I was in Milwaukee. On Labor Day.

I had driven 90 minutes up there to fuck this beautiful asian girl from substack with dead in her eyes… but it didn’t happen. She baited me up there with nudes and then once I was actually there she said she was “Out of my league.” Oh thank you for wasting my time you dumb stupid retarded worthless fucking whore.

Great, so now I’m just in Milwaukee, with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

I go on Craigslist. I see a recently posted job in Chicago, Evanston, actually: renovating and cleaning apartments. $25 an hour. Lots of work. Start immediately. Call Frank.

I overcome my fear of phone calls (sensitive young man), tell him Hey I’m on a road trip doing odd jobs like this, I can drive over and start right now. He says Sure, come on down.

So I do, come on down, driving 75 minutes south to Evanston, this quaint little college town north of Chicago.

I meet Frank outside his property. It’s just a house on a street like all the rest. He’s got this Mexican guy Juan working inside, painting.

He tells me we’ve got to get these apartments ready for the new residents moving in. Go clean the upstairs kitchen and bath. Use Windex. It’s less abrasive than the other shit.

You good at cleaning?

Me: We’ll see! Of course, I’m not. I’m not a work-with-my-hands kind of guy, but it’s money and I can listen to Podcast in my headphones as I work, and I’ve got nothing else to do, so here I am.

I end up doing more than cleaning. We’re moving furniture out of these apartments too, and throwing them into piles outside, storing them in sheds, some local characters come by in a pickup truck to poach the items with any resale value.

These items belonged to upperclassmen at Northwestern, young adults with more money than time, who just left their shit behind.

As we worked I got the vibe that all this stuff was up-for-grabs, so I would sneak smaller useful items from the vacated apartments into my van.

This one kid left his bed. Left two beds, actually, but one of them was big and soft and I wanted to sleep in it.

So I asked Frank: hey, can I just sleep in this apartment until the new residents come in? What is it like a week, or two?

He said Sure.

Frank is tough to pin down. He’s a short skinny pale late-40s-early-50s man with a thin unemotional face. He's been wearing the same red sweater all week since we first met. He looked felt and sounded like he had been Working and doing nothing else for the past 40 years.

He rarely looked at me when he spoke. He rarely said more than 5 words in a sentence. Go here. Do this. Put that shit there. Use Windex. Windex. Half of the questions I asked him went unanswered. He would just ignore me unless I needed to know.

I didn’t really mind all this at first, as long as I get paid.

He was always on the move. He said he had a day job, 9-5, in addition to this Being a Landlord business where he owns these houses, rents them out, and hires losers like me to clean them in-between leases1.

I worked all day and made $200.

Then I showered and went to sleep in the apartment across the street, where those frat bros had just vacated and left their beds. Felt great. I had stumbled into a fortunate situation again.

The next morning I immediately got to work abusing the situation for all I could.

In an off-handed comment on Day 1, Frank told me “somebody could make a KILLING selling all this shit on facebook marketplace…”

I asked “Can I actually do that? I’ll list this couch right now.”

He said “Sure” and probably didn’t give it another thought. It was my assumption that all this perfect-condition furniture these kids left behind may as well be trash, and so it was mine to sell.

So of course I started to sell it. I gobbled another Adderall XR and listed 10-15 big items on Facebook marketplace, including my phone number and sales copy like “first come first serve” spending the whole day in a manic moneymaking frenzy2.

Frank was at his 9-5, he was privy to none of this.

In the back of my head I wasn’t entirely sure, whether or not I should be selling all this shit, but Frank was so scarce with his communication that I assumed that no “Stop” sign meant “Go Right Ahead.”

By night I’d made over $400 and still had plenty left to sell.

Then I texted Frank: I did 4 hours of cleaning today and sold/moved a lot of furniture!

He replied:

Me: Dressers, Drawers, Beds, Leather Couch, Lamp, Microwave, Desk, Tables, Chairs…

That was the last phone-based communication I ever received from Frank.

I stayed in the apartment, oblivious, continuing to clean the next day, texting him my Hours, as if our verbal contract still held.

I text-asked: Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to sell all that?

No reply.

The next night, Wednesday, I went on a fast run down the perfect tree-lined streets of Evanston, forcing dopamine into my brain, to clear my head.

I got some taco bell feeling great about myself and walked through the door straight into a glass wall. A bad omen. This cute mexican girl with braces made sure I was OK. I consumed my poison taco slopmeal and walked back “home,” to the apartment now containing all my most valuable things.

I get back to the place and oh shit, it’s locked.

Yes, every door is locked. With all my most valuable stuff inside.

