Life As A Landlord

I’M a landlord in Lakewood, Ohio, a Cleveland suburb near where I live that is predominantly prewar apartment buildings and double houses. In Cleveland — and probably most of the Midwest — you can get a clean one-bedroom in a decent neighborhood for $500. No air-conditioning and no dishwasher, but the unit is painted and has refinished hardwood floors.

I once had a tenant, Stan, who paced those floors at 3 a.m., waking up the people below. When I asked Stan to ease up, he said: “What do you want from me? I can’t fly.”

He moved out shortly after that.

About 10 years later, he called and said: “Stratton, you remember me. I want to move back in.”

“Stan!” I said. “You complained about the guy across the hall blasting organ music. You complained about the people below you fornicating. You skipped on your final month’s rent. You painted the floor.”

“But I used Benjamin Moore paint, Stratton. Only the best.”

I didn’t let him back in.

I want my tenants to be law-abiding and act middle-class. That’s the goal. The riskiest tenants are bartenders and servers. They often come home late and party hard, annoying the 9-to-5 tenants. I rent to welders, bartenders, landscapers, flight attendants, legal secretaries and Suzuki violin teachers. Some of the tenants meet one another in the vestibule, fall in love and marry. Then I have another vacancy.

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