I work in a place with a deeded garage parking. 

Had one sweet old lady (I’ll call her Granny) who owned a Mini Cooper. Another couple who rented a unit did not have a parking spot and took to planting their car in her spot. When Granny complained, the renters would just say they were entitled because there were so many empty parking places, so Granny could park somewhere else. WHAT THE HECK DO THEY NOT GET ABOUT DEEDED PARKING!

This continued until the day the sweet old lady decided to be not-so-sweet. She pulled her car in front of the two renters’ car and parked bumper to bumper. She put a note on their car saying:

Granny: “Parking in this space is $150 a day. Please leave a check with the concierge.”

So the two renters grifters showed up at my desk b****ing about their car being blocked off and actually expected me to tow Granny’s car off! I had to re-explain that:

Me: “Deeded parking means that I cannot tow a car from Granny’s spot, any more than I can rearrange furniture in her apartment. It’s her land; she owns it. You abandoned your car on her property; talk to her.”

So, after twenty minutes of the renters grifters b****ing:

Renters: “Call her!”

Me: “It’s very early.”

Renters: “It’s an emergency!”

I called Granny, even though it was early in the morning. She came down to the desk in her housecoat and slippers with her dog in tow. 

They begged her to move her car.

Granny: “It’ll be $150. Leave the check with the concierge.”

Renters: “You can’t do that!”

Granny: “It’ll be an extra $50 for waking me up in the morning because you claimed it was an emergency.”

Renters: “How long before you leave the garage?”

Granny: “Dearies, I’m retired. I’ll leave my spot when I’m ready. And the price just went up to $150 a day, plus $50 for waking me, and that will be in cash. Leave the envelope with the concierge. I’m walking my dog, and I’ll move my car when I have your rental fee in hand.”

Not only did the renters not park in her spot, but word got around, and I didn’t have to deal with that issue for another two years.

I lived in an apartment complex that didn’t have assigned parking. If you wanted a particular spot, you got there first. Otherwise, you parked where you could.

Well, of course, parking drama had to happen. There was a really entitled lady who lived in my building who decided to lay a claim on “her” spot. If you parked there, it started with angry messages on your windshield in red Sharpie on scratch paper, then escalated to her lurking to find out who you are and screeching at you to park elsewhere. Finally, she bought and placed a cone in “her” parking space every time she left.

Finally, someone else who lived in the building decided that he was over it. He moved the cone and parked there.

The lady lost her mind. I came out the next morning to find that this lady decided to park her car longways behind the guy and two other spaces, so multiple neighbors were being affected by this nutbag. She’s screaming and waving her arms while being shouted at by several people to move her d*** car. But she won’t move, because she’s called the cops to deal with this egregious crime of… parking in a parking lot space, I guess? Parking in (not) her ultra special sparkle and rainbow spot?

At this point, a few other neighbors and I are just vibing nearby, watching the drama.

The cops that arrived were clearly unimpressed. One takes the lady off to one side, the other takes the “criminal parker” to another spot, and they have a chat. One of the cops decides the best way to handle this is to make a phone call to the main office of the apartment complex.

I see his eyebrows shoot up, then slowly lower like thunderclouds. He confirmed that there were no assigned spots and that no one could simply claim one.

The lady’s dramatic flailing suddenly went still, and she got very quiet when the cop walked back over to her. Her face turned priceless when he wrote her a ticket for illegal use of a traffic cone in a public area.

He then ordered her to move her car and park it properly in a spot, or she was going to get another ticket for illegal parking. She opened her mouth, and the cop just cut her off and told her that he was more than happy to throw a public disturbance citation on top of it and to call a tow truck.

After all the screeching and flailing, the silence seemed deafening as she pressed her mouth into a thin line, got in her car, and moved it. The people waiting for their vehicles to be freed were more than relieved to be able to leave.

The guy who had parked in her spot to begin with was an unsung hero in that complex for a while. As for the lady? She got really quiet, and while that remained her preferred spot, she would just silently park her car elsewhere if it was taken.

I’m sure that it is entirely a coincidence that several people would claim that spot out of spite for weeks afterward.

In 2019, I moved from an apartment complex in Celebration, Florida, to a condo. As usual, when you move out of an apartment, you get a final bill, which includes your last month’s pro-rated rent, deductions for damages, security deposit refunds, and the like. We paid it.

The next month, I get a call from my wife who says we’ve got a follow-up bill in the mail from the apartment management company, for $0.02. We’re both in the tech field, so we laughed that this company’s IT department didn’t catch the edge case of spending $0.50 in postage to collect $0.02 in revenue. But it happens.

My wife prints out a copy of the bill. I grab two cents from the change jar. The apartment complex is on my daily drive, so I swing by the office. I walk in and tell the manager that I want to pay my last bill.

Me: “It’s two cents. Here’s the bill, and I have the two cents if you want it.”

Manager: “We don’t take cash.”

Nothing else. Awkward pause.

Me: “I don’t expect you to take cash. I expect us both to have a laugh about how silly computer systems are, and for you to write off the two cents, because it’d cost you more to process the payment.”