#1 is my LAPTOP, which I use to WRITE, which is my JOB, and also my backpack, containing all the things I use every single day including the ADDERALL, which I am ADDICTED TO, and my earplugs, and my toothbrush, and all the CASH I made the day before… just sitting in that backpack… and my big portable battery, and my copy of Crime and Punishment I was reading in an attempt to impress WOMEN, and my clothes, it was imperative that I get back into this apartment.

I text Frank: Hey you locked me out, I left my stuff in there, I need that stuff. Let me know!

No response.

Try calling. Calling his Landlord “24-hour-number.” Nothing.

Great. So now I’m sweaty and sleeping in the van, phone dead, soaking my sheets with the salty stench of a man who wore these clothes all day and then went for a real fast run.

Sigh. Frank will get back to me tomorrow, for sure.

Wake up the next morning. Still no text from Frank. Still door is locked.

Great! I’ll just go without the things that matter in life…

I bum around at cafes failing to read, or write, because no laptop and no adderall, everything feels pointless, hey at least this is some kind of forced T-break.

I have spent a long 12 hour day accomplishing absolutely fucking nothing,3 canceled on Bumble girl who wanted to see me and just stalked outside the apartment until I finally caught Frank again at 7:30 that night.

Hey Frank….. I’ve been looking for you all day…. My stuff’s in that apartment, can you let me in, so I can grab it?

He’s dealing with 3 people at once, various contractors, he barely looks at me: I didn’t lock it. I don’t have the key.

Me: You didn’t lock it, seriously?

He says, un-seriously: Maybe the residents came back who knows.

I can’t tell if he’s bullshitting or not, I am saying to his face very loudly: MY COMPUTER IS IN THERE, MY MOST VALUABLE STUFF IS IN THERE, I NEED TO GET THAT STUFF…

He’s like yeah I’ll look for the key sure, he gets into his red pickup truck and drives away.

How can you not have the key... you're the fucking landlord. You must have the key to the apartment you own.

He won’t respond to anything, I can’t waste another day of my sensitive young life to this and every moment I waste is a moment I stop writing and Celine forgets about me so…

Fuck it, I’m breaking in. I’m calling a locksmith to pick the lock. I need to get in there, to get my shit.

I google: “Do locksmiths ask for proof of address?” Quora says “Yes. Usually yes.” But I know in real life nobody cares.

I call the local locksmith and he says “$29 fee for showing up. The total price… based on what kind of lock we’re dealing with.”

Fine. I give him the address.

20 minutes later the locksmith’s there. Tall lean mid 30s brown guy in dirty clothes. Name’s Tommy. He walks up the steps to meet me in the tiny little shared entryway where the building diverges into two different units.

The door on the left is the one I need to get into, I say.

He says “You got proof of residence? Lease, Utility bill anything?”

I say Sure, knowing I don’t. I pretend to look for it on my phone.

I say ”Umm.. I actually don't have the lease on my phone, it’s in the apartment, can you just take my ID?” I show him my ID. I’m White. He’s like fine, it’s chill.

So he gets to work picking the lock. Down on his knees, sticking one of those inflatable bags in-between the crease of the door to open it up and jamming this screwdriver-thing behind the knob. This is what it means to “pick a lock” ?

He’s been hacking at it for about 10 minutes when he tells me: “Oh yeah It’ll be 279.”

??? Two Hundred and Seventy Nine Dollars? What the fuck? Immediately in my head I’m stiffing him. Grabbing my shit and running away. Fuck $300 for this, telling me the price now that you’ve already hacked away at the door, clearly damaging it…

IRL I stay cool calm composed until…

AAAGHH — some girl resident comes down from upstairs and here I am with this guy picking the lock…

She asks “…Whats Up?”

I lie some more: “Uh, I just moved in and Frank won’t respond… this is my last resort…”

She says “Wow… I’ll try calling him..”

Oh fuck, if he picks up he’s going to come here and see me picking this lock, destroying his door… god damn it, meanwhile lock-pick guy is having a really hard time here, I’m like can you be better at your fucking job? I don’t say this but I’m holding the flashlight for him and he’s just so close I can hear it in his tone,

5-10 more minutes go by which feel like hours, until I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me and…

“What’s going on in here? What is this?” Frank arrives, joining us in the closet-sized doorway and he still doesn’t fucking acknowledge me…

He just starts telling the lock pick guy: “I’m the landlord. This kid doesn’t live here. Did he show you a utility bill? Did you get proof of residence?”

The lock pick guy is pissed off and confused… What? Yes he showed me ID… What the hell?

Frank’s aura is powerful so lock pick guy just scorns the whole situation and leaves. Frank says “I’ll call 911.” Not on me, he still won’t acknowledge me.

