by Bob Johnson
We thought putting up a couple manufactured homes — one for the lovely Michelle and me, the other for our grown daughter — on a pretty good-sized chunk of land would be a snap.
Man, were we wrong.
Among the county (which shall remain nameless) and its permitting rules, the bank (which shall remain nameless) and its inability to work out one minor funding issue with the builder (which shall remain nameless), the electric company (which shall remain nameless) and its inaccurate quote regarding amperage, and the clueless property manager (who shall remain nameless) at the apartment complex (which shall remain nameless) where we were renting while all these other nameless people and companies were defying logic at every turn, my patience was waning as quickly as my blood pressure was rising.
Let’s begin with the clueless property manager because, well, clueless can be funny if you’re not caught in the crosshairs of it. We’ll call him Ryan (which isn’t his real name but might rhyme with it).
The apartment complex was big, with a mix of one-bedroom and two-bedroom dwellings. Each apartment came with a one-car garage; the rest of the parking spaces were available on a first-come, first-park basis — no assigned spaces.
We had a two-bedroom apartment and among the three of us we have two cars, so we’d always park one car in our garage and the other in the lot. But because Ryan didn’t regulate outdoor parking, there were residents who would use their garage for storage and then park two, three or even four cars outside. There were times when we had to walk almost a full city block on icy sidewalks just to get from one of our cars to our apartment.
One day, I decided to ask Ryan about the lack of logic in his parking policy. His response was that it was fair for everyone.
“Everyone gets a garage,” he said.
“Shouldn’t those with a two-bedroom apartment — who are paying more — get two guaranteed parking spaces?” I responded.
I wish I could have taken a picture of the bewildered expression on Ryan’s face. It’s possible he felt he really was treating all residents equally.
Then I offered an easy, logical solution: one garage for a one-bedroom apartment, and one garage plus one designated outdoor parking space for a two-bedroom apartment.
“What do you mean by ‘designated?’” he asked.
“You know — like, maybe, number the spaces and assign them?”
“Oh, that would be a lot of work,” he said.
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Besides,” he added, “changing a policy like that is a process.”
Okay…
Our next encounter with Ryan involved an ongoing noise problem with the resident who lived just above us. We ended up nicknaming him “Montana” because for the more than a year we lived there, his truck had the same Montana license plates on it. We had gotten our plates changed as soon as we moved to the Inland Northwest, but maybe we were the silly ones for following the law.
Anyway, “Montana” liked to throw loud parties that lasted into the wee hours of the morning — 2, 3, 4 a.m. Each time we were awakened by drunken yelling and loud music, we would walk upstairs and politely ask him to quiet things down so we could sleep. Usually, it would take at least a half-hour for the partygoers to disperse. And the next day, I would tell Ryan what was going on.
“I’ll get that handled,” he promised on more than one occasion.
By the 15th time we had to deal with a sleepless night, all of us were livid. It was the first of the month, so the three of us marched our rent check to the leasing office to confront Ryan. When we were just about to enter the building, I made eye contact with him through the window and saw him duck into his cubicle.
We handed the check to the nice woman at the window and asked to speak to Ryan.
“He’s not in right now,” she lied.
“Okay, we’ll talk to you.”
We laid out all the problems we’d had with “Montana” over the previous three months — the seven incidents we’d reported and the eight others we’d let go because of Ryan’s inaction.
“We’re really sorry you’re going through this,” the woman said. “I’m the assistant manager, so I know what’s been going on.”
“So, if you know what’s been going on, why hasn’t anything been done? How many complaints do you have to get about a tenant?”
Ryan must have told her what to say if we asked that question.
“It’s a process,” she said.
“Well, it’s a process that isn’t working,” I replied.
We were so glad to get out of there. Granted, returning to apartment living can be a challenge when one has lived in and is waiting for their next house. But clueless property managers like Ryan don’t help matters.
As we would learn, however, Ryan was not alone when it came to ineptitude. He was just the best at it.
Getting the project approved by the county was an adventure. One employee would tell us we needed to fill out form A, and then a second employee would correct the first and tell us we needed to fill out form B. The forms kept coming, we would dutifully fill them out, and then we were informed that the permit had been denied.
Somebody in the permitting department of the unnamed county was convinced that we were trying to place a rental property on our land, which is not allowed, rather than trying to give our daughter her own independent living space to hasten the possibility of presenting us with grandchildren, whom we presume will be cute.
Finally getting the permitting person (we nicknamed him “PP”) to sign off on the project took yet more paperwork, photos, and even an affidavit. One day at the county office, when I was dropping off a fifth set of forms and expressed our dismay, the nice lady behind the counter tried to console me.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get there. It’s a process.”
There were similar adventures with the bank and the builder. The builder wanted a larger chunk of money from the bank than the bank’s policy would allow. It was a matter of less than $2,000 on a $350,000 project.
“We’ve had challenges with this builder before,” a person at the bank told me. “Just be patient. It’s a process.”
Later, once the bank and the builder buried the proverbial hatchet, we were told that the builder was ready to proceed but would do so only after the house had electricity flowing. Months earlier, I’d taken a copy of the project drawings and other paperwork to the electric company, a representative assessed our needs, and I paid them $9,000 and change to get us hooked up.
On the day someone from said electric company came out to get the current flowing, he told our contractor that we needed twice as much juice for the house, and as soon as we paid an additional $7,000, he’d come back out.
At that point, I really felt I knew what it meant when someone once said, “You can’t fight city hall.” Worse, the electric company had placed us back at the end of the line for installations, even though I paid the extortion — uh, I mean additional — money that same day.
I tried to plead our case over the phone, and the woman interrupted me and said sternly, “Sir, it’s a process.”
The next day, I was chatting with my day-job boss about some of the challenges he’d faced in building several multi-million-dollar family entertainment centers over the years. He was saying how, when it comes to construction, no project ever comes in on budget or gets completed on schedule.
“Bob,” he said, “the one thing I’ve learned over the years is that construction is a process.”
I really like my boss, but at that point I wanted to tell him that he could stuff his process where the sun don’t shine. But, as a writer and editor, I knew that would not have been grammatically correct. Nor wise for my ongoing employment.
Now, finally in the house and waiting for the movers to arrive with our “stuff,” our next task is to transform the house into a home — to make it truly ours. I am anxious to take on the various projects on the to-do list, but the lovely Michelle encourages me to take baby steps.
I’m hoping that’s not code for, “It’s a process.”
Award-winning writer Bob Johnson and his award-winning photographer wife, Michelle, love exploring the Inland Northwest and sharing their experiences and observations with Huckleberry Press readers.