I was 17 years old and working at “The Music Store” in the Glenbrook Mall in Fort Wayne Indiana.  Part of a chain of pawn shops, the Music Store sold new and used musical instruments, catering mostly to amateur, semi-pro, and professional rock, and some country, musicians.

My boss, Gary owned a rental house about 70 miles south in Muncie.  (Gary is responsible for getting me the job in Virginia Beach, Virginia that allowed me to escape Indiana; a job that led to my moving to Albuquerque, New Mexico and then Southern California.  But that is all a different story.)

Gary had a problem.  He needed to evict his tenants for two reasons.  First, they hadn’t paid rent in nearly a year, and second, they were destroying his house.  But there was a catch in the eviction law.  You couldn’t evict someone unless you had a new tenant who was ready to move in.  The tenants were a rough crowd.  Think unpleasant biker-gang types, without the motorcycles.  Between their intimidation and the state of the house, Gary was unable to convince anyone to be the next tenants.

One day Gary was commenting on how scary some of our customers were.  In the late 1960’s people were more easily frightened by long hair, tattoos and denim than they are today.  The suggestion to ask a few of the larger crazier band members to pretend to be prospective tenants, just long enough to get the current tenants out, was born.

The recruitment effort was met with unexpected enthusiasm as many wanted to be in the good graces of the manager of their rock and roll music store hangout and/or to them it just sounded like fun.  We soon had an assemblage of eight volunteers comprised of musicians from two bands and two guys that were hangers-on but fit the crazy-scary requirement.  Two stand-outs were Sandy and Mike.  Sandy had waist length red hair and  weighed about 260.  He seemed to enjoy getting in a couple of fights each week with anyone who made a comment about his long hair.  Mike was locally famous for getting arrested for hitting an audience member in the face with his bass guitar during a gig.  He wasn’t charged as witnesses, including the owner of the club where Mike’s band was performing, said the guy deserved to be hit. Plus Gary was included of course, and me.  Not sure how I qualified to join, other than my general foolhardiness.

Gary arranged the date and time the Muncie Marshal could meet us at the house.  It took three cars to get the crew to Muncie.  It was early evening on a week night.  We parked on the street a couple of houses away from Gary’s house.  I recall the Marshal chuckling when he saw who Gary had brought along.  He said something to the effect ‘This should work.’   We were told to wait at the end of the driveway while the Marshal and Gary went to speak with the tenants.  We learned later that the head guy living there reminded the Marshal that he could not evict them unless Gary had a new tenant ready to move in.  At that point the Marshal motioned to us, the new tenants, to come to the front door.

Total anti-climax.  The tough-guy tenant needed just one look at the people in the driveway. He and the Marshal went into the house.  Soon four men, three women and three kids exited with their personal stuff and got into two cars and left.

The rule was that we needed to spend that night in the house to qualify us as “next tenants”.  But the Marshal, having been in the house, told us he wouldn’t enforce that requirement; he wouldn’t ask anyone to spend a night in the house.  Gary had shared with us some of the things that he had seen when visiting the house earlier, such as holes punched in the walls and window sills whittled and carved.  But we were unprepared for what we found when we toured the house.  Not only were there holes punched in the drywall, trash had been stuffed in the holes, apparently for months.  The water had been shut off for months, so you are on your own to imagine what the toilets looked like.  The carpets were ruined probably with repeated beer spills that were never cleaned.  Trash and filth was in every room.  The most bizarre thing was the 1956 Chevy station wagon that was in the garage.  Every cubic inch of the interior was crammed full of garbage bags, many of which were full of dirty diapers.

Our job for the night was done.  Eviction successful.  Everyone shook the Marshal’s hand.  All recognized, and a few commented on, how odd it was to be having an encounter with an Officer that wasn’t confrontational or “didn’t involve handcuffs”.  We drove home comparing notes on the horrors we had seen in the house.

Two post scripts:

Gary and his wife spent many weekends in Muncie just emptying the house of trash.  The house was stripped to the studs and drywall replaced in all but one room.  Both bathrooms got new fixtures and cabinets.  All the carpeting was replaced.  Gary found someone to tow the Chevy and its contents.  Once all the work was done, Gary sold the house declaring he would never again be a landlord.

The ten of us on the eviction crew now had a bond.  While some had been mere acquaintances before the eviction, we now had a shared experience that translated into our own insider greeting.  Whenever we would see another member of the crew, not ‘Hello’, not ‘Hey’, our one-word acknowledgement was “Muncie”.