The Lot Rent That Doubled Overnight
The notice had an 800 number at the bottom. I sat at my kitchen table with my coffee going cold and called it at eight sharp.
A recording thanked me for calling Silver Mesa Holdings and told me to leave a message. I left one. I said my name, my lot number, and that I had questions about the notice. I called again at noon and at four. The email address on the page bounced back inside a minute.
The office at the front of the park is a double-wide with a sign in the window that says Office By Appointment. Rollie used to sit in there with the door propped open and a dish of butterscotch candies on the counter. Now the blinds were down and a padlock hung on the door.
The notice did have one name on it. Trevor Pell, Regional Manager. There was a cell number beside it, almost like an afterthought. On the second morning I called that one, and a man picked up on the fourth ring.
“This is Trevor.”
“Mr. Pell, my name is Homer Eastman. I’m a resident at Meadowlark Court.”
“Sure, Mr. Eastman. I figured I’d hear from some of you.”
He sounded young and polite. That surprised me.
“The notice says $800,” I said. “It says if we can’t pay it we can take our homes off the lot.”
“That’s correct.”
“Mr. Pell, there are people out here who are eighty and eighty-eight. These homes are forty years old. You can’t hook a forty-year-old trailer to a truck and drive it down Highway 54. It would come apart before the county line.”
There was a pause. I could hear a keyboard.
“I understand that,” he said. “But the rate is market. Comparable parks around Joplin are at $650 to $900. Your residents have had a very significant discount for a long time.”
“They’ve had a landlord who knew their names.”
“I don’t set the numbers,” he said. It came out smooth, like something he had said before. “I run the properties. The numbers come from ownership.”
“Can I speak to someone in Scottsdale?”
“They’d tell you what I’m telling you. Some residents will choose to stay at the new rate. Some will choose to relocate. The acknowledgment form is due by the twenty-fifth.”
“And if nobody signs it?”
Another pause.
“Then we’ll proceed under the terms of the notice. I’m sorry, Mr. Eastman. I hope you have a good day.”
He hung up. I sat there holding the phone.
He did not yell. He did not sneer. He was a pleasant young man reading from a page, and I understood right then how it was going to go. Nobody was going to throw us out. Somebody was going to make a very reasonable offer that we could not possibly accept, and then wait for us to leave on our own.
My daughter Beth said what I expected her to say that night. “Dad, just call a lawyer.”