Tag: Belvidere NJ

Me in my kitchen at Blair House. The Deer-in-the-headlight expression is from my brother sneaking up on me with a camera.

What can be said about Blair House that hasn’t been told about any other slum? Except it was prettier. Blair House was a four-building garden apartment built sometime in the early 1950s. It sat on the top of a hill and was surrounded by trees. One summer, we were inundated by Scarlet Tanagers. These birds tended to avoid inhabited places, but the olive-green females were bopping around, too. There were also deer, rabbits, and our share of mice and rats.
The place was falling apart. The decorative pillars had rotted inside, becoming homes for wasps and those damned yellow jackets. Blair House was lousy with yellow jackets. Our air conditioner had been a condo for yellow jackets since before we moved in. I don’t remember ever using it. One day a neighbor took a swig of soda and swallowed a yellow jacket. The surgeons had to open him up to get it out. I don’t think he was the same since.
Inside wasn’t much better. The water pressure was so low we had to flush the toilet by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl. The bathroom had a nasty mold problem. I tried scrubbing the walls with chlorine, but it didn’t do any good. We had to live with it for over a year before the drywall got replaced. Our last Thanksgiving there was ruined because the oven broke while I was cooking a goose.
Blair House was privately owned by a rather nice but dotty fellow with a colostomy bag. He inherited the complex from his parents and turned it into section 8 housing for maximum financial security with minimum management and maintenance effort. But at least he sprang for an exterminator to rid us of wasps and yellow jackets when they grew too thick. And when I showed him the mold, he did fix the bathroom. But two years into our tenancy, it was sold to a bank, and yuppie vermin took over the ownership.
Our four years in Blair House were divided into two parts, before and after Bill Clinton. Poppa-Doc Bush was still president during part one. I moved in late September or early October of 1991. By my next birthday in November, the American voters chose Slick Willy Clinton to continue Reagan’s trickle-down policies. It was still your father’s poverty when I got there. Rents were increasing, but welfare, food stamps, AFDC, and Section 8 were still fully funded. I could afford out-of-pocket medical care if I really needed it. Or I could get treated in an emergency room for free.
I have a friend who keeps saying she never voted for Clinton because she knew he wasn’t a liberal. Maybe I could say the same thing if I lived somebody else’s life. If you’ve read “Countdown to Blair House,” you’d know I was up to my ass in alligators. Without evidence, I hoped Slick Willy would try to keep his promises and improve things. I even phone banked for him in the evenings. Did I ever get that wrong!
In my defense, I wasn’t the only person desperate enough to fall for Clinton’s shit. All my neighbors at Blair House believed it. Most of all, they loved the idea of universal health. There was the dizzying prospect of upward mobility without worrying about medical care. If people didn’t have to limit their incomes to stay on Medicaid, there wouldn’t be anything keeping them from looking for better jobs. Better jobs meant getting off Section 8 housing. It meant no more food stamps. Best of all, it meant no more social workers intruding into our lives.
Clinton’s campaign and election brought optimism to poor people, and that optimism embraced everybody at Blair House. Even the residents at the developmentally disabled group home were happy because everybody around them was happy. A few, like The Biker, didn’t care one way or another, but he was genuinely pleased to see the rest of us excited.
Blair House was a never-ending kaleidoscope of drama. Such as the newlywed couple who lived behind us. The husband was a farmhand, and the wife was a waitress. (Yes, there were still farmhands in Warren County back then.) His father had been a live-in farm laborer for over thirty years. The son took over the job and moved to Blair House. But the parents couldn’t adjust to life in Boca Raton and tried to move back to their old house, which had been turned into a grain shed. So they moved in with their son and daughter-in-law without notice. And They brought their Australian shepherd with them.
Nobody had any trouble with the dog except Manager. You see, the poor pooch was trained to herd sheep. And there weren’t any sheep in Blair House. So what’s an industrious canine to do but improvise? Since there were no sheep around, he decided to herd toddlers instead. I was alone in the living when our oldest came running in, yelling, “Dad, Dad, a dog’s holding my brother hostage!” Believe it or not, that was not the weirdest thing that ever came out of the kid’s mouth.
