Hope You Can Handle It

“This place was designed by a big name, you know. Fully integrated smart home. I spent fifty grand on the renovation alone.” Brenda, my landlady, stood beside the Italian leather sofa I’d paid four thousand dollars for, spitting as she spoke. Across from her, a well-dressed young couple surveyed my living room, their eyes wide with admiration. “Brenda, this style is just fantastic,” the young woman gushed, running her hand lovingly over the quartz countertop of my kitchen island—a piece I’d had shipped from Italy. “The open-plan kitchen, this island… it’s exactly our aesthetic!” I sat in the corner on my ergonomic chair, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. Brenda shot me a contemptuous glance. “Well, Leo, you heard them. I’ve sold the apartment.” “You have three days to pack your things and get out.” “As for the penalty for breaking the lease,” she added with a magnanimous sneer, “I’ll be generous and waive half a month’s rent.” I looked around the room, at the walls, the floors, the fixtures—every inch a product of my own sweat and money. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. You want to use my hard work as a bargaining chip to inflate your price? Fine. Just be ready for the consequences.

1 “Brenda, I’m trying to work,” I said, closing my laptop and standing up. “Bringing strangers into my apartment without permission? That’s trespassing, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes, her fleshy cheeks jiggling. “Your apartment? The deed is in my name, buddy!” She turned back to the couple, her face instantly transforming into a sycophantic grin. “Don’t mind him. He’s just some broke nine-to-fiver who’s been renting for two years. Thinks he owns the place.” The man adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, giving me a look of pure disgust. “Brenda, we’re very serious about this offer. But it’s contingent on the apartment coming with all the renovations and appliances. And we need it vacant as soon as possible.” “Exactly,” his wife chimed in. “The design is what I fell in love with. We can’t afford to wait for a whole new renovation.” Brenda slapped her thigh, her smile wrinkling her face like a dried flower. “Don’t you worry! Not a problem!” “It’s all in the contract! The price includes all permanent fixtures and existing appliances!” “All he has is a few raggedy clothes and shoes. I guarantee you, in three days, he and his junk will be gone!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Includes all renovations and appliances?” I pointed to the minimalist linear chandelier hanging above us. “I bought that light. Three hundred and fifty dollars.” I gestured to the polished microcement floor beneath our feet. “I had this floor poured. Sixty bucks a square foot.” Finally, I pointed to the kitchen island they were so enamored with. “That was custom-made. Twenty-eight hundred dollars.” “Brenda,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “You’re selling my property to make a profit. Did you ever think to ask me?” The couple froze, their eyes darting to Brenda. Her face went stiff, then flushed with rage. “Leo! Have you no shame?” she shrieked. “It’s installed in my house, so it’s mine! I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m not charging you for drilling holes in my walls, and you have the nerve to ask me for money?” “You were the one crying and begging me to let you change things! Did I force you?” “Trying to blackmail me now? Not a chance!” The male buyer frowned, clearly not wanting to get involved. “Brenda, about the ownership of these items…” “Oh, Mr. Sterling, don’t listen to his nonsense!” Brenda stamped her foot, shooting me a venomous look. “He’s just a lowlife trying to scam some money before he leaves!” “Rest assured, every last nail in this apartment belongs to me!” She planted her hands on her hips, her voice rising an octave. “So I’ll ask you one more time: are you moving out or not?” “If you don’t, I swear I’ll have my son and his friends come throw you out on the street tomorrow!” Seeing that smug, triumphant look on her face, I nodded slowly and pulled out my phone. “Fine.” “Since you’ve already sold it, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your business.” Brenda snorted, victorious. “Glad you see it my way.” “However,” I said, my tone shifting, “my lease isn’t up for another two years. Considering the rent increases in this area, plus my investment in the renovations…” “Don’t give me that crap!” Brenda cut me off. “The contract? It says right there the landlord has the right to reclaim the property!” “As for compensation, I already told you. Half a month’s rent. That’s seven hundred and fifty dollars. Take the money and get lost!” “This place is worth three hundred grand on the market right now, and I’m not taking a penny less. If you screw up this sale, you couldn’t afford to pay me back if I sold you into slavery!” The couple, seeing that I had “relented,” relaxed into smiles. The woman even started gesturing around the living room. “Honey, that painting is a bit tacky. We can replace it with a giclée print.” “And this rug, the color is too dark. An off-white one would be much better.” They were already planning their new life in my home. I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to smash my phone across their smug faces. “Okay,” I said, looking directly at Brenda, my voice eerily calm. “Three days, you said? I’ll be out.”