Manager: “I’m not going to do that.”

Another awkward pause.

Me: “So you want me to write you a check… for two cents. And mail it? And you’re going to process that check?”

Manager: “Yes, send us a check and we’ll process it.”

She walks back into her office to end the conversation.

So, I go home and set up an automatic, monthly bank payment to my apartment complex… for three cents. And then, because I’m a programmer, I write some code to send a letter once per month, saying:

Letter: “I’m so sorry, I’ve overpaid my bill. Please send me a check for the overpayment.”

I use an online service that sends postcards in ridiculous sizes, up to around 18″x24″, figuring that’ll be my escalation strategy.

The first of the next month, I get a call from the apartment company’s regional manager. After introducing himself, the next two minutes were the sincerest apology anyone could’ve hoped for:

Regional Manager: “Oh god, we made a mistake; please don’t do this, we’ll never contact you again.”

I stopped the mail and never heard from them again. Did I spend several hours on some petty revenge for two cents? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

In our building, you need a key fob to get from the main lobby to the elevator lobby. Most residents are well known to the staff, so if someone forgets their fob, they’re usually let in after a quick hello.

One day, I walk in with my mom. There’s a new front desk worker I haven’t seen before.

New Worker: “Good afternoon.”

Me: “Hi.”

I reach for my fob… and realize it’s still sitting on the kitchen counter upstairs.

Me: “Oh no, I forgot my fob.”

New Worker: “No problem, I’ll just need to confirm your identity before letting you through.”

Totally fine. He’s new. He’s following procedure. My mom, however, immediately bristles.

Mom: “What?! We live here! She’s a resident! You’re just going to keep us out?” 

Me: “Mom, it’s fine; he’s new. He’s just doing his job.”

Mom: “This is ridiculous! We have groceries! Do you know who she is?! This is outrageous! This is harassment!” 

New Worker: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I just need to verify her name in the system—” 

Mom: “—I have never been so insulted in my life! My daughter lives here! I demand to speak to—”

Me: “—MOM. Stop. You don’t even live here.”

I show him my ID, which matches the name on his residents list. We get through the doors, and I think that’s the end of it. 

…Until a few days later.

Every resident gets a building-wide email: 

REMINDER: “All residents who forget their key fob must have their identity confirmed before entry. No exceptions.”

Thanks, Mom. Now NOBODY gets a pass.

I have been called upon to take measurements of an apartment complex in the context of getting updated measurements, as the flats are about to be sold. The situation is shown to be dire already when I see that the parking lot and courtyard are a patchwork of dead grass, asphalt, and pools of black sludge.

Me: *Pointing at the courtyard.* “So, uh, what happened here?”

Seller: *With incredible nonchalance.* “Oh, the septic tank overflowed after some rain.”

Well, I guess it’s gross, but it’s only an unfortunate event.

Me: “Oh dear, have you already called a sanitation company?”

Seller: *Confused.* “No, why would I? It’s my brother’s responsibility to. Besides, it happens so often, I’m used to it.”

Flabbergasted, I am escorted inside the apartment’s atrium, where I see several pieces of sports equipment and toys piled in a corner, all covered in the same black sludge.

Me: *Trying my hardest to mask my disgust.* “What do you mean, is the plumbing particularly fragile?”

Seller: “Nah, it’s solid as a rock, it’s just that the septic tank hasn’t been properly emptied since my uncle died.”

Me: “And how long ago was that?”

Seller: “Must’ve been… ten years or so ago, I think.”

As I climbed the stairs, I saw that the first floor’s landing has a baby stroller, also caked in black muck. In the mid-floor landing, I notice various pieces of furniture and paintings.

Me: *Still containing my disgust.* “Have you gathered these to take them to the landfill?”

Seller: “Nah, it’s my brother’s responsibility.”

Me: “Has he arranged pick-up?”

Seller: “No. I will remind him this afternoon, though.”

I was speechless. And I was even more speechless when I saw the apartments’ interiors: window shutters that had crashed down into piles; mouldy ceilings from the first floor to the second-to-last, with the last floor being the culprit of most mould; plaster flaking off everywhere; balconies that had received no maintenance and were at risk of losing pieces big enough to injure or even kill anyone unfortunate enough to stand under them, when they weren’t at risk of full collapse; wood floors that had warped due to humidity and tiles that had cracked severely…

All of these were dismissed by the seller, “her brother’s responsibility”.

The thing is, the woman was middle-aged and co-owner of the apartments alongside her brother, and both wanted to sell them. Until then, they were lending them to their children and grandsons.

I begged the seller to at least call the engineering division to attach the building to sewers, or at least arrange a short-delay clean-up service of the septic tank; and after the visit called the provincial health authority to alert them of a possible hazard to public health, as well as leave a note in the house’s file to the architect, warning them of the building’s poor initial conditions. 

Surveying is not a bad job. But it requires Job’s patience sometimes.

Related:
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 38
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 37
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 36
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 35
On The Need For (Bio)Hazard Pay