"You're not as nice-lookin' as the last broad," Mr. Goultier says. "Anyway, where's your thing?"
He scans your document, then says, "You still owe me at the end of the month for your time here. First and last month gets rolled into your next three payments. Let's get inside for the rest of the paperwork."
Mr. Goultier wears a pork pie hat to hide his baldness and a checkered coat; his movements are twitchy and anxious, like he's expecting the feds to jump out of the bushes at any moment. He talks in a rapid-fire ramble about how hard he'll kick your ass if you damage his property. He has a kind of "ska Danny Devito" vibe. Or if the butler in The Prisoner did poppers.
Inside, his two sons are yelling at each other about a drill one of them dropped. The living room is trashed, like raccoons used to hold secret illegal boxing matches here. It's also freezing.
"Where's the heat?" you ask. Seems like a pertinent question. In New England. In February.
"Shut up and let us work!" one of the sons yells at you.
"We're working on it," Mr. Goultier says. "But look, these old houses…"
"Need heat," you say.
"Fucking kids today want their internet and everything else right away," Mr. Goultier says. "Maybe you should try working for what you want instead of whining for it."
I force myself to be polite. "Why don't you just show me around."
"Hey, that's a good idea. Are you looking for an apprentice landlord? I won't ask much of a salary as long as I get a cut."
I ignore the Goultiers and look around for a way to fix this problem.
I'm not going to start screaming…yet…but: "Get the heat on. Now."
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