Curbed Horror Stories are firsthand reader reports about terrible Los Angeles apartment experiences past and present. This week, in honor of Renters Week, we're having a rental horror story showdown. We'll post a few horror stories each day with a vote for the best on Thursday. The winner will advance to the national round of our network-wide contest (and the nationwide winner gets a free month's rent!). Horror stories to email@example.com, if you please.
It all started with a *BANG*.
It was late one night on a Tuesday evening, as I am wrapping up a night of entertaining dinner for a handful of friends, I hear a loud crash and almost as if by instinct, I ran to my car. The sound didn't sound familiar nor was it recognizable as metal on metal collision but that was indeed what it was. At the tandem parking spot was my 2009 black Rav 4 being rammed by an old red Toyota Tercel probably from the late 80's. On the [Tercel's] windshield flapped the note I left earlier in the evening where I informed the owner of the vehicle to come get me in Apt 8 so I can move [my] vehicle. The note did not mention anything about the fact the parking spaces belonged to my roommate and myself nor mentioned anything about the [Tercel] being inappropriately parked. I simply parked the car in and notified where to fine me to move the car for them.
As I scurried downstairs, I heard a second crash and this only made me panic more. By this point, a [couple] neighbors had also heard the commotion and began to open their doors to discover what the noise was about. I turn the corner to see my landlord in this red compact car revving up to ram my car a third time! I scream as loud as I can "STOPPPPP! What are you doing?!?!" He, to my amazement, brings the car to a stop. A fanatical brunette is hysterically mumbling 'Oh my God' to herself on the sidewalk. My landlord stumbles out of the car and from over 20 feet away, [I can] smell the barrage of alcohol coming from his body. I continue to yell, "What the hell are you doing?? I'm calling the cops!" At this point, he yells for the brunette to come with him. "Let's go," he orders her. She reluctantly obeys as I counter with, "You better not go anywhere, the cops are coming."
And so they flee, on foot.
45 minutes later the law enforcers of Los Angeles arrive. The story isn't complicated but I had to repeat it 3 times. I give them all the contact information for my landlord as he does not live on site. The red car is towed and the night ends with me admiring the frame of my vehicle bent to hell.
The next morning, my landlord calls to ask where the vehicle is! Outraged he had the audacity to call, I tell him he can no longer call me but to have his brother who also manages the building call. He did not apologize nor did he call back again. My roommate and I moved out soon after in fear of being drunkenly harassed by our own landlord again. Not safe in your own parking space of your own apartment apparently!
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