It had barely registered as a blip on my personal radar that Ma was quietly buying and selling downtown condo units, sometimes fixing them up, sometimes renting them out. I hit my twenties, a smart-mouthed philosophy major living rent-free just off campus, when it struck me like a chair from an 8th floor balcony that maybe Ma had more going on than I had suspected. This was confirmed when, in my final final year, Ma told me I had to get out; she was renting my place to people who worked for a living, had a viable credit score, and kept their bank balance in the black. Incidentally, that was how I knew this was my final final year of school.
Ma used an agent named Helga Heimlich who showed up one morning to make sure I cleaned everything proper. There’d be no cockroaches, no bed bugs, and no half-smoked doobies on the balcony, not on her watch. I griped about having to scrub the floor and clean the oven and turn the toilet into a sparkling museum piece, but Helga Heimlich didn’t care. She said this was the least I could do for years living rent-free.
I was pulling hair out of the bathtub drain when Ma showed up to inspect the unit and work with Helga Heimlich to prepare a rental listing. The usual bullshit: spacious, bright, charming, lovingly finished, fully accessorized, well-appointed, lavishly amenified. They reached an impasse on the rental price. Ma knew the market. So did Helga, who insisted she could get double the going rate. In fact, she wouldn’t act as Ma’s agent if the unit got listed for a penny less than double the going rate. Things got dramatic. Ma wondered what sort of an inducement she should offer.
How ‘bout my tits? Maybe I can throw these into the bargain.
She started to unbutton her top and Helga rushed to cover her with a tea towel. I caught Helga rolling her eyes at me as I turned away, scarlet-cheeked.
Please do yourself up.
To be fair, Ma had a firm pair that had held up well despite abuse from me and my younger brothers, and they could have served as ample inducement to a certain class of renter, but I had read enough about Freud in my psychology electives to know it would be best if I not comment further.
Helga Heimlich insisted she could rent the unit for double the going rate, and she spoke with such confidence that Ma gave in.
It took only two days. Ma didn’t understand how Helga could pull off such a thing, but however she managed it, Ma was grateful. Me? I understood perfectly well how she pulled it off. I tried to explain it while seated at Ma’s breakfast table. By then, I was out of the unit and crashing with Ma until I could find a place of my own. I clenched and unclenched my fists, doing my best to signal my outrage. After all, one has learned nothing from a liberal arts education if one has failed to learn the ins and outs of moral indignation.
I told how Helga had banged on my door, me, barely awake, how she had ushered in the prospective tenants, me, still in my skivvies. A couple—a man and a woman—stepped into the living room, black boots and spats, shaved heads and swastika tattoos, and the man with that ridiculous mustache.
How could they not rent the unit?
Ma stared at me, vacant-eyed.
The 8th unit on the 8th floor of 88 Castlemire Drive?
I don’t understand.
Neo-Nazis? Heil Hitler?
Yes, I know who my tenants are.
You booted me out of my apartment so you could rent it to a pair of fascist freaks.
You seem upset.
Upset? I’m…I’m…
I couldn’t think of a word strong enough to describe what I felt. Ma finished her breakfast toast and dabbed her lips with a napkin.
How could you?
I’d never get anywhere in this world if I forced all my tenants to pass a morality test.
But neo-Nazis?
That’s the beauty of the modern marketplace, don’t you think? It shines on the good and the evil alike. It forgives absolutely everything. It’s grace rebranded.
Ma handed me some of her new neo-Nazi money and told me to go out and buy a proper shirt.