2 After escorting the three plagues out, I surveyed the room. Two years ago, this place was infamous in the building as the “haunted house.” The previous tenant was a hoarder. The apartment was filled with trash, the walls were peeling with mold, and the wiring was a fire hazard. Brenda had been desperate, practically begging people to rent it. No one would touch it. I saw potential in the layout and high ceilings and signed a five-year lease. To secure the low rent and permission to renovate, I had a specific clause added to the contract: “Tenant has the right to conduct renovations and alterations to the premises at his own expense. Landlord shall not interfere.” But I never imagined human greed could sink to this level. I spent three solid months gutting the place—stripping the walls, rewiring the electrical, redoing the plumbing, waterproofing, and installing custom furniture. I transformed it from a literal dump into a minimalist studio that won a design award. All in, with materials and labor, I had invested over thirty thousand dollars. And now, that thirty grand had become, in Brenda’s words, the “exquisite renovation included with the apartment.” It was the capital she was using to sell the place for a fifty-thousand-dollar premium. And my reward? A “charitable” handout of seven hundred and fifty dollars. My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Brenda. I pressed play, and her shrill voice blasted from the speaker. “Leo, I’m warning you! When you leave, you better make sure this place is spotless! If you dare to damage anything, even a single light switch, I’ll call the cops and have you arrested!” “Oh, and send me the code for the smart lock. The buyers are bringing their designer tomorrow to take measurements.” I let out a cold laugh and texted back two words: “No chance.” She replied instantly. “What’s that attitude? You think I won’t shut off your water and power right now? You’re not from around here, kid. You have no idea who you’re messing with! Just ask anyone in this building about Brenda!” You mean the infamous neighborhood shrew that everyone despises? I thought. I ignored her. I pulled out the renovation contracts from my desk drawer, along with every single receipt for building materials. They were all there. I had even saved the receipts for the drywall anchors. Then, I pulled out the lease agreement. My eyes fell on the addendum: “In the event of early termination by the Landlord, the Landlord must either compensate the Tenant for all renovation losses or permit the Tenant to remove and take all self-installed fixtures and improvements.” When we signed it, Brenda hadn’t even bothered to read it. She was too busy counting her money, laughing at me. “Remove them? What are you going to do, peel the paint off the walls and take it with you? Idiot.” Yeah. I was an idiot. I was an idiot for treating this place like a home. But even idiots have a breaking point. I picked up my phone and made a call. “Hey, Rocco? It’s Leo.” “Yeah, about that demolition job we talked about a while back.” “No, not a partial reno.” I looked around at the exquisite space I had created, a glint of steel in my eyes. “A full demolition.” “I want this place to look exactly like it did two years ago.” “No, actually. I want it to be cleaner than that.”

