The story of Stu and Jen, who stole money from the crackhouse landlord they worked for in order to move to Kentucky and find a better life.

At the stroke of midnight, on January 1, 2009, I was at my cousin’s house in Chicago, partying with various friends and family, happy as can be, ringing in the New Year.  I promised myself that 2009 was going to be the best year ever! With a little wine and whiskey, I am amazed at the words that came out of my mouth. However, I really did feel invincible that night, and seriously thought my business would take a turn and go beyond my imagination. 

My profitable real estate investment firm did indeed go beyond my imagination. It really did. Just not the way I wanted it to. It went from great, to good, to bad.  My business shrank so much in 2009, every time I thought it would get better, it got worse.  Not even my positive attitude and willingness to make it work would get me out of the deep trouble I created for myself!   

Anyway, at some point during the New Year’s Eve party, I had mentioned to Vasilios (”Bill”) my brother of 25 years at that time, how I would like to get rid of Stu and Jen Anderson, my poor white trash property managers in Omaha, for they were not doing the job that they were hired to do. I did not wish to spoil everyone’s great time at the party, including my own, by incessantly talking about the real estate business in Omaha and Sioux City, so I let it go.  

I was in such a euphoric state that night, I completely ignored my gut, which was telling me to call Helga Wunderbar, my toothless, loudmouth, 60-year-old, German-born assistant with huge boobs who only wears a bra when I notice her nipples coming through the ripped t-shirt she calls her favorite and most comfortable, and I have to yell at her in order to put one on. I should have called her to see if everything was OK.

The following morning, on New Year’s Day 2009, slightly hung over, I got out of bed feeling horrible.  I poured myself a cup of coffee, and reflected on the night before.  I still felt something was wrong! I called Jen and there was no answer.  I called Stu, no answer. It was 9 o’clock in the morning, and I was growing restless. 

0
Liked it
Comments (0)

Currently there are no comments related to "The Art of Crackhouse Management". You have a special honor to be the first commenter. Thanks!

Leave a Comment

Hi there!

Hello! Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!

Find the Spot

Loading