Strike Three

The dawn of the new year brought on the beginning of the end of our outpost in San Francisco’s Mission district. We had planned to keep our cozy apartment on Balmy Alley as a back up option in case our cruising plans would go too far south. We had sublet it to two young girls who now started to turn out a little too young not only to look after our organization but also to bear the responsibilities of keeping the fragile tenant to landlord relationship in its proper balance. Complaints from the landlords started popping up in emails and that in a city with a brutally tight rent control ordinance was not a good thing. Landlords are spending a great amount of time scrutinizing their long term tenants for mishaps that would allow them to get rid of them and then adjust the rent to market value with new tenants, witch is pretty much impossible otherwise. Once they got wind that we had made a small profit by subletting the apartment they had material for a full fledged eviction lawsuit in their hands and the previously so harmonious relationship between us and them went up in a short lived puff of smoke. Our crash course in the absurdity of legal language started by having to decipher the Three Day Notice to Cure or Quit that was served at the apartment on February 2. Our roommates left the apartment like a flock of panicking chickens running in all directions and March 2 saw us back in the freezing cold San Francisco Bay Area ready for battle. The landlady and her emerging heiress thought it preferable to pay a good sum of money to a sneaky attorney, instead of offering it to us in form of a good will relocation fee. Hiding behind the prestigious front of a downtown lawyer’s office they now let all their inborn nastiness fly. By the end of April we saw ourselves handing in the keys to what had been our home base in the heart of San Francisco for the last 14 years and jokingly classified ourselves as internally displaced people.

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