I've had it with this slumlord property management outfit that's been maximizing some sociopathic jerk's profits at the expense of tenant safety and security, and the overall livability of the place. I had it so much a couple days ago that I probably consigned myself to a watery, wintry fate spent living outdoors again. I'd ordered some pet supplies from Chewy, because I had finally resolved to get a cat. It was a pretty big purchase for me, eighty-five dollars of cat tree, incline scratcher, natural wet food, and sundry ... and the stuff never arrived! Sure, I called FedEx, but I knew it was the building's fault somehow: ever since I've moved into this place, the actions of management have consistently sent the message that we residents of this building are merely free-range chattel, similar to the hapless dreaming humans in The Matrix who fuel the machines' energy needs. After two years of bullshit it was the last straw, and I blew up last week, bombarding the corporate office with angry voicemails and making it more personal the two times I managed to blockade-run the reception wall. While I wouldn't normally worry so much about my housing, I'm already on probation from when I lost my cool in the lobby a while ago.
What I wanted to know, and property management didn't even deign to answer me, is why in fuck only a handful of drivers from three different parcel delivery services have access to our secure mail room. As in, why isn't there a combination-locked key-safe mounted next to the resident call box for ALL parcel delivery drivers to access: a simple and not terribly costly way to help ensure all of us get visited by Santa? Which got me to thinking about the big fire we had on my floor November 5, and my indignation at the fact that all the air-filtering equipment was on the floors below while we third-floor residents were choking on toxic fumes. Which wasn't remedied until after I did a ridiculous amount of complaining about it for almost a week. To add insult to injury, my corporate mouthpiece of a building manager made it sound like she did me and my neighbors a special favor in getting an air-scrubber parked where it should have been on the morning of November 6! Even a month-and-a-half later, we're still getting jerked around in the wake of the fire: it wasn't until last week that the cleaning crew (or whatever you call the people who handle fire and water damage) scrubbed our soot-stained walls; and STILL the hallway carpet hasn't been so much as vacuumed by our occasional janitor!
Just what am I supposed to do? I could leave a dozen voicemails for the Community Alliance of Tenants, but when anyone from there will call me back and what manner of advice I'll receive is anyone's guess. My Central City Concern and other similar social service agencies won't offer anything more than the helpful suggestion to meditate and engage in positive reframing — completely useless. Nor can I afford an attorney, at least not of the caliber that could assail whatever shyster brigade Cascade throws at me. And, well, sure, I suppose I could gather some neighbors and compile a formidable litany of grievances to take to some regulatory authority or law office, but that's herding cats — most people just want to hunker down and somehow manage to deal with life's vile vicissitudes; it takes a certain kind of (obsessive and confrontational) person to be an activist or a revolutionary. Which I'm not: I moved in off the streets not only because of the elements and because I figured it'd be easier for me to get back to work living indoors, but because I was sick of the nightmare of waging a ceaseless cold war against the thieving and thugging tweakers who shared my open skies. Besides, how in hell is anyone supposed to live if he's subsumed in struggles to right the world?
Of course, it can be said that I went about things the wrong way; the tired old saw about winning more people over with honey than vinegar. But, I've always objected to that, and not merely because it robs me of the catharsis of yelling at a pole-smoker. I sincerely believe that behaving ourselves whilst attempting to stand up against oppression and exploitation by the Elite simply encourages them, and even more insidiously, wears us out and inculcates world-weary complacence in us. All it takes is some drone cooing insincere customer-service corporate-speak, and most of us are either suckered into believing our grievances were taken to heart and heeded or end up throwing our hands up in resignation and step back behind the plow. While I know all about the rotten blood-drenched fruits of the likes of the French and October revolutions, don't even think about rebutting me with fables of Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi — just look at where African Americans and India are(n't) at now, decades afterward! Besides, if I can lose my housing for using foul language and raising my voice against property management, while this jackass felon meth-head down in the basement is getting away with illegally owning a handgun ... maybe it's time to fill some baskets with some heads.
