Authors: Mary Mead
Patrick, known as Trick, for his ability to avoid the female population. According to the locals he had dated and dumped over the years every female within the town limits between the ages of 20 and 50.
His escapades reached legendary status among the old timers, who counted him up there with Brad Pitt when it came to the ladies. My dealings with men being of the negative variety, I didn’t give a fig if I ever met him.
One thing did concern me. The family occupied half a dozen units at my facility, using them to store inventory for the other businesses. One was designated for family belongings, such as Christmas decorations, seasonal displays, that type of thing.
Colleen, the matriarch, had two units for herself to accommodate her personal collection of whatever. She was always on the lookout for an empty unit she could confiscate and use to extend her storage space.
I was under threat of death from all three male Murphy’s to keep her from adding another unit. It led to a running game of hide the empties. If she found one she promptly moved in, grabbing something, anything from her car or unit and taking possession.
The perpetual game of hide and seek added a little spice to the day.
Soft job, yes, one that requires a certain type of person – combination accountant, salesman, landscaper and all around handy man. Someone who is comfortable alone, at ease with long periods of solitude and at the same time sociable with all age groups.
Still, it was long hours. Although I might have no customers all day, I still had to be present in case someone needed help.
Surprising how many people lost their keys and could not access their belongings, expecting me to have an extra key since we provided a free lock with each rental.
Many wanted me to keep an extra key on file in the office so they didn’t have to keep track of their keys.
No way. Sure lawsuit there by claiming I used their key to garner their assets and sell them.
The people you meet in this job are a true cross section of America, more so than any other business. From the homeless, looking for a place to keep their cans and the things their shopping carts won’t hold, to the millionaires remodeling their palaces up on the hill. One good thing about people – they will not get rid of their stuff unless forced. Even then it’s a crap shoot.
One of my customers, an elderly gentleman, rented a small space to keep his books – four boxes of them. I know because I helped him unload them, afraid his arm would snap off just getting them out of the trunk of his car.
His rent was paid promptly every month and he came in regularly, once a week, to pick up two or three books and replace the two or three from last week, sort of a small private lending library.
I asked him once why he didn’t just take them home. The answer? His wife didn’t want them collecting dust at home. I suggested the library. His response? He had one. In his unit.
A gentleman of the old school, he always dressed in a suit, complete with pocket hankie and a tie, when he came to visit his books. I had no idea of his age although I kept an eye on him when he was inside the gates, concerned a gust of wind off the beach might catch him like a kite and send him sailing still clutching a book.
Another was a famous writer, who rented a space for his original manuscripts and first editions in case of fire or burglary at his home. I suspected I was one of two facilities keeping his copies safe.
All kinds.
Renters were required to have a current driver’s license, which we copied and kept on file and a physical street address. We also reserved the right to refuse service to anyone.
Posting a prominent sign in the office announcing our full cooperation with local law enforcement helped eliminate some of the less desirable, especially with the warning that we would open any unit on request without benefit of a search warrant. Access to management was spelled out in the individual contracts, in bold print, specifically noting in several places that management could, and might, enter any unit without previous notice.
Another sign notified anyone who could read that drug sniffing dogs practiced on the premises. Even with all these precautions there were drug dealers positive they could beat the odds and keep their product in the units. I had on two occasions found the door to a unit lined inside with cockroach traps in the mistaken belief that drug sniffing dogs would not smell drugs over the traps.
In my years of management I have also busted up a prostitution ring using one of my units, a shady lawyer hiding his files, and a credit card duplicating scam.
The worst are the Sunday morning couples.
They meet at the bar on Friday night, spend the night drinking, Saturday is given to whooping it up and by Sunday they are forever in love and moving in together, usually in a local motel. They can’t keep their hands off each other, pay no attention to the rules I explain and rent a unit to combine their belongings until the wedding.
I will only put one name on the account for a specific reason. Only one of them has control. That person can give the other one permission to access the unit. They can also cancel said access at any given time. They usually miss that part, too.
They spend Sunday moving stuff into the unit and squashing themselves together every chance they get plus giggling. There’s always giggling. And drinking. Either it’s a hair of the dog, or a pick me up, they’re at it all day.
They begin to sober up by Monday night, fight by Tuesday, and by Wednesday whoever has their name on the account is barring the other one from access.
Thursday the one locked out will show up wanting to get their stuff, and the dance begins anew, explaining the rules they ignored on Sunday to suck face.
Friday they reach an agreement and come in to remove their crap, barely speaking. They forfeit their twenty dollar deposit for failure to give notice, fight over whose fault it is and argue with me for at least twenty minutes over why they should get a refund.
They finally leave, I clean the unit and on Saturday we start all over again.
I have one woman who came in three consecutive Sundays, each time with a different guy and pulled this same stunt. I refused to rent to her on the fourth Sunday and she went somewhere else, leaving a stream of foul language following along like the contrail of a passing jet.
I made money on the deal with multiple rents on the same unit plus forfeiture of the twenty dollar deposit. It just gets old listening to the whining. I was happy to leave most of it to Steve, the weekend guy. A very nice older man who loved to talk. To anyone. Or anything. I was pretty sure he talked to the plants when left alone.