I followed him into the courtyard, and five toddlers, two or three cats, and the odd squirrel were standing in a knot under a big tree. And the dog circled them and stopped any of the cats from darting off. And if a child tried to leave, the dog would take the kid by the pant leg and gently pull him back. That was one of the funniest things I ever saw, and I wish I had taken a picture. The dog trotted up to me, tail wagging high and proud, just bursting to be praised for doing such a craftsman-like job. And I was all, “who’s the good boy?”
That mutt was the best thing that happened since the invention of the babysitter. A watchful four-footed nanny was the answer to a parent’s prayer. He was gentle, diligent, and loyal. His daddy, the retired farmhand, said god help the person who tried to hurt any of the kids or cats. And that was something I wanted to hear. We were getting reports of a suspicious van at the elementary school. That dog was worth his weight in diamonds!
Of course, Manager had to ruin it. I swear, if Jesus was bringing us all into heaven, she would find a way to ruin the moment. Manager came out having a tantrum over the “horrible” animal. Then she looked at me. My arms were crossed, and I tapped my foot. “There was no harm done,” I said quietly. So far, my partner and I were the only people who stood up to her, and she was getting scared of us. She stopped dead in mid-tirade while I stared her down.
Most of my neighbors had been cowed by years of pandering to social workers. They deferred to Manager because they assumed she had the power she claimed to have. But the winds were changing. I had been living in Blair House for nearly two years, and there wasn’t a damn thing Manager could do about it. People were learning she was not all-powerful. A couple of other parents even came outside to support the dog and weren’t backing down! Mothers were asking Manager not to be such an (in so many words.) bitch. It was turning into a rebellion Manager couldn’t win.
If she succeeded in making the old guy get rid of the dog, people would hate her more than ever, which could lead to a revolution. If she tried and failed, the revolution would happen immediately. People would start treating her like my partner, and I treated her. So Manager retreated while threatening reprisals if her son was ever tormented by the dog again. She pulled the kid away, who was crying for more doggy time. Did I mention how much I hated that woman?
I knew that Manager wouldn’t let the matter drop. She was a sneak, and you always had to watch out for the knife to the back. I expected her to call animal control behind our backs. So I worked to head that off. I helped the old guy get his dog vaccinated and licensed. That earned me brownie points with his son and daughter-in-law. They spent most of their free time looking for a new place to live.
I would have hated to see the old couple separated from their dog. They had a tough enough time adjusting to retirement. There was a herd of about a dozen sheep nearby, so I spoke to the owners, and as luck would have it, the owners needed a well-trained dog. So I got them together with the dog’s owner, and the pup’s life became a Loony-Toons script. Each morning he would leave the house and cut through the woods to herd sheep. After a hard day of bossing sheep, he would come home to dinner and tummy rubs from his humans. The old folks got to keep their doggy, and Manager was foiled again. It got to the point where my neighbors were coming to me with their Manager problems.
Too much energy was wasted on dealing with Manager’s antics. My partner made a hobby of foiling her. This would result in screaming matches where Manager would yell threats, and my partner would laugh in her face. I always used a more indirect method of foiling her, but if it did lead to an argument, I never raised my voice. I would smile and say, “go ahead; I have a lawyer on standby.” That was purely a bluff on my part, but it always sent her packing.
Not long after our second New Year at Blair House, we hit a deer. Our car was totaled. I was a prisoner at Blair House for nine entire months. That meant I had nine months of constant Manager drama. Not having transportation, I was limited to odd jobs and getting to them by bicycle. And there is nothing I loved more after a day of Alzheimer’s respite work or mowing lawns than to come home to more Manager drama.
Not that Manager was always a bad thing to have around. We got behind on the rent during those nine months, and we were sick with worry. One night, the anxiety was so bad that I couldn’t sleep. I was waiting for the eviction notice and didn’t have a game plan. It was early morning, a time when nobody expected to see me. I was at my bedroom window and overheard a conversation between Manager and The Biker. It went down something like this.
