Richard, the acting landlord in the apartment, seemed very anxious. I think he was traumatized by his experience as a refugee and also from some family issues that will pass unmentioned here. He was super clean, an absolute neat freak and absolutely obsessed over his health, taking supplements and nutritional additives galore. He also had a keen sense of humour which for me redeemed him of his more irritating characteristics.
My main issue living with him was noise. He had a piercing penetrating kind of voice. He would frequently be yacking on the phone for seeming hours and even with my door closed I was still serenaded by his water torture natter. I eventually just went and closed his own door. He didn't really like it but usually seemed to know better than try to argue with me. Like many new Canadians scrabbling to get ahead he did seem to have a rather callous attitude towards our less fortunate Canadians and believed firmly in slumlord's, or should I say landlord's, rights. I did take the trouble to explain to him that tenants generally tend to be the more vulnerable party, given that their very home can be put in jeopardy by a landlord's self-interest. I don't think he really got it.
He did commission from me a family portrait of himself, his mother and his nine year old son, and their cat too. This I did in exchange for two months worth of rent. I also found that I couldn't trust him. A friend of his was also my welfare worker. I was selling quite a few paintings that I was exhibiting in a café downtown. I made the mistake of telling Richard each time I sold a painting. He would casually inquire how much I was paid for it, then I would discover mysterious deductions on my welfare cheque for unspecified income.
When I caught him one day in the kitchen playing footsy with his male naturopath he later insisted to me that he wasn't gay. I was like, so what, but really methinks the woman doth protest too much!
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