Never Again

Last year at this time I was in trouble. Here’s how that began, proceeded and ended.

My cleaning lady hires women down on their luck. She calls it her reach-out. Starting them at $8.50/hr, she trains them, provides work-related transportation, gives them loans, works alongside them, buys lunch each day. If they stay with her, after a few months, she does raises. The problem is that nobody sticks with the program because it’s all work all the time, no goofing off, no making excuses.

Last fall she hired a young woman who lived at a nearby house for battered women and children. The young lady had a lot of bad days, her job focus wasn’t what it ought to be. She told lies, a thoroughly unreliable person. However, she did have a little child. For the child’s sake Mrs. Cleaning Lady didn’t fire this worker.

Then one day the girl said that she was going to be put out of the house for battered women because she’d missed their deadline for securing private housing; she still didn’t have quite enough of an apartment deposit. Christmas was coming. They were going out onto the streets.

So I agreed to let them stay at my house while the girl saved money for an apartment. They moved in here at Casa Ahno with me and the Chihuahuas.

I sat them down, said sternly, “While you live here, you may not smoke in or near my house. Each day you absolutely must…both of you…bathe and wash your hair. You‘ve got to bring down your dirty clothes, put them in the washing machine…no accumulating a pile. Keep your space tidy. Most important, you may not spend one dime of your wages. You’re saving for your own place.”

And so it began. Neither of them ever bathed or washed their hair unless I made a fuss. This in spite of the fact that I bought whatever toiletries they claimed to want.  This annoyed me exceedingly. However, I kept reminding myself, “They’re saving for their own apartment…soon.”

At Christmas, between myself and my church, these people got a fabulous present opening time, things they wanted along with some things they needed. I took care of the little girl on days when there was no school. I was busy; it was like having two chimpanzees in the house because both guests were messy and troublesome but I soldiered on.

Christmas passed. New Years came and went. I knew that the girl’s bank account was in excellent shape because I’d forced her to open a new account and put all her checks into it. Each week she had to show me the deposit statement. I looked up nice apartments nearby, available at reasonable rental.

Then, finally, bit by bit, I learned the truth. The girl was an alien, claimed to have a green card but somehow couldn‘t ever put her hands on it when I asked to see; she’d lived here for eleven years during which she managed to avoid citizenship. She married and then ran away from a husband in California...another alien.

In all those eleven years she lived in the home of one kind soul after another, telling sob stories, taking advantage. She was never going to have her own apartment because she lacked necessary documentation. I was just her most recent victim; a long list of generous Americans had taken her in, first out of sympathy for her and then for her little child.

I organized every form of help, sent letters, got agreements, filled out forms on her behalf. Soon she was two weeks away from the paperwork needed to get her into an apartment of her own. Through this process, she lied to me repeatedly. She lied about those who’d helped her previously. She lied about people at government and help agencies in Norfolk and D.C. Nevertheless, I struggled through the obfuscation and got her on track for proper documentation.

Then it was a Sunday night in late January. I’d gone upstairs to my work room. Coming past my guests, I smelled something funky, knocked, called their names. She opened the door, stepped back. I was horrified. Junk everywhere, dirty plates, dirty clothes, and the smell was beyond description. I walked in, sat down said, “In five minutes from the time I leave this room, I want to see garbage bags of trashing coming down the stairs, I expect you to then get your dirty clothes into the washing machine. While that wash is running, vacuum in here, dust, and change the bed. Tidy up your stuff. Then both of you climb into the tub and get thoroughly clean. Put on clean pjs. I’ll be back up here in a couple of hours and I want a better situation.

The girl began to scream into my face, told me how she hates me, blahblahblahblah. She hauled out one of her enormous suitcases, threw it open and began to toss things into it, yelling, “I’m not staying here one more hour, you old wh***.”

Within a few minutes she’d assembled her things, dragged the child behind her and they disappeared down the walk way outside. I could hear the little one whimper, “But Mommy, where can we go?”

Next morning she called me, said she’d walked to a flop house in Park Place and begged for overnight shelter. Told me that all the items she’d accumulated and left in my garage would have to stay with me for a while. I refused to be her storage facility. Told her that by next day, everything of hers still on my premises would be on the curb for special trash pickup.

Shortly, she showed up with re-enforcements, characters she’d encountered the night before. They all stood on my porch bellowing to the world how terrible I am. I opened the door long enough to say that they’d better grab her stuff out of the garage and hit the road because police were on the way. They took off.

Upstairs, I assessed the damage. They’d made holes in walls, damaged a ceiling light fixture, urinated all over a $3,500 mattress, stained the carpet, smashed my grandkids’ toys, left piles of dirty clothes and junk.

After having the space professionally cleaned, sanitized, repaired, I was so mad, I suspected that if Mother Theresa showed up at my door holding a baby, rather than let her stay at my house, I’d kick her off the porch. No more letting sad sacks into my home. Never again. But at least I was rid of them. Whew.

Later I heard that this girl left the state. Also, I heard that she’s severely bi-polar and had refused her meds for many months prior to moving in with me. I thought, “Yeah, whatever. I’m rid of them.”

Then two days ago someone called me and said, “I might be wrong, but I don’t think so. I just saw **** three houses away from yours, standing on the sidewalk with her child beside her.”

She hasn’t showed up on my porch, yet, and she’d better not.

ADVISORY: Users are solely responsible for opinions they post here and for following agreed-upon rules of civility. Comments do not reflect the views of The Virginian-Pilot or its Web sites. Comments are automatically checked for inappropriate language, but readers might find some comments offensive or inaccurate. If you believe a comment violates our rules, click the "Report Violation" link below the comment to alert an editor. Update on new comment functions.