Eugene Havens

I woke up in a new town and went to meet the rental manager. The process was being done backward. We moved in before signing the papers or meeting anyone in person. It was a small-town thing that had me wondering what could go wrong. What if we didn’t like the people renting to us? What if they didn’t like us? It would be too bad because this was an arranged marriage. We weren’t in a position to buy a house, leaving us to rent in a tight market. We needed them more than they did us.

It was the first errand of the rest of my life, and so I was likely making up a problem to have a problem I could solve. From the urban location I never imagined moving away from, I agreed to live in a place I had no connection to. I had never dreamed of getting away from it all. I couldn’t imagine what I would do in a small town. (A recurring daydream was being forced to drive a tractor to feed my family, which made a soul-crushing cubicle in a sealed office building seem reasonable. Sometimes, I was driving the tractor at gunpoint for some reason. Who held the gun? I didn’t know. Maybe I had done cookies on the farmland with my little turbo commuter car and was paying restitution.) It wasn’t my idea to move. I could’ve said no, but I didn’t.

The trip to the rental office was through flat, yellowing, nondescript land. To an eye accustomed to the inspiration of city scenery, my new home was a modest, humble blip of a town, a place you would pass by on the highway and gamble to keep going because there should be a reason to stop. While I followed the religious guidance of Google Maps, I swiveled my head for a central location to make me forget I was hopelessly lost. There was nary a landmark nor an architectural feature to focus the eye. The town’s residents wouldn’t care about these gripes. They lived here for anonymity. They didn’t want it to be anything other than a place to work, recreate, and raise a family. It wasn’t a tourist town on purpose. That led to traffic congestion and higher prices, and so the town council avoided meaningful growth. The town was all it needed to be: a sleepy agrarian community with a hospital and a technical college that drew people and services. I couldn’t complain about the lack of excitement because what brought us there were the spoils of an overlooked place to save money by stepping off the beaten path. The town couldn’t be fashionable without being overrun by the very people we had left behind.

If you were on this stretch of north-south highway and needed something, you were glad to see this town. Peter’s lament was insultingly honest, yet Peter stayed. He knew the best option was right in front of him. That you don’t always celebrate your best option was a surprise of living long enough.

The address in Google Maps led to a tiny office in a housing subdivision. I thought places outside the city would be larger. I thought a lot of things would be different, like finding a great rental without much trouble. I wanted rural life to be a hidden opportunity for beaten-down city people, not just a place with fewer resources. The jury was still out on this.

The rental manager asked what my first night in the house was like. I barely heard him because I was distracted by the size of the office. It was indeed as small as an airplane cabin and had a second unoccupied desk. Given his large frame, the rental manager made his desk look like an ironing board. I wondered how anyone could spend their days in a cramped space in the middle of nowhere. My bias showed as another could say the same about commuters sitting in their tin cans stuck in traffic. There were many ways to live with as many compromises. I certainly didn’t miss sitting in a cubicle, which would have been my fate had we stayed in the city. Having finished writing a book, I was headed back to the rat race until the spouse found a lifetime opportunity in a small town, and I said sure instead of no way.

I answered that the house was “great, great,” although I hadn’t slept well. The lease was still unsigned, and even though we were invited to stay, I was in sell-myself mode, like a job interview. It was an old habit to seem nice and eager when renting in an area with multiple people wanting the same place.

My smile was on. My hands were in my pockets. It was his cue to pull out the lease and the second house key. He wasn’t ready to let this moment pass. He sat back in his chair and quizzed me on the house. How did we like it? Was everything OK? I answered that we hadn’t been there very long. We arrived yesterday and moved in. The rental truck was already back at the U-Haul. The town fortunately had one, saving us a 120-mile drive to another town.

But yes, the house was excellent, amazing, and perfect for us.

On the manager’s desk was a tsunami of paperwork. He wasn’t in any hurry. In the city, a leasing agent had you out of there faster than buying groceries. This manager leaned back in his chair and unloaded on me about them.

It was about the house’s owners. He told me their names, how it took two years to renovate that small house, and that he was surprised it got rented. They were an older couple who retired to this area after working high-stress jobs back east. They didn’t have family, no kids, and so no grandkids. It left them to focus on their rental properties. They had poured more money into fixing up the house they scooped up than they’d ever see in rent. Besides the fact, tenants would trash the polished hardwood and top-shelf appliances.

We’re pretty careful, I said. He finished by saying he finally put the house on the market so they would have to stop tinkering with it. Not everything might be perfect with it, he told me.

It was a question I shouldn’t have asked, but having rented for decades, I already saw the potential for disaster. So, as innocently as I could, I asked if he thought these owners would be a problem for people who rented there.

I expected the manager to swat at the air and say, of course not. That’s why they hired a rental agency. Instead, he admitted, they do like to be involved. He told me the wife of the duo had ripped up flowers in a flower bed of another property because the tenant hadn’t gotten permission to plant. He assured me the woman hadn’t entered their house. The flower bed was near the sidewalk, so technically, the owner hadn’t trespassed or broken any laws.

Was the tenant paid back for the flowers? I found myself asking. I was sucked into the story and hoped for an ending that benefitted the renter. The rental manager didn’t answer, only said, they keep you on your toes, these two. He had said you, and I wondered if that meant me or he was talking loosely about himself. I knew not to ask that question because I already felt I knew.

Are there any other rentals available at your company? I asked.

Unsurprised, he answered, those two you saw online. I remembered them. One was twice the price, and the other was smaller and had dark wood paneling and shag carpet. The house we were already in had wall-to-wall hardwood floors and an extra bedroom for Julian. It was the best price for our budget based on a new job Iris hadn’t yet started. We had left the overpriced city, but we weren’t in a position to spend money at the moment. We had already moved in. It was a point the rental manager certainly didn’t forget.

Well, I’m sure it will all work out, I said finally.

We’ll see, he said.

As I stood there, he showed me the lease. It was for six months.

Didn’t we talk about a year? I pointed.

It’s a standard lease.

I’ve never signed for less than a year, I said, quoting my past.

You may want to buy a house by then, he offered.

We’re probably set for renting at least a year, I said.

You can stay as long as you like.

Will the rent go up in six months? I asked.

He said it wouldn’t.

Then why not make it for a year, I thought. He wasn’t worried about giving up on this point. He didn’t move an inch, just smiled.

I took the pen he offered, set the lease down on his desk, and signed. I hope you and your family have a nice stay, I heard him say.

Thanks, I said, handing back the pen. He gave me the second key.

He reminded me to let us know if anything needs attention. You’re our first tenant since they bought the place, he added.

I will, I said, hearing the offer a second time and hoping it would not be necessary.

The rental manager had been doing this long enough to know what was in store. He seemed to know the owners would ask us to vacate their house a few months later, in the dead of winter, with nothing else available for miles.