3 The next morning, I started packing my personal belongings. My computer, books, clothes—the easy stuff. The “big items” were the real challenge. Brenda showed up before 8 a.m., acting like a prison warden. She brought a folding stool and sat by the door, watching my every move, terrified I might take a single thread that “belonged” to her. “Hey, hey, hey! You can’t take that projector!” she shrieked, jumping up as I started to uninstall the ceiling-mounted projector. “That’s an appliance! I saw the listing! It was sold to Mr. Sterling!” I stood on the ladder, looking down at her. “The receipt is in my name. The warranty card is in my hand. You sold it to Mr. Sterling? Did you get permission from Epson?” Brenda’s face quivered with rage. “That’s bullshit! If it’s attached to the wall, it belongs to the apartment!” “If you dare take it, I’m keeping your security deposit!” “My deposit?” I laughed. “That fifteen hundred dollars? Keep it. Maybe it’ll be enough to buy you a nice coffin.” Then, right in front of her, I snipped the connecting wires and packed the projector into its padded case. Brenda screamed and lunged at me, trying to snatch it. “Thief! The tenant is robbing the landlord!” Her grating voice instantly attracted the attention of our neighbors, who poked their heads out into the hallway. Seeing she had an audience, Brenda immediately switched into drama-queen mode. She plopped down on the floor and started wailing, slapping her thighs. “Everyone, come and judge for yourselves! This outsider is bullying a poor old woman like me! He lived in my house, and now he’s trying to gut it bare! There’s no justice in this world!” The neighbors whispered amongst themselves, but most of their glances were filled with scorn. Everyone knew what Brenda was like. Mr. Henderson from across the hall shook his head and muttered, “Leo’s a good kid. He turned this dump into a palace. Looks like the old bat is up to her tricks again.” I ignored her performance. I walked straight to the entryway and uninstalled the three-hundred-dollar smart lock, revealing the dark, empty hole in the door. Then, I replaced it with the rusty, old-fashioned padlock I had saved from two years ago. “You! What are you doing?!” Brenda stopped her wailing and shot up from the floor. “You took the lock off! How are they supposed to view the apartment now?” “Here’s your key.” I tossed a single, rust-covered key at her feet. “This was the original lock. I’m returning it to you.” “As for the smart lock, sorry. I’m not a charity.” Brenda snatched the key, her whole body trembling with fury. “Fine! Just you wait, Leo!” “You take one lock today, and I’ll make you pay me back tenfold tomorrow!” She pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of me furiously. “I’ve got it all on camera! This is evidence! Let’s see what you do when Mr. Sterling gets here!” Speak of the devil. Mr. Sterling, his wife, and a designer came up the stairs, all beaming with excitement. They stepped inside and stopped short, staring at the bare entryway. “The… where’s the lock?” Brenda immediately adopted a victimized expression, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Mr. Sterling! You’re just in time! This scoundrel took the lock off! And he’s trying to steal the projector!” “You have to stop him!” Mr. Sterling’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Young man, have some decency. We bought this apartment with the renovations included. By removing things, you’re damaging our property.” The designer chimed in, “Yes, the smart lock was integral to the overall aesthetic. Without it, the whole entryway is ruined.” I stared at this pack of self-righteous thieves, a sense of absurdity washing over me. “Your property?” I pulled the projector’s remote from a box and tossed it in my hand. “When you signed the contract, did you ever bother to ask who actually owned these things?” “You gave your money to the landlord, but you expect to take things from me for free?” “You want to keep them? Fine.” I pulled up a payment app on my phone. “Projector and screen, I’ll let them go for five hundred, considering depreciation. The smart lock, two hundred.” “Pay up, and they’re yours. Don’t pay, and shut up.” The woman shrieked, “Why should we?! We paid over three hundred thousand dollars for this apartment! Why should we have to give you more money?!” Mr. Sterling’s face darkened. “Brenda, is this what you meant by ‘turnkey’? If you can’t handle this tenant, we’re backing out of the deal!” The threat of losing the sale sent Brenda into a full-blown panic. She lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “Leo! You’re really trying to ruin this for me, aren’t you?!” she screamed. “I’m telling you, you are leaving these things here today! Or you’re not walking out of this door!” I looked down at her pudgy hand clenched on my collar. The warmth in my eyes turned to ice. “Let go.” “I won’t! What are you gonna do about it? You gonna hit an old woman?” She tightened her grip, her other hand coming up to scratch at my face. I shoved her away. It wasn’t a hard push, but it was enough to send her stumbling back a few steps. “I’ll say this one last time,” I said, my voice low and steady. “These are my things.” “I will hand over the keys at 5 p.m. tomorrow.” “Until then, this is still my home.” “Now, I suggest all of you get out.” “Otherwise, I’m calling the police and reporting you for trespassing and harassment.” Maybe it was the cold fury in my eyes. Or maybe the word “police” finally got through to them. Brenda, muttering a stream of curses, retreated to the doorway with the buyers. Before leaving, she spat on the floor. “Fine! 5 p.m. tomorrow!” she snarled. “We’ll see what kind of magic tricks you can pull by then! If a single hair is out of place, I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth!” The door slammed shut. I took out my phone and called Rocco. “Rocco, change of plans.” “We’re not waiting until tomorrow.” “We’re doing it tonight.” “All night.” “I’ll pay extra.”

