenants on their way to work, they are impeccably attired.” I’d have to look presentable when I saw him before going to work, to say “good morning”? What am I, in boarding school? This, coming from a cross between Montgomery Burns and Ebenezer Scrooge? How could I make him understand that I go to work in jeans, leggings, and Uggs? I talk on the phone all day. Nobody sees me. “The women in the building always look great, even when they are going to the gym.” I envisioned him wearing a Lucy van Pelt (Peanuts)/Ladybird Johnson fright wig. He morphed into my mother. I had almost forgotten how awful it felt when she used to comment how much prettier and more fashionably dressed the other women were. When I brought home a cute guy she’d say “You’ll never hold on to him. He only dates showgirls.” Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming back to haunt me. What took you so long? I guess the Alzheimer’s disappears when you get to Heaven. I finally understand why people used to say that I grew up normal in spite of my mother. “I’m not your father, but I’m talking to you like this because you are nice.” He’s not my father, but if Dad was around he would have said the same thing about my finances. He would have left the fashion insults to Mom. Were my parents sending me a message from Heaven? Wasn’t it bad enough that last night, I cried myself to sleep with shame? Was he trying to help, or just making me feel even worse about the situation and myself? “You should look at the other apartments; how beautiful they are. Except for the girl who keeps valises under her bed.” I heard you the first time. Enough with the valises, already. No clutter. I get it. You’ll enter my apartment whenever you want. Which would not be a problem, but valises under my bed would be the best scenario. “Will you really keep the apartment nice?” For the umpteenth time, I assured him I would. Why did he keep asking me? Was he senile? What kind of question was that, to ask, even once? Why wouldn’t I want to keep a beautiful apartment nice? Why didn’t he trust me? Did he trust anyone? A warning went off in my brain as I recalled a quote from his first tenant, Ben Franklin: “The people who don’t trust the most are the people you should trust the least.” “Can you pay 2 months security deposit?” “Yes”. If I were a normal apartment seeker with a less tragic situation, would I even consider renting a place from someone who cares what I keep under my bed? The no pets issue is also a problem. I loved the apartment. If I were a normal, animal hating, clutter free person with savings, invisible suitcases, and hardly any clothes, this would be perfect. Except for the sober doorman who said the owner is cheap. Except for the drunk part time doorman. Except for the unattended packages. Except for no pets. Except for fear of being broke, and the $2000 curse. (Once my rent goes over $2000, something bad happens. I'm destined. . .) Except for the location across from a schoolyard that looks more like a section 8 slum. Except for the substandard elevators and multiple outstanding building code violations. California closets will not help if I’m falling 14 flights down an elevator shaft. Except for the owner jacking up the price of the apartment to $2100 dollars a month, the day after I saw it advertised for $2000 on Craigslist. What would happen if this guy entered my apartment, saw something he perceived as clutter, and tried to evict me? This is New York. He is proud of having lawyers in the building. Will he tell the subsequent applicant that he rejected the prior applicant because she was a broke loser who had too many belongings? Has this search driven me so insane as to believe I should rent from a person who inspects my apartment and tells me how to spend my money? “I’ll call you Monday.” “Thank you, Mr. Burns.” “Excuse me?” “Thank you, Sir.”