Personal Diplomacy

In a turbulent world we see the importance of settling problems by diplomacy.

What goes unnoticed is the need for diplomacy in our own chaotic lives.

Real estate is far more than buildings, property and construction.

Most people engaging in that ‘noble profession’ understand that it is nothing if not a people business.

Every property in the country needs humans to give it value. Potential inhabitants with the desire to live, work and play in the buildings.

Diplomacy by Threat:

Tony lived in a 1st floor rear room of a modest rooming house I owned and managed in Center City, Philadelphia. It was bare bones housing provided to accommodate low income tenants who desired to live in a big city. The term affordable housing applies in this case if none other.

Rumor had it the Redevelopment Authority had its eye on the area’s mix of blighted properties, seedy bars, pawnbrokers and take out pizza shops. The plan was to eminent domain a couple of blocks and turn it into a much needed regional convention center.

Tony, a young man who’d just emigrated to the city from San Juan, Puerto Rico, seemed like a tough and happy kid in his early 20’s.

He scored a job at a pizza shop a few blocks away from the rooming house.

He paid his rent in a timely fashion.

Henson was a man of middle age whose family was of means. They had apparently disowned him years prior. He rented a room in the 3rd floor rear of the same rooming house in which Tony lived. His family could afford more for him.

Henson, however was unemployed.

The Phone Rings:

“Brian, this is Henson!” * the voice on the other end identified itself.

“Yeeeesss?” I only know one Henson.

“The Porto Rican man on the 1st floor rear is teasing me,” Henson reported much as a school child would tattle on a classmate to a teacher.

“Oh, ho, ho, ho — you must mean Tony, he’s a good guy, I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it!” I said diplomatically.

Ignoring my diplomacy, Henson’s response was, “ If he doesn’t stop, I’LL MURDER HIM!”

“Well now Henny [he likes that nickname], I’ll give Tony a call and mention it to him,” feeling Tony should be aware of Henson’s threat.

I immediately called Tony and left a voicemail.

Tony returned my message after he got home from work.

“What’s up Mr B?” the jovial Tony, still blissfully ignorant of doing anything objectionable to anyone, much less an offense so egregious that it would elicit a death threat.

“Are you having any trouble with a man named Henson on the 3rd floor?” I asked tentatively.

“Not that I know of” said Tony.

“Well, the guy named Henson said you were teasing him and he said that if you didn’t stop, he would MURDER you!” emphasis on the word murder for effect.

“Oh, yeah ha, ha , I know that guy: he weird,” was Tony’s carefree evaluation of the threat.

I then called Henson and told him that I relayed his message to Tony.

He was unimpressed with the way I handled things.

Henson, the Diplomat:

Rent was due on Friday of each week. I had to go to the premises and physically collect the cash from each tenant, diplomatically, of course. The chore wasn’t as hard as it sounds. The tenants were almost always in their rooms at 5:00 in the afternoon. If they weren’t, they were asked to leave their weekly rent in their respective locked mailboxes for which I had a key.

I had not received Henson’s rent for 3 weeks. There was no response to my knocks on his door. I had written him certified mail, light green return receipt attached there in his mailbox, no answer to numerous phone calls; he might be lying there dead for all I know.

Death, the most extreme of methods in rental avoidance.

It was with caution that I unlocked Henny’s door the 4th week of his silence.

As his room door swung open, I was greeted with — a mess.

No decaying body; thank God for his blessings.

There was one thing though. Lying on the floor, next to an unmade bed was something that seemed out of the ordinary, even for Henson - for anybody to whom I’ve ever rented .

Henson’s Diplomacy:

The object was a crudely carved club much like a prehistoric base ball bat. A number of sixteen penny common nails protruded through the business end of the club with their pointed tips sticking out of all sides.

On the opposite end of the nails was crudely carved BRIAN. The letters burned into the handle with a wood burning set.

Hmmm, disconcerting.

A closer inspection of the room revealed an unopened letter from a doctor. I copied the return address in the hopes that the good doctor could verify Henson’s continued existence.

A Google search of the name and address of the doctor revealed that she was indeed a doctor and a psychiatrist at that.

I was able to contact her office the next day, I left my number and the reason for my call. I was not expecting a call back.

In a little less than an hour I was on the phone with Dr — .

Yes, Henson was alive as of yesterday’s appointment with him.

“Dr. — , I started hesitantly, not even close to expecting an answer, is Henson anywhere near dangerous?”

Why do you ask?

I explained his threat to murder Tony and the menacing club found in his room with my name carved into it.

Unbelievably she gave me the following bit of psychiatric advice:

I’ve had Henson in therapy for many years now. He’s quite the diplomat, always able to walk the fine line between legality and illegality. He’s never been in jail to my knowledge.

Whether he’s capable of murder, I can’t speculate on that for any of us.

Oh, by-the-way, did you know Henson is a world class harmonicist?

Epilogue:

I never heard from Henson again. After waiting the legal amount of time, I cleaned out his old room to ready it for another tenant. I kept his club in my office for a couple of months as a souvenir of a certain type of strong arm diplomacy until I realized it depressed me and I chucked it.

The city did exercise its right of eminent domain and bought out the rooming house and 3 blocks of the surrounding buildings.

Note:*

I know this story may seem unusually bizarre. It is, however, an actual experience. Every event and word is true as I remember it with the exception of Henson’s name and I didn’t mention the name of his psychiatrist, as you can see .

I thought I saw Henson meandering around Center City a couple of times in the ensuing years but I’m not sure — neither of us seemed to want to say, “Hello!”

This article was self-published 3/9/22