Crazy Landlord Story No. 4.

When we moved to Austin, neither of us had jobs. But we wanted to live there.
Actually, I had a minimum wage job. My husband, being the professional of the family, was putting in applications everywhere in town, and working at a temp agency.

We rented a duplex unit. The other occupant of the duplex lived in a back unit. He was red-faced, blonde-bearded man who regularly put busted furniture out on the curb for trash pickup. Drinking and breaking, man oh man. Fortunately, we did not usually penetrate his haze. And the rest of the neighborhood was very respectable.

The duplex had old-fashioned gas heater, the kind that burst into glorious blue flame and will set your bathrobe on fire if you rush by. You buy an old pan at the thrift shop, fill it with water, and put it on top. The humidity helps warm the house. Also, all the skin on your body will not dry up and crack off.

But it had only one heater. In the winter, my makeup froze in the bottle, a crisis I had never before encountered but learned to overcome. We got through winter, and then it was spring.

In the summer, the refrigerator died. My landlord was a female real estate agent, attractive, but operating under an alcoholic buzz. She would not answer our calls. Finally my husband got through.

“The refrigerator isn’t working,” he said. “We think it needs coolant, but somebody needs to check. It may just be shot completely.”

“Well, if I had a refrigerator and it wasn’t working, I’d call a repairman,” she said.

My husband waited a beat. “It is your refrigerator.”

The repairman came the next morning.

Photo: (ours was bigger, and flat-topped)  Eastwaysales.com