“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she says to me, all sass. This is the third time I’ve called to ask her why she stopped paying rent, hoping the answer – she doesn’t have the money – will be different. She thinks I’m slow, maybe. Or disorganized. Or that I just don’t care. None of these things are true - she’s one of fifteen clients I’ve spoken with this week and I just can’t remember. My fault for not writing it down, okay. She’s made her point. I feel like an asshole.
Truth is, I’m no lawyer. I’m just a college student who speaks better English than this Haitian lady I’m trying to keep from getting evicted. She won’t answer my questions, though, keeps talking about the “kaka-roaches” in her apartment. Maybe this is landlord negligence? Legal basis enough to withhold rent? Ignore for a second the three relatives she’s got sleeping in her living room, and maybe she’s got a case.
I’m making this up as I go. If I fuck up, she’s homeless. My boss knows a lot more than me about the law – he’s been to prison, actually – but he’s even busier than I am. He doesn’t know this lady exists. And here she is telling me I’m useless.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “I’m sorry for repeating myself, but this is my job.” Job, summer internship – really what difference does it make? I’m just trying to help. But I don’t know what I’m doing, and it scares me shitless.
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