COLUMN: Why work hard? Be a landlord

From Jason Brenner's, "My 20 Inches," Fall '97 From Jason Brenner's, "My 20 Inches," Fall '97 While most of my classmates dream of spending their lives as doctors or lawyers, I have much loftier aspirations. Though my peers will earn large sums of money in their respective professions, they will find that, in order to bring home a juicy paycheck, they will have to spend countless hours partaking in an activity I am quite unwilling do: work. Why should I spend the next four years in medical school or law school when I can amass a fortune today without lifting a finger? What profession, you may ask, could possibly allow me to earn such a substantial income without requiring an advanced degree or a commitment to hard work? I, my friends, will be an off-campus landlord, renting shoddy housing to Penn students for ridiculous amounts of money. I once found myself the victim of landlords such as these -- why then, shouldn't I profit from the same techniques they once used to extract large sums of money from my pockets? For the past three years, I shelled out hundreds of dollars each month while I received the finest of modern amenities: occasional running water, toilets that properly flushed every other week and holes in the drywall no smaller than the crater that would result if Comet Hale-Bopp plunged into the earth. Such creature comforts cannot be provided without a significant cost to the tenant. Little did I know at the time, but my sophomore-year house was well worth the nearly $400 a month I paid to live there. Since it was the week before Thanksgiving and the heating system was not yet up and running, bitterly cold air filled the hallways. Fortunately, however, the house had something of a unique self-heating system that it could utilize in emergency situations. This system was ingenious: when the house became too cold and the residents needed to put on arctic apparel simply to go to the bathroom, some high-tech sensor alerted the house's central control system of the heating shortage and the house's internal computer immediately compensated for the lack of heat by producing a blazing fire in the basement. That's right... the place burned down. After billows of smoke moved through the hallways, the house's temperature rose several degrees and all of us were much more comfortable... except for the fact that we couldn't breathe. But why nitpick? While that specific house featured quite a unique heating system, the plumbing of another of my off-campus abodes offered countless hair-raising incidents that Hollywood producers certainly would have deemed deserving to grace the silver screen. The second-floor bathroom provided me with dozens of adventures of which Indiana Jones would be envious. I never knew when the toilet would flush properly or when it would burn with revolutionary fervor and decide to flood the entire bathroom. In fact, it was something of a showdown straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie. I stood at attention, plunger in hand, staring down my opponent, the porcelain enemy. An eerie silence filled the bathroom as I prepared to face my destiny. I reached out my hand and slowly tapped my enemy's silver handle and yelled, "Draw!" At that point, he fervently attempted to fill the floor with water and I desperately tried to stop him. Of course, even the great Dirty Harry lost a few gun battles and the mediocre Jason Brenner faced more than one defeat at the hands of his porcelain nemesis. Indeed, as a Penn off-campus landlord, I plan to employ the same techniques of which I once found myself a victim. First, I will purchase a piece of property that would more appropriately house rats than students. Next, I will advertise my fine house in the classified section of The Daily Pennsylvanian. My ad will read: "Beautiful Victorian-style townhouse filled with its original charm and luster. Located right next to campus. Fully furnished. 7 large single bedrooms. 4 1/2 bathrooms. Full kitchen. Large common space. Washer/dryer. High-tech alarm system. Previously lived in by owner himself. Rent negotiable." Of course, every great salesperson must learn to twist words and shade meaning for their benefit -- ask any Wharton professor. A student wise enough to decipher my coded language will understand my ad to mean: "Decrepit shack built over 200 years ago that hasn't experienced one repair since the end of the Civil War. Located in the same area code as campus. Several three-legged chairs and beer-stained, lime-green velour couches included. 7 single bedrooms created by partitioning off two normal-sized bedrooms into 7 tiny cubby-holes. 2 sinks + 1 shower + 2 toilets (1 of which functions half of the time) = 4 1/2 bathrooms. A refrigerator that serves as a breeding ground for currently-unidentified species of fungus is included. Front door has a deadbolt lock. In 1889, the owner of the house lived here alternate weekends during the summer. Rent will be exorbitant... if you don't like it you can go negotiate with someone else. Have a nice day." With the riches I acquire from shrewd salesmanship such as this, I plan to partake in all of the hobbies I always wanted to take up, but never had the chance to enjoy -- yachting, golfing, ballroom dancing and a slew of other -ings in which rich people delight. Indeed, I picture my current landlord relaxing in a soft leather recliner, staring out the window of his cruise ship as the tropical islands drift past him. "James," he says. "James get over here." "What can I do for you, sir?" the butler replies. "Be a good sport and bring the wine list to me. Chop, chop." Poor James returns with the wine list, and my tuxedo-clad landlord scans the leather-bound booklet, sliding his diamond-studded fingers over each selection. "James," he says. "I think I'll go for the Dom tonight." "But, sir..." "Don't question me. It's been quite a wonderful year for me. The rents on my properties are more astronomical than ever. And," he mutters with a devilish grin, "I didn't put a dime of renovations into one of my houses. Oh, while you're in the kitchen, bring me another plate of beluga. Thank you, lad." While my poor friends slave away their hours in medical school or law school, my life will be a peaceful jaunt down Easy Street. I will spend my days on my own cruise ship giving orders to my own James, knowing full well that as I relax by the wet bar I'm earning record returns from the properties I rent to students. Winning the lottery couldn't be any easier than this.