lily's diary
Halt the Welcome Wagon
by Lily
February 20
My sainted pal Alfred, who, sadly, never partnered in life, directed his sizeable capacity for love to his sister’s children. So I wasn’t surprised that, when his eldest niece Jody got accepted into San Francisco State University’s film program, Al offered to give her a 50% discount on an apartment in his building. In the second year of her tenancy, Jody acquired a boyfriend named Michael, which wasn’t exactly what Alfred had envisioned. Now he, too, shared the benefit of her subsidized rent.
After a year of this cohabitation, Jody came home one evening to discover the boyfriend in amorous pursuit on the very bed they had shared for so many months. Jody packed her bags, leaving him alone in the apartment. Now, Al may be a saint, but he isn’t a fool. Quickly he told the ex-boyfriend that he couldn’t stay in the unit paying only the “family rate.” The boy went to the Rent Board, which assured him he had every right to remain there at the same rent since he was brought in as a subsequent tenant and not given a 6.14 notice. Not only that, he had the right to get a replacement roommate. “But that was a special low rent just for my niece,” Al pleaded. “Doesn’t matter,” said the administrative law judge. “Once a rent rate is established, it can only be raised by the Rent Board’s annual allowable increase.”
A lesson to all: never lower rent for anyone. That doesn’t mean you can’t take care of your loved ones, but have them sign a lease agreement for the full rent rate and then reimburse them each month with a note attached, stating that the amount does not signify a lowering of rent, but rather a gift. In other words, be sure to cover your you-know-what.
February 26
I’ve grown to dread the Bay to Breakers race. Not because I live on the route, but because my tenant Poppy turns her apartment into a crash pad the night before. Let me explain. Poppy is an Atherton girl. All her pals live on the Peninsula and have a thing about running the B to B. They spend the night in the city, so they’ll be able to get down to the starting line at first light. I’ve noticed that Poppy usually wears a headband with rabbit ears and sews a fluffy white ball on the back of her tights. I think she looks tarty, but then she isn’t my daughter, so what do I care? When I saw her in the hall yesterday, she told me she was “totally bummed” by the new restrictions attempting to eliminate drinking and nudity from the race. “It isn’t like I drink from the kegs, or anything,” she said. “It’s just that everybody knows the B to B is a time when people can celebrate ‘who they are’ in a, well, wholesome way.”
I reminded her that people living on Fell Street had runners barfing in their driveways, but she insisted that was the exception, that the race was an institution and the killjoys shouldn’t prevail. I told her that I ran the race when there were only 2,500 runners and my then-boyfriend and coach rode along beside me on his bike saying, “Pick’em up and put’em down.” (His coaching style was rudimentary.) There were so few women running that spectators would cheer me on chanting feminist slogans. But, alas, Poppy isn’t interested in moi.
March 2
My old friends Phillip and David bought a building in the Western Addition years ago and, after painting the exterior a pale rust color, perfect for the Mediterranean-style architecture, planted Italian cypress trees between each of the two garage doors and at either side of the entryway. They grew to about ten feet tall, slender and elegant, and stood for many years like soldiers guarding the building. Then one began to turn brown.
After consulting an arborist at UC Davis, they learned that the tree had acquired a “canker disease” that would spread to the other trees. Worse, there was nothing they could do to stop it. The guys applied to the city for a permit to remove the five trees and replace them all at the same time so that they would maintain a similar height as they grew. Phil included photographs and the arborist’s written diagnosis with their permit application (approximately $400). A few weeks later, the city sent out an inspector who tagged one of the dying cypresses for removal but denied permission to take out the other sick trees. They went back to City Hall to protest, supplying still more pictures—these of the other trees that, by then, were losing needles like a Christmas tree in February. The inspector came out again and, this time, agreed that the two trees at the entry were sick enough to be removed, but not the other three. (Let’s do a reality check here: These are their trees, which they had planted. They were up against their building, not in the right-of-way. Their only desire was to replace them in a manner that would make the property, and public streetscape, more attractive.)
They then filed a formal appeal, which was denied. To add insult to injury, because their photos happened to reveal that their front gate opened outward (because of entry steps), they were also fined for sidewalk encroachment. Think of all the taxpayer money wasted on the administration of this commonplace situation. Think of all the time invested by Phil and David. I hear the city is looking for ways to cut the budget these days. Maybe we’ve found one.
March 13
The number of magazines I receive dealing with the apartment industry seems to be multiplying. I always give them a thumb-through on the way to the blue bin. One article on mold caught my eye. Mold is always a problem in old buildings like mine and the writer came directly to the point: “Unless it’s a bathroom ceiling, the only solution for getting rid of mold is a destructive invasive process known as ‘abatement and remediation.’”
It was the destructive part that caused me to gulp. Not just an application of Clorox solution? No, get out the crowbar, there must be a leak in there somewhere. It reminded me of the time my plumber, in search of such a leak, opened up one whole wall of my tenant’s bathroom, causing him to have to shower at his cousin’s house for two weeks. In the end, although the wall’s uprights were rotted out and did indeed have to be replaced, the culprit wasn’t a leaking pipe, but water from the shower that had entered between tiles on a windowsill. Had I only noticed the hairline cracks, I could have easily filled them with caulk. It ended up being an $8,000 maintenance oversight.
March 20
I was sitting at the bar at Westlake Joe’s waiting for my friend Helen, sipping my martini as slowly as I could and passing the time by trying to guess which of the patrons my age were Sacred Heart graduates (and probably ex-cops). When Helen arrived for our standing, once-a-month dinner date she opened with, “You’re right. I am naïve,” referring to my longtime efforts to make her join the SFAA and generally get more serious about her responsibilities as a landlord. She ordered and began to tell me the story.
She had a new tenant in her 4-unit building, a nice young woman who had just gotten a teaching job at Balboa High School. So eager was Helen that the woman would feel at home in the building, she wrote a note to each of the other tenants “introducing” Mary Louise. She included information about her recent move from upstate New York, her new position at Balboa, and asked that the tenants introduce themselves when they encountered her. When Mary Louise learned about the notes, she hit the ceiling. She accused Helen of invading her privacy and setting her up for unwanted attention (and god knows what else). And, of course, she was right. While it’s okay to tell an incoming tenant something about the neighbors he or she will be sharing common space with, it is not okay to send out a biography of a new tenant, no matter how condensed. Newly passed Prop. M, not to mention common sense, makes it illegal to do anything that violates a tenant’s privacy. I told her that she may own the building, but that doesn’t make her a hostess for Welcome Wagon.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the viewpoint of the SFAA or the SF Apartment Magazine. Lily’s Diary is written by a longtime rental property owner who reserves the right to remain anonymous on the grounds that her tenants might gang up on her. Comments, corrections or ideas are welcome at lilysdiary@aol.com. Copyright © 2009 by Black Point Press. All rights reserved.