Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Timothy - 1. Chapter 1
“Mom, Dad, I have been accepted.” I had applied to a university in the South that was rated as one of the top ten schools for a law degree. My goal was to become a lawyer as my grandfather was before he died.
The first semester I lived in a dormitory on college grounds. My dorm mate was a senior who would graduate at the end of the semester. He was excited as he was going to law school in New England, Harvard, to finish his law studies to become a lawyer.
“Dean, I thought that you would have completed all of your studies to pass the bar when you graduated from here?”
“No, here you will get a general degree, but to get a law degree, you’ll need to go to a school that will provide the equivalent of a Master’s degree in law. Then you’ll need to pass the bar before you can practice. My family is from Connecticut, so I’ll go there for my Law degree and take the bar there once I finish law school at Harvard.”
“Do I have to transfer once I finish here?”
“No, you can stay here and get your degree. I don’t live here, so I wanted to go to law school close to my family.”
I understood that. I’d get my law degree here as my family lived about 200 miles away. Close enough to come and see me if necessary and far enough to give me some freedom.
I liked Dean. He helped me that first semester. It was like having a personal guide and tutor.
At the end of the semester, I had a gift for Dean. It was a book, Courts and Criminal Justice in America. “Tim, if you ever need help. I’m only a phone call away.”
How does one go from heaven to hell? I found out. My roommate for my second semester was just the opposite of Dean. He was a slop who didn’t respect privacy. He told me to call him Booker T. He never took daily showers, and he reeked by the end of the week. I don’t think he attended one class, and if he did, he never had homework. I came back to the dorm late one night. I was working on my assignment in the library. I had started doing that the second week of school. There was no way I could do any school work in the dorm.
When I entered my dorm, there was a party going on. Booker T was walking around in a pair of ratty old shorts, and obviously, he didn’t have any underwear on. He was drunk and started to put his arm around me. I shrugged him off and then noticed one of his friends was wearing my clothes.
“Booker T, why does he have my clothes on?”
“He spilled beer on his, and mine are too big for him. It’s okay, Timmy Boy, he’s a friend of mine.”
I think that was the last straw. I packed my clothes and took them to my car. I was thankful that I didn’t have my tv or any pictures. I wasn’t sure if I would have the same dorm when I returned for the second term or not.
I decided to look for a room off-campus. Until then, I would sleep in my car.
I called Dean, and he suggested I should look for Mrs. Betty Kenner’s place. She rented rooms to students. He gave me the address, and on the first Saturday after my phone call, I looked up Mrs. Kenner’s phone number and made an appointment.
That Saturday, I was hoping she would have an apartment to rent. Arriving at her address, I was in front of an old Victorian home. It looked like it came out of a historical book on Homes of the 1800’s. I didn’t need much; a bedroom and a bathroom were all I needed.
I knocked on the door. This little older woman came and answered the door. “Yes, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mrs. Kenner if she is home.”
“I’m Mrs. Kenner. How may I help you?”
“Mrs. Kenner, a friend of mine, told me you rent apartments to the students. I’d appreciate it if you could let me know if you would have one to rent?”
“Who told you I rent apartments to students?”
“Dean Smithson, a friend of mine.”
“Come in. I have one apartment on the second floor that just became vacant. The young lady who occupied that apartment graduated and left at the end of the month. I’ll show you the apartment. Follow me.”
I followed her out of the living room into a larger room that contained a TV set, a sofa, and several stuffed chairs. I was confused, and it must have shown.
“This is the common room for all of my renters. If you rent here, I’d expect you to pitch in and keep this room clean.”
I followed her up the stairs to the second floor. We walked down the hall to the last door on the left. I noticed there were four doors. Two per side and one door straight ahead. Between the doors were tables with lamps on them and a tray.
She opened the door, and we walked into the kitchen. “That is the bathroom,” pointing to the end of the kitchen. “This is the bedroom,” opening the door to my right.
The bedroom was large. There was a queen-size bed, a dresser, a closet, and a desk. “You will have to provide your linens and towels. There are some plates, cups, cooking pans in the kitchen. Previous tenants left them. If you need more, you’ll have to buy them.”
I smiled, I could eat at the school cafeteria, but I would need bed linen and towels for showering,
“Mrs. Kenner, this would be perfect. How soon can I move in?”
“As soon as you sign the lease. I’ll prorate the monthly rent for the days left this month. I want my renters to pay on the first of the month plus one month in reserve.”
I asked her how much was the rent, “The rent is 150 dollars per month. That includes all utilities and the use of the washer and dryer at the end of the hall. I’ll show you.”
I followed her to the end of the hall. When she opened the door, there was a washer and dryer with shelves on the wall above these two units. There was a box of soap for the washer.
I signed the lease and paid her 225 dollars. She smiled as she took the money. “Welcome, I think you will like it here. The next time you talk with Dean, tell him I said hello and thanks for sending you.”
“I will.”
- 54
- 13
- 2
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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