An East Vancouver Rental Tale

(in which we learn how terrible my judgement is)

Jan 15, 2022

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L and I decided to move in together on a hot, sticky day in August. L bought a new pair of shoes that weren’t falling apart for the landlord interviews and I tried my best to look professional despite the hairy legs and armpits that it was too hot to cover up. We toured a laneway house (weirdly dark despite being above ground), a sunny first-level suite (unfortunately a shockingly wholesome-looking couple interviewed right after us), and a basement suite, with warp-speed internet and a newly renovated kitchen. We were offered this last one, and were seriously considering it, when I saw an odd but intriguing ad on Craigslist.

It was one sentence, there were no pictures, and yet the map showed the place to be right on my bus route to work. I called the number (“NO EMAIL”) and the man on the other end told me about a suite that had two floors, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, two balconies, and was somehow in our price range. It sounded too good to be true, but I felt we should at least go see it. It was walking distance from my current place, so L and I sweated our way over there.

Nasir was quite the character. He was fervently cryptic about whether he was the owner or the property manager, and he lived in the basement suite under the available rental. He had thick dark hair that flowed past his shoulders, and his daywear consisted of a dark blue bathrobe, a ribbed white undershirt, a gold chain necklace, and soft, fuzzy blue slippers.

He burst in on the current tenants to show us the suite; it was clear he hadn’t told them we were coming. We apologetically looked around while he and the tenants occupied themselves with a yelling match. While the place was certainly a fixer-upper, there was this incredible view of the north shore mountains from the rooftop balcony, and the place was more square footage than either of us had ever had before. Plus, there were burgundy carpets (!!!) and an alcove that looked down over the tree-lined street.

Nasir wanted us to sign the papers immediately but L and I took a walk around the block to talk it over. I was in love! L was less convinced. They pointed out the myriad red flags that had arisen in the last ten minutes—I provided a shaky alternative explanation for each one. L reminded me that the other place had a brand new kitchen. But this place, I insisted, had character! (A note to the reader: “character” is code for “more complex maintenance issues than will ever be adequately addressed,” and if you find yourself house hunting with someone who prioritizes “character,” run.)

After a lively back and forth, L caved. Perhaps they wanted to make me happy—perhaps they realized I would never let it go. And so we declined the quiet, clean, freshly renovated basement suite and moved into what I was certain would be our dream home.

When we arrived on the first of September to start moving in, Nasir was yelling at two house cleaners who were removing extra large garbage bags of who-knows-what from the suite. He sent them home when he saw us and gave us a discount of $50 off our rent to finish the job. (“See?” I said to L with my eyebrows. “See what a good idea this is?”)

Pretty quickly we noticed things that we’d been too rushed to see on the first walk-through (or perhaps too rosy-glassed, in my case.) There was a step in the staircase to the front door that was rotten and giving way. There was a closet full of surplus insulation material. The downstairs balcony sagged deeply at the edges (the railing would fall off completely at the first autumn rain), and the upstairs balcony had a collection of screws, nails and other jabby bits sticking out in unexpected places. There was still a lot of trash left by the former tenants, and in a strange paradox, the downstairs bath didn’t seem to hold water or drain properly. There was also a hole in the living room ceiling that had a plastic shopping bag tied underneath it to catch the rain.

I took this all in stride, cheerfully reminding L of the view, and how they could have an entire board game room here. They gave me a look, as it dawned on them just how atrocious my judgement was, and returned to picking up trash.

I really think we could’ve handled all of this… if it weren’t for the flies.

The first morning we awoke in our new place, I went downstairs to make coffee for L, and discovered a large cloud of black houseflies buzzing around the living room. There was also a smell that I hadn’t noticed yesterday, or perhaps I’d thought it would leave with the piles of garbage we’d removed. But no—there was a distinct deathly stench that had gained potency overnight. The place had come furnished, and I looked under, behind, above, and inside everything that I could. There was nothing to be found, so I decided that the flies were a remnant of the previous tenants’ trash piles and would soon be on their way.

But that night, we found a note from the previous tenants, crumpled up on the floor. It said: “This note is for the new tenants and we hope you find it. Nasir is a monster. Get out as soon as you can. Please don’t think badly of us. PS: we left a steak in the press.”

Now remember, even though Nasir was clearly an, ahem, passionate fellow, we’d spent the last two days cleaning out mountains of trash left by these former tenants, including a dog poop present they’d wrapped up in a blanket, so it was hard to know who to trust.

But we still had to figure out what a press was, because the aforementioned steak was certainly not in the fridge. Nasir had mentioned these tenants were from Ireland, and since I’d somehow convinced L we shouldn’t get internet so we could live a peaceful nineties existence, I called on my dad for backup. He looked it up and told me that press translated to cabinet, and so we began opening everything that opened in the house. It was in the bedroom dresser that I discovered a raw, bloody steak, its juices seeping into the wooden drawer. Thanks, Ireland! We tossed out the meat, cleaned the drawer and slept peacefully, thinking we’d gotten to the bottom of things.

But by the next morning, the fly population had doubled, and the stench was only growing. Examining furniture hadn’t done the trick, so L and I started moving things around. That’s when we discovered a big old sausage wedged behind the hutch and buffet. We tossed it, we slept, and we woke up to even more flies.

I was starting to feel a little bit crazy. The flies made it clear I wasn’t imagining the smell, but where the heck else could the Irish have hidden their vengeance meat? I decided, no matter how revolting it was, that I needed to follow my nose. After sniffing every inch of that room, it became clear that the ottoman was rotten flesh ground zero. But how? It wasn’t the type that opened up with a hollow centre for storage. When I flipped it over, I realized that the former tenants had sliced open the bottom of the ottoman in order to shove the meat deep inside its bowels. I laughed in relief, admired the lengths of these people’s revenge, and banished the ottoman to the balcony.

With the final piece of meat removed from the house, the smell dissipated and the flies disappeared. Nasir left for Uganda to visit family a week after we moved in, and he was noncommittal about whether he would come back. He left us his friends’ numbers for house repairs and threatened to raise the rent if we called them.

Life settled into a routine as L and I swam in the fresh delight of living together, right up until the day the city inspector showed up. We saw the writing on the wall and handed in our notice, escaping before the house collapsed on top of us.

I’ve heard it said that it’s easier to remember the bad than the good, but I’ll never forget waking up to peer out the glass door at the majestic, snowy mountains. They felt so close I thought I could feel a clean, frigid breeze on my face. And it turns out that I could, because of the unsealed crack around the door. It was west coast living at its cheapest, if not its finest.

OK dear reader, your turn: what’s your best worst rental tale?

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