“The Landlord lost the building for taxes, and it’s being auctioned,” Manager said to The Biker.
“That sucks,” The Biker replied. “What happens to us?”
“We’ve got leases, so they can’t evict us right away,” Manager replied. “But I destroyed the ledgers, so they won’t know how much rent we’ve been taking.”
At that point, I had to tiptoe away so they wouldn’t hear me laughing. No wonder the original landlord lost the building with friends like that. But I slept easier that night knowing that Manager’s greed worked in my favor. We stopped worrying about our portion of the rent until I got working again. We were also a lot more civil to Manager. Which was a mistake.
Chris and Debbie had become the biggest Blair House soap opera. I talked about them in The Night Carlos Died. We never saw them sober anymore. Chris had lost his maintenance position, and his free rent went with it. He moved into Debbie’s apartment, and they spent their days drinking themselves stupid. In their defense, their housemate had just been shot by the cops. But that was no excuse to pick a fight with The Biker.
Those two were the meanest drunks I had ever met. They took to downing a quart of cheap vodka between them and getting into screaming matches. Chris would come downstairs to stay away from Debbie. Usually, he’d wait until Debbie had passed out and go back upstairs, where he’d join her in the Land of Nod. But this time, The Biker came out to ask him to please keep it down. It was a reasonable request, and The Biker was careful to mind his manners.
He did nothing to deserve Chris turning around and giving him the same verbal abuse he had just given his girlfriend. Chris was such an asshole when drunk that he inspired me to quit what little drinking I did do. And I wouldn’t have blamed The Biker for tossing him across the lawn again. Instead, The Biker destroyed all the outlaw stereotypes by calling the cops. Chris stayed where he was and kept screaming at The Biker’s door. I had come out to see what all the noise was about and stayed to watch things unfold.
I was thrilled to see Officer Clark (not his real name) arrive to de-escalate the problem. I wasn’t as friendly with Clark as I was with a few other officers, but I respected the hell out of him. Officer Clark was the hardest-working cop in Belvidere. He was hell on speeders, hunters, and deer spotters. Not only did he bust them, but he also reported arrests to professional groups like the medical licensing board or the Bar Association. You would be amazed how many doctors and lawyers went to Belvidere to get cross-eyed drunk and shoot at anything that moved. And Clark also confiscated tons of Saturday Night Specials and other illegal handguns from deer spotters. Clark was focused on keeping people safe and did an outstanding job.
So this was the officer dispatched to get Chris back under control. Clark had an edge to him that made even drunks cautious, and he was usually able to get Chris under control. But not this time. Clark got out of his vehicle and confronted Chris, and Chris kept getting more out of control, yelling and screaming in Clark’s face. Finally, Clark put a warning hand on Chris’s shoulder, and Chris tore the glasses off Clark’s face and threw them against the wall. I could hear the lenses crack. Clark had his back to me, but I could see Chris, and he wore the same expression my stepson had while testing the limits.
Belvidere, NJ, did not deserve its police force. I was positive that Clark was going to lose his shit. I felt sick from anticipating the violence. Instead, Clark took Chris down with a non-violent Aikido move. Chris was face down on the ground but not hurt. Clark should have taken Chris in, and that was that.
As bad luck would have it, Debbie had woken up and followed Chris outside so they could continue their screaming session on the front lawn. Instead, she saw Officer Clark handcuffing Chris’s hands behind his back. She forgot she was mad at Chris and focused all her drunken rage on Clark. Debbie ran up behind Clark and kicked him in the ass. Hard! I could hear Clark cry out! He stumbled forward, pulling Chris’s arms in directions they weren’t supposed to go. Chris screamed in agony, and Debbie tried to kick Clark a second time. Only he dodged, and she fell on her ass. At that point, I laughed so hard that I didn’t see the second patrol car arrive.
My partner and our kids came out in time to see two more officers arrive to help Clark. Chris had his face in the grass, his arms cuffed behind him. Debbie was on her back, windmilling her limbs so Clark couldn’t get the cuffs on her. The other two cops had to hold her down while Clark cuffed her.
