Chapter 2
The property management company was located in a stuffy little office on the third floor of a shopping mall downtown.
It reeked of dust and paperwork, and a Bee Gees concert was playing on the TV.
I was greeted by a bug-faced secretary who offered me coffee and told me that Heitor was just coming back from a meeting.
I turned down the coffee, too nervous to be drinking caffeine.
After the call, my brain had come up with a thousand scenarios until I reached a conclusion: He wanted to raise the rent and would no doubt blame it on taxes and renovations—you know how it is, the markets fucking up the lives of young people trying to become adults.
I was ready to argue that we were good tenants, and that we’d agreed to rent increases in previous years, but there had to be limits, especially during a recession like the one we were living through.
If he insisted on raising it, there’d be no other way: We’d have to jump ship.
Miguel was on call that morning and constantly texted us in the group chat Piglet had created—“Orgy in Rio”—asking for updates about the meeting. I texted back saying Heitor was late and he replied with sad crying emojis. I was worried, too.
While I waited in the small office, I checked my social media to briefly distract myself, to forget about the financial crisis and the rest of my problems. Finally, the agent arrived, reaching out his hand to greet me. He was bigger and balder than the first time we met. More of a bullshitter, too.
“Dante, good to see you.”
He walked around and sat in the chair across from me, back straight. He rummaged through the stacks of papers on his desk in silence until he found the one he was looking for.
“I got this letter from legal yesterday,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s about the debt collection notice the property management company intends to serve. Out of consideration, I decided to call you first and try to resolve everything amicably.”
“Resolve what?”
“You haven’t paid rent in six months.”
I stared at him, not understanding.
“We’re never late with the rent.”
“I know. That’s why I was surprised when I got the letter. The deposit’s no good in this case. They want to evict you.”
I leaned in close enough to take a good look at him.
“Are you not listening? The rent’s been paid.”
“The money never made it into the account. Are you the one making the deposits?”
“Piglet takes care of that.”
“Are you sure he’s been paying the last six months?”
“I trust my friends.”
“Dante, you’re the named tenant, your name’s on the lease. You’re the one responsible for payment.”
It was preposterous, insulting! I skimmed through the legal department’s email. Total amount owed: R$25,974.38. The agent sneered, running his tongue over his little otter mustache, giving me that I-always-knew-you’d-screw-up look.
“Give me one minute,” I requested. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. This is all a misunderstanding.”
I called Piglet. It rang and rang and rang, but no one answered. I tried three more times—nothing. His phone never left his side. There was no reason for him not to answer. Unless … In a flash, it all made sense. The truth pushed me over the edge; I looked down and burst into a fit of laughter.
“What are you laughing about?”
I stared at the agent and his mustache and laughed even harder.
“Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’, and we’re stayin’ alive,” I sang along with the Bee Gees, tearing the sheet of paper into tiny pieces and tossing them into the air like confetti.
“Dante, this is serious. You have two weeks to make the full payment, or we’ll take legal action.”
Still laughing, I walked out the door, while the secretary looked at me scared.
“Two weeks, Dante!” the agent shouted again.
I slammed the office door. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I took the stairs, and only when I reached the street did I wipe away my tears and take a deep breath to come back to reality. Six months of back rent …
I wanted to kill that motherfucker.