Country Mice in the City

In the mid-seventies I took my three young sons and exited a ten-year marriage. We sold the divided the money between my ex and me. The court thought it was the fair thing to do. The fact that the boys would insist on eating, wearing clothes and growing had no bearing on the case.

With some of the money I rented an apartment. The apartment was the type where money was more important than references. The lease was for six months. I chose this place because no one asked any questions. And the landlord was willing to rent to me.

When work references pre-date ten years, not many people will take a chance on you. This admission complicated my housing search. While we were married, my spouse did not want me to work outside the home. He thought I might find another man. That would have added up to two men I didn't want to live with.

After securing the apartment, and I mean “securing” in the truest sense of the word, we settled into this alien atmosphere. Permission to move from the country to the city should require a test comparable to that for a driver’s license.

Possible questions: Is the apartment surrounded by more razor wire than a prison? Does graffiti obscure the color of the walls? Is the graffiti an improvement? Can you or your children recognize which design belongs to the ruling gang in your apartment complex? When putting on a bandana, do you need to contemplate that flowers might be the best choice? Are you packing? Go back to the country. You thought the question meant luggage and that spells "country."

Judith and her sons

The boys were the target of choice for many of the inhabitants. It was a rare day when any of them dodged a beating. Sad, but true, some of the things they fell for could have gotten them parts in the movie "Dumb and Dumber." They gave away, or physically had taken, just about everything they once owned.

During this time my partner Sue moved in with us. She knew as much about kids as I did about city life. We both had a lot to learn. As a family we threw out the word “nuclear.” And we created a less explosive sounding definition. (I have a strong belief that you are either the parent or the child. Age will change and exchange the roles, whether you want it to happen or not.)

The Apartment: Do not confuse it with the Shirley Maclaine/Jack Lemmon movie. The Apartment was now called home. It even had central air conditioning. There was supposedly a unit locked behind the door on the patio. It wheezed cool air with all the force of someone with end-stage lung disease. I was naive enough to think that if you paid your rent on time, the utilities would work. Here, take the remainder of my toys. After numerous complaints the resident manager said she would send someone out to fix the unit.

We were waiting for someone with a tool belt to arrive. Meanwhile Sue, Nameless Second Son, and I decided to give ourselves a cucumber peel-off facial mask. (Even self-defense instructors and drop-dead tough women can be had by a free sample.) Son just wanted to see to see us with something on that would not let us talk. The three of us were sitting there with our faces stretched to the max. We were trying not to laugh, much less talk. It’s pathetic how easily entertained we are.

The air conditioning guy did not knock on the door. Instead, he jumped over the patio railing. He looked in the sliding glass door at the three of our mortuary makeup faces. He stared in disbelief. No amount of bribing or threatening could get Son to answer the door. All three of us tried to fit through the kitchen doorway at once while screaming, "Just a second." Second my bouncing butt. It took about five minutes of continuous clawing to get that plastic crap off our faces. Sue spoke with the technician because she wanted the air conditioning more than we did. She also won the face race.

Before the six months lease expired we decided that apartment living wasn't for us. Our coping mechanisms had all but vanished. The boys were getting close to wearing our clothes. And they had started making toys out of our feminine products. We decided it was time to rent a house. A wonderful place where we could all shout, "Get out of OUR yard."

In the seventies it was particularly hard for two women and three children to rent any type of residence. Realtors thought children were destructive and women needed a man in the house. (That concept is what started this saga.) This type of discrimination still exists in many forms. The realtors and banks have become more creative in the way they bypass many of us.

For weeks we scanned the classified ads for something we could afford. Like the bra commercial, I had no visible means of support. And Sue was drawing unemployment. The door contained no knuckle-knocking dents from anyone willing to take a chance on us. The fact we paid the rent and utilities on time at The Apartment counted for nothing.

After continuous searching we found something affordable and made an appointment with the realtor. We impressed upon the boys how important this was to all of us. We cautioned that they might hear a lie or two. It wouldn’t necessarily be from the realtor's mouth, but that was a possibility too. If they heard either of us stretching the truth to within snapping distance, they were to remain silent and emotionless. With the rehearsal covered we worked on getting presentable clothing ready.

Judith (right) and her partner Sue

I went against everything in my nature and decided to wear a dress. That was how badly I wanted the house for us. Sue lent me one of her dresses because I didn't own one. She also helped me do some weird thing with my hair. It wasn’t a braid. So I don’t know what it was called or how to describe it without questioning my lapse of sanity.

When Sue and I came down the hallway I thought how handsome the boys looked standing there. Out of Cucumber Mask Son's mouth came a string of words I will always remember.

"You go right back in there and change," he demanded. "If you think we are going anywhere with you in a dress, think again. No way are we walking to the car with you and having everyone make fun of us."

During this unbelievable outburst, Sue was saying, "Your mother looks beautiful. Look how beautiful your mother looks."

No one was listening to her. I looked at Oldest Eleven Year Old Son. Tears were rolling silently down his face. My next look was towards the Four Year Old Spacey as a Moon Shot Son. He was exhibiting his usual "Is there a problem here?" look. Their response was something we had not foreseen. I did my arm waving, voice-raised, "What do you mean telling me anything about anything," Mother Routine.

Mistake number two occurred during this event. Middle Son discovered that I had also shaved my armpits. When we told them how desperate we were to rent the house, did he think it was one of those "Sure There's a Tooth Fairy or a Santa Claus" ploys? Son, who shall now remain titleless, lost it in a big way. He threatened every seven-year-old threat he could think of--including telling the realtor the truth. I reverted to reminding him about how much bigger I was and that getting over on him would be of little consequence.

We drove to the office. The back seat of the car was filled with the silence that I thought only duct tape could achieve. Their behavior caused me to contemplate wearing dresses more often. I would save it for when the rules of the house went unheeded in a serious way.

My mother, the Drag Queen: The ultimate threat—“Clean up your room or I swear I’ll wear a dress and sit on the front steps when it’s time for school to start or finish.” I knew they thought I was tough. But who would have thought they'd think I'd become a "hairless armpit-weenie" in a dress?

As the Goddess would have it, this was the first house the realtor had ever rented. We knew more about truth, lying and leasing than he ever would. We were strong. We were invincible. We were the proud renters of a shotgun shack.

There are a few loose ends that need mentioning before they unravel on their own. My armpit hair has yet to grow back completely. The next time I wore a dress it was welcomed. It was requested for the wedding of the Poster Boy for Hyperactivity. Who, I might add, has taken to dressing up in items considered feminine by many. He is lucky to have married an understanding woman

We lived in the rental house for one year. While we were away on a much-deserved vacation, it caught fire and burned. It was an electrical fire and extensive damage was done. If it had been a small fire it would have happened at someone else's house.

The next landlord asked Sue if I could have my father sign the lease for us. She told him not to let me hear him ask that question. When she later told me, I said, "Sure, and I could also wear a can-can and shave my crotch for the privilege of renting yet another fixer-upper." Not bloody likely! End of discussion. We now had some believable references. Better yet, we had acquired more coats of polish than the floors of our soon to be rented house. Two years later we were able to buy our own home, and we have resided here for the past twenty-five years.

There are still a number of creative ways to rent or own that we haven't used. Should you need our expertise, give us a call. Just dial R-U-4-REAL.

Judith K. Witherow
Morningside, MD
www.jkwitherow.com

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