“Don’t get involved,” my partner advised.
“Like I’m going to walk into that debacle?” I responded. “I’m just going to help Clark find his glasses.”
The kids watched Chris and Debbie get dragged into separate police cars. A third patrol car arrived to drive Clark back to the station. He couldn’t drive without his glasses. I found them for him, but there wasn’t any good news. One arm had been bent in half, and a lens had crazed.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” I said.
“I paid 200 dollars for shatterproof lenses,” he mourned.
“I’d be looking to get my money back,” I replied lightly, trying to improve his mood. Officer Clark had a very difficult day. His glasses got broken, there was a nasty streak on his temple, and a drunk kicked him in the ass. I should not have tried to wise-ass a laugh out of him…
“Chris is paying for my new pair,” Clark replied, giving me the stink-eye.
“I think that’s fair,” I said. “And I’m going to talk to Chris about this. He usually listens to me, and….”
“Chris and Debbie are going to jail,” Officer Clark interrupted with such finality that I stopped trying. And truth be told, I didn’t blame him. Those two had been out of control since Carlos was shot. And all Clark wanted to do was calm the situation. It was entirely Chris and Debbie’s fault they ended up doing 60 days in Warren County Prison. And it did them some good to be in jail. They were going to kill themselves if they didn’t dry out.
Officer Clark could have had Chris and Debbie put away for a few years. But he didn’t see the point. He dropped the assault on a police officer charge on a plea deal. They spent two months in jail with two years probation and addiction counseling. And those two months were the most surreal I can remember because Manager decided we were friends. I still shudder when I look back at this and blame myself for being civil to her. I should have known it was a bad idea.
It started during deer season when drunks with guns descended on Belvidere like an invading army. Chris and Debbie had just started their sentences. It was a warm September day, and I was reading on the front stoop, where I was least likely to be hit by a stray bullet. Manager came running past me and yelled, “come on, get up!” Please don’t ask me why I got up and followed her. I must have been curious as to what flew up her ass. And I was also very bored. I followed her behind the dumpster, and she stopped in a clearing and started looking around.
“What are we looking for?” I asked her, not seeing anything.
“There were hunters here, and it’s illegal for them to be this close to the building,” she replied.
That gave me a split moment of brain freeze. Then the words “What. THE. FUCK!!!” echoed through my mind, and I started looking around more carefully. I may not be Daniel Boone, but my father taught me a few things about tracking. And there was a long trail of broken saplings and weeds heading towards the road. The hunters must have already been on their way to a deer processor.
I wanted to grab her by the neck, shake her, and scream, “are you trying to get us killed?” But I refrained. Mostly because I felt like an idiot for following her. And having been raised by dangerous lunatics, I had learned to be moderate in my responses. “What were you going to do if there were hunters here?” I asked her patiently.
A blank look crossed her face. She had to think hard about that one. Then she said, “go back to the house and call the police.”
“Why didn’t you just call the police?” I asked.
“They told me not to call them unless I saw the hunters,” she said. “I heard the gunshot, so I ran out to look.”
What could I do except go home? Then I had to face my partner’s reaction. “Why the hell did you follow her? Are you nuts? You could have been shot!”
How does one answer those questions, except with the truth? “I was wondering what she was panicking over, and how long did it take you to figure out I’m nuts?”
“Don’t let Manager mess with you like this,” they told me.
“I don’t understand why she’s even talking to me,” I replied. This was before Manager played stupid games with the social workers. I was still trying to keep it civil and professional whenever possible.
“Chris is in jail, and she’s looking for somebody to boss around,” my partner explained.
I saw the light. I often noticed how Manager bullied Chris as if they were still in a relationship. She would have told Chris to follow her as she called out to me. And for the same stupid shit. “And I’m walking into it,” I said.
“Don’t do her any more favors,” my partner suggested.
“Do I look stupid?” I asked them.
“Do I have to answer that?” my partner replied.