You just never knew who was going to come through the door next.
T. Tom Tanner, the lead singer for the country band T Three is a customer and an absolute joy. He is friendly, polite, and eye candy to boot. So is his wife, Tee, lest you get the wrong idea. They are really down to earth nice people, always taking time to ask after my health and taking the time to listen to the response.
Adding to the mix are the regulars, the customers you see frequently. A little kindness and a little foresight can improve your security by using their observations.
Randy is an excellent example.
He worked out of his unit for years before I took over, a blatant abuse of the rules. Storage units are for storage only – not for small businesses, manufacturing or quilting groups. No band practice.
City regulations specifically deny working in a unit. Insurance companies also frown on the practice, citing the various dangers to the premises.
The previous managers had ignored most of the rules, mainly because they did a lot of “shopping” once the gates were locked. Under the guise of introducing themselves they scoped out the contents being unloaded into the units, even offering a helping hand on large items, simultaneously gaining an inventory of the contents.
There are so many tricks in this trade the more you know the better manager you are. Believe me, the best asset for a successful storage facility is an honest manager who knows the ropes.
In Randy’s case, he had gotten away with doing what he wanted for so long, he thought he could tell me what to do.
I asked him politely, the first time, to cease working in his unit, which he referred to as “the shop.”
The second time I cautioned him he didn’t even bother to respond, just turned a meaty shoulder and went right past me.
The third time, when his code was locked, he tailgated behind another truck to sneak in unseen.
First, I saw him on the camera.
Second, tailgating is verboten for strike two.
Third, when he snuck around behind the building to avoid the cameras and access his unit, he found two bright yellow overlocks blocking any attempt to reach his own locks and open the door.
When yelling at me didn’t help, he stormed off.
The next day he tried wheedling, and then stomped off. The third day he tried bribery, bringing me a hamburger and a sweet tea.
By the fourth day he was waving the white flag, desperate to get to his stuff.
Randy’s unit was against the fence, in the far back corner of the lot, a long way from the front gate and the office. He had no family, no job, other than the work he did in his unit, and nowhere else to go. Without his unit he was completely lost.
So I made a deal with him. He could work in his unit as long as no one else knew it. If another customer was back in that section, he had to shut it down until the coast was clear.
In return, if he saw anyone acting in a suspicious manner, he called the office and told me.
It worked out well for both of us. He was instrumental in breaking up the prostitution ring and the couple attempting to live in their unit by giving me a heads up.
He regained a place to go every day. I had a spy in the back lot.
Another great customer was Marty, who helped with any electrical problems in return for earlier access to get his crew to the job sites on time.
It’s pretty much the old barter system in action.
And don’t get me wrong. The majority of my customers are like a holiday – some turkeys, some hams and some festive nuts.
There are also a few rotten apples – those that think a woman alone is fair game and they are the mighty hunter.
Those, too, come in all guises.
Milt, a longtime customer, he and his wife both in their seventies or so, always polite and friendly, always paid on time, great customers for years. He gave notice and on the final day came to the office to tell me he had spread a blanket down in the back of his van so I could come up and get a personal thank you.
You just never know.
Another detriment to abusing the property is a random walk through. I check every night in a random pattern. Sometimes I walk, sometimes I use the company golf cart, sometimes just a drive through in my car. I check the doors, to be sure they are locked and secure.
The cart is electric, makes very little noise. It also carries a large trash can and a broom so I can pick up the odd bits of trash and cigarette butts that customers toss on the grounds or behind buildings.
I check at different times, early or late, and never in a set pattern.
I also enjoy the quiet, once the lot is empty. It’s nice to toodle around in the little electric cart, making my own breeze in my face, while checking that all is well in my little world.
I have thought about getting a dog, for companionship as well as extra security but so far not willing to make that commitment.
After my escapade last week I avoided my favorite after hours view from the overlook and settled for my evening trips around the lot. The middle of the month is pretty quiet since rents are all due on the first and late on the tenth.
Currently I only had three units available for rent and they were popular sizes that would rent quickly. As a rule, I keep empty units tagged with little wire tags on the door. The bright yellow tags are easy to spot and quickly snap off when I need to show the unit.
Mrs. Murphy hasn’t figured that out. Yet.
Monday nights my rounds are a little hurried from September to January.
I am a huge fan of the NFL. Monday night football is my ‘date night’ – I have a standing date with a pizza and the game.
This particular Monday night was no different. I had ordered the pizza, the beer was cold, and I wanted to get inside, kick off my shoes, and watch football.
On my last lap, the far aisle, something caught my eye and I backed up and turned down the row.
What looked like a plastic bag was blowing in the breeze. It wasn’t moving, just shivering and shaking in the slight breeze from the nearby ocean. I drove that way, intent on grabbing it from the cart and continuing to my pizza.
I leaned down to snag it and stopped.
It wasn’t a bag.
It was a long strip of packing tape, the reinforced kind with the threads running through it.