4 8 p.m. The senior citizens of the complex were in the square for their evening dance routines. A plain, unmarked panel van pulled up to the building. Rocco and five burly men, armed with heavy-duty tools, filed into my apartment. “Dude, you really want us to tear everything out?” Rocco asked, looking around at the beautifully finished space. He seemed hesitant to start. “These cabinets are solid wood. The finish on them is perfect.” I handed him a cigarette. “Tear it out.” “Just be careful not to damage the load-bearing walls.” “Everything else… what you can take, take. What you can’t…” I exhaled a puff of smoke. “Smash it.” “You got it,” Rocco said with a grin. He waved his hand. The symphony of destruction began—the whine of power drills, the crash of hammers, the splintering of wood filled the night. The first victim was the open-plan kitchen the buyers had adored. The expensive quartz countertop was pried up in one piece and packed away. The custom cabinets were dismantled one by one, revealing the original mold-stained walls behind them. The built-in dishwasher and oven were unplugged and removed. In less than an hour, the warm, inviting kitchen was transformed into a warzone of exposed pipes and empty holes. Next was the living room. The feature wall behind the TV, clad in elegant wood paneling that had cost me over a thousand dollars, was attacked with crowbars. With a sickening crack, the panels were ripped from the wall, exposing the wooden frame underneath. “The frame, too?” a worker asked. “Everything,” I said coldly. “Pull out every last nail.” I had argued with Brenda for three days just to get her permission to build that wall. Now, I was erasing it from existence. The microcement floor was the toughest part. Rocco brought in a professional industrial floor grinder. Amidst clouds of dust, the smooth, sophisticated layer of microcement was ground away, millimeter by millimeter. Beneath it lay the original concrete floor, pitted and scarred like the surface of the moon, with several alarming cracks running through it. The bathroom. The thermostatic shower system, worth over two hundred dollars. Gone. The smart toilet, four hundred. Gone. The custom-made fluted glass shower enclosure. Gone. Even the huge, anti-fog vanity mirror was carefully removed, leaving nothing but a few dark pipe openings weeping water onto the floor. Every light fixture was taken down. I replaced them with one-dollar incandescent bulbs I’d bought from the hardware store. We worked until 4 a.m. The entire apartment was unrecognizable. No, it was “renewed.” It had finally returned to its true self: an old, broken-down shithole. It was even worse than when I first moved in. At least then, there had been a layer of yellowed plaster on the walls. Now, even that was gone, scraped away to install soundproofing, revealing the raw red brick and concrete beneath. As I watched the construction debris being hauled away in bag after bag, as I stood in the empty, cavernous, and slightly sinister room, I felt no regret. Only a twisted, satisfying pleasure. They are my things. I can give them away, but you cannot take them from me. If you try to take them, I will destroy them first. Rocco wiped the sweat from his brow and gave me a thumbs-up. “Man, when your landlady sees this, she’s gonna have a stroke.” I smiled and transferred his payment. “Thanks for the hard work, guys.” “Did you get all the trash out?” “Don’t worry. Spotless. Not a scrap left.” I nodded. “Good.” I took out my phone and snapped a panoramic photo. The picture showed nothing but exposed brick, rough concrete floors, a single dangling lightbulb, and a lonely, rust-stained drainpipe in the corner. I posted it to my social media with a caption: “The landlord wanted to sell the place fully furnished for a premium. I obliged.” “Factory settings. As is.” I made the post invisible to Brenda. A surprise is best saved for the last moment.

5 4:55 p.m. I sat on my single suitcase, the rusty key clutched in my hand. The apartment was empty. So empty that my own breathing echoed.