Of course, my partner was right. The next day she asked me to haul some trash out, just like she would with Chris.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “But you know I have a bad back and knees. I’d hurt myself.”
She soon learned to ask The Biker to do the odd jobs, which was actually the right guy to go to. The Biker had taken over as maintenance man, and he got the free rent. So why go to me? I think it’s because I’m flypaper for freaks. For the next few weeks, Manager kept coming to me to discuss all her evil thoughts and illegal plans. As if I were her partner in crime. I never invited it. I didn’t want it. And I felt no remorse about going to my neighbors and telling them about the underhanded trick Manager was about to pull on them.
Another thing Manager kept doing was asking me about Chris and Debbie’s apartment. Debbie had two elderly and obese cats, and my partner and I were caring for them. We checked on the kitties two or three times a day, and I managed to make friends with one of them. His brother was so timid he hid in a closet, and I had to look inside to ensure he was still breathing.
Manager kept asking me what condition the apartment was in. And it was very well maintained. The only sign of alcoholism was the open quart of vodka on the kitchen counter. I was tempted to pour it down the sink and eliminate the bottle. But I knew I would hate it if anybody did that to me. So I contented myself with not capping the bottle and letting the contents evaporate.
The questions escalated. Manager started to ask about the furniture. What furniture did they have in the living room? Of course, I only gave the vaguest of answers. We sealed Debbie’s door with scotch tape, and the seal hadn’t been broken. She could have used her pass key to get in. In fact, I was amazed she hadn’t already.
One day, the tape had been pulled from the door frame. I wasn’t surprised. The day before, she tried to thrust a Polaroid camera into my hands and demanded I take pictures. I explained that it was illegal and refused. Manager couldn’t contain herself any further and had to look. She used her passkey and broke the seal. As soon as my partner saw the break-in, they reported it to Warren County Legal Aid, who acted as Chris and Debbie’s attorneys.
The next day, I returned from riding my bike in the Poconos, and Manager finally came to the point. Chris had an antique china cabinet that belonged to his mother. Manager wanted it. She figured that as the ex-wife, she was entitled to it, and it didn’t matter that Chris’s mother passed after the divorce. She tried to bully my partner into opening the door, so The Biker could carry it out for her. But you don’t even think about bullying my partner, and The Biker would have no part in it. I have no idea why she wouldn’t use her passkey. I guess she wanted to blame my partner if the police got involved.
Undaunted, Manager came to me and told me she was planning to illegally evict Chris and Debbie for being in arrears. She hired a couple of guys to go in and bring all of Chris and Debbie’s stuff put on the curb and the china cabinet in her apartment. She told me I could take the cats in if I wanted to. Otherwise, she was going to have them put down. That woman was so evil even Cruella Deville wouldn’t associate with her.
Chris and Debbie had already been in the process of being legally evicted. But Blair House was in legal limbo. There needed to be an owner or agent authorized to sign the papers and take legal possession of the apartment. Chris and Debbie could only be removed from their apartment once Blair House was sold. And that took months. Once again, only the gods of madness know why Manager came to me. Maybe she thought I would be scared into letting her into Chris and Debbie’s apartment.
I didn’t like Warren County Legal Aid in the least, and I had damn good reason not to trust them. But they were the only game in town and a five-minute walk from my front door. I explained the situation to the secretary and was pleasantly surprised when they made themselves useful.
The next day, Manager got a court order hand delivered by Officer Clark. There would be no illegal eviction. Chris and Debbie’s property stayed right where it was. When Debbie got out of jail, her cats were waiting for her. By then, the timidest cat would let me pet him a little. Chris came home to his beloved mother’s china cabinet. And Manager never said a civil word to me again. Soon the building was auctioned to a bank, and it was outright war between us.
Maybe a week after Chris was released, he came to the house and dropped his car’s registration on the table. “It’s your problem now,” he said. Thanks to my partner’s wonderful mother, we could pay all the fees to get back on the road. I was working again. But Clinton’s welfare reform was going into effect, and life was never the same again.