We called the police.
Hour 1. Police station.
The landlord took a long puff at his cigar ("my own brand!") and scratched his beer belly. He wore a woolen version of a wife beater, a baseball hat, tinted pink glasses, and therapeutic shoes. He wagged a finger at me, "I came fully prepared!" as he poured himself a cup of tea from his thermos. His wife was clad in a purple leotard, mini skirt, and crocs. All dangerous signs that she intended to be comfortable for a long day.
They played good gangster, bad gangster. Or rather, mob boss and crazier right hand.
They claimed Canadian citizenship. The police spat and cursed them as "running dogs."
Hour 2.
The policeman questioned us individually while sipping his oolong tea. He nodded and drew a lot of diagrams. Finally, he sighed, leaned in, and told us that while he was sympathetic to our side, he could do nothing. The law was weak. The police were weaker. This was China.
He said it without frustration or indignation. It was simply a fact. He had probably said it many times to many different faces sitting across his table.
He then gave us tips on dragging this out with the landlord. He wanted us to stick it to them.
Hour 3.
The police told the landlord to settle with us peacefully. The landlady sat back, folded her arms, and told me that this was China. She would have their people stalk us 24 hours a day. Disrupt every meeting. Smoke in every room. Drag us to the police station every day. Until we pay.
The landlord then winked at me and whispered that he would probably be delegated the stalking duty. He asked me about our working hours and the company cafeteria food.
Hour 4.
In between negotiating terms, the landlady and the housing agent broke into another fight. After I calmed them down with a joke, the landlady suddenly turned to me.
"Do you know why I called you so often?"
"Because you didn't like calling the agent?"
"Well yes. But everytime I got so mad and wanted to yell at somebody, I called you, and then I felt so much better. Your voice is so gentle. You should switch jobs. How about going into counseling?"
She turned to the agent.
"You need to change your temper. This is why you're still not married. In fact, you should call Sisi more often. It's a great way to release stress."
While I was processing this dreaded compliment, I overheard the landlord telling my friend in the background that all this - the police involvement, threats, extortion - was just business as usual and that he really liked him personally. He also offered to consult our company ("for small fee only!") on collecting defaulted micro-credit loans from factory workers. After all, he specialized in debt collection back on the streets of Hong Kong.
Hour 5.
I wrote out the new agreement, squeezing out as many pretentious "such as, but not limited to" and "Party A hereby agrees . . .," as a previous lawyer-wannabe would under duress.
We finally left the police station. I handed over the money. The landlady wanted my friend out by that night, otherwise he would incur another fine. So I called up all the boys I knew in the area and we packed and heaved and carried and shoved while the landlord worked on his third cigar.
Hour 6.
More of my friends piled into the house to help. The landlady kept thinking we were going to beat them up. So she had her cronies on alert, ready to come in and balance the numbers. She had security guards physically block the door and even turned off our electricity.
Hour 7.
The police was called in again. He came in, yelled a little bit, then paused to ask me if I had cried. He also asked the landlord whether he could take a tour around the big house. He even took off his hat reverently.
The landlord told me that I was silly for caring so much. He told my boss that I was a good worker and that I deserved a year-end bonus. He also offered to come and collect on my behalf if that bonus never materialized.
Hour 8.
Last packing van pulled out. The landlady said she wanted to take me out to dinner. For once, I didn't feel guilty saying no.
1 comment:
drama!
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