I’m telling him again for the third time: MY STUFF IS IN THERE, I NEED MY STUFF, I’M JUST TRYING TO GET MY STUFF

He’s like I’ll look for the key! And just walks off again into the night.

I am incredulous… I don’t know what to do. But, deep down, I am just a tiny-bit pleased that lock-pick guy went away, because I really did not want to pay him $279.

I just climb back into my van across the street and sadly creepily fall asleep again. Feeling defeated.

Wake up the next morning. Friday. Still nothing from Frank.

Still no laptop, no adderall I’m going insane, I feel like Raskolnikov, I should just break in through the window. Google what is the best object to break in through a window? I’m imagining myself trying to do it and failing pathetically…

I’m running out of time, my production has slowed to a grinding halt and Celine hasn’t heard from me so she’s forgetting about me and she’s probably getting fucked by some guy at Law school and everyone’s forgetting about me and worst of all this story has no fucking SEX in it so who even cares?

Just stewing in my van.

I go on Bumble and ask some random bitch for advice.

She says: Wow… I would go to the police.

And as much as I hate to listen to women or to deal with the police… I settle and do that instead. I think, in this situation, the police would be on my side. People generally believe me, because I’m a gifted storyteller with a trustworthy face.

So I go to the local police station, and I explain all this through a glass wall, and some guy who deals with “Civil Cases” tells me there’s really nothing he can do…

and I’m like Can you try calling Frank? Maybe a call from you would do something..

And the Officer does, call Frank, and speaks to him for 10 minutes, and then gets back to me.

“Frank says meet at 7:30 to get your stuff. He’ll call you.”

Yeah, sure he will. Thanks anyway, sir. Guess I’m just waiting around ‘till then.

7:20 PM.

Driving from Planet Fitness back to the locked apartment, 626 Foster St. Evanston IL.

My phone rings.

Oh shit a Call from Frank! Finally!

“James? Yeah I’m on my way, since you went to the police they actually want me to go to the station first, fill out some paperwork, they’re going to escort you into the apartment, they don’t want us on the property at the same time,”

Me: Oh man really? I’m sorry… so should I go to the station or the apartment?

“The apartment, the cops will meet you there.”

Me: Ok.

I feel like it’s a trap. Like they’re coming to get me instead. Because I tried to break in.

Sigh, fuck it. I just go anyways.

I schedule-send an email to Celine, just in case.

I sit there for over an hour. Getting increasingly frustrated, tired, cold. Watching Northwestern kids walk by—mostly Indian, trying not to scare them. I’ve been hanging around this house for like 4 days now, they’re starting to recognize me.

The night passes, I’m getting so pissed off, I have a hot date4 scheduled at 9 and it’s 8:49 PM. I don’t know what else to do but whine into the void.

But then… finally… I see Frank’s red pickup truck and two white shining police SUVs.

Unsure as to whether they’re here to arrest me or set me free, I put on my aw shucks sensitive young man face and greet the cops outside. Hey how ya doin.

The main cop is a clean cut mid 30s tall blonde glasses white guy. He asked me to explain the whole situation, from my POV. I looked him in the eyes the entire time.

He said OK. He seemed to understand. He said “all right we’re going to escort you into the property, it’s unlocked, you wanna move your van up to get your things?” I said yes sir.

The other cop, a short stout black woman of 35 or 40, she questioned me some more learning all about my fantastic van life journey. (Where ya from? Washington? Wow you came from so far! Where ya going after this? I say on a date, actually.. She laughs.)

The two cops follow me into the apartment. Frank is nearby out of sight. I’m grabbing all my stuff, it is really taking just 2 minutes. Frank I’m not robbing you, all this time, I’m just grabbing my stuff. Laptop, battery, backpack, clothes, Crime and Punishment… that’s it. I forget my toothbrush but who cares, I’ll replace that for three dollars at CVS,

Got my shit. The officer confers with Frank once more and gets back to me:

“Okay Frank told me to tell you: Good luck on your travels.”

I smiled.

“Is there anything you’d like to say or ask?”

…no.

“Okay. You are now trespassing and must leave the property. Please do not come back. Do you understand?”

…yup. Okay bye!

I get in my van and drive away.

I send a voice note to my hot date, who goes by “RadFemHitler,” on twitter:

Hey!!! I’m on my way to the bar now! Just finished my thing!

I send it while driving. I also take a swig of Lychee Soju while driving to prepare myself to meet this girl. I got the Soju from some nice guys up in Toronto who loved me and wanted to see me drunk.

All right, got my stuff back, time to meet Man-Hating-Bitch RadFemHitler!

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