Charles Sweeney was my neighbor across the hall in a 20-studio apartment building in San Francisco's Mission District in the mid-2000s. Mr. Sweeney's real last name was "Soini" (of Finnish origin, I gather from the fact that there is a town in Finland called Soini, and a right-wing Finnish politician with the same last name) but the only person I ever heard say it pronounced it Sweeney, so that's what it is to me.
I met him the first day I moved in as he came up the stairwell that separated our apartments across the main hallway. He seemed very old and decrepit and reeked of cigarette smoke, but I smiled and said hello, genuinely pleased to meet a neighbor. I was so excited to be moving in. It was my first apartment that was mine alone and the future looked bright.
As the following weeks and months passed, I rarely saw him. He seemed to smoke and... exist but the rest of his life was a mystery. A couple years into my tenancy, I heard from the building owner that he, Mr. Sweeney himself, had been moved to an assisted living situation but refused to give up the apartment.
After five years in the building, I got a knock on my door one day from the owner. He seemed anxious and stressed as he asked, "Hey, so, would you be interested in acting as the building manager? We had someone lined up and they were supposed to start today, but they just backed out at the last minute. It's a minimal job: collect the rent, arrange for repairs and service calls, take out the recycling and go with the pest control service to service apartments once a month. You get half off your rent and a stipend that covers the rest... ?"
Basically, I was being offered free rent where I already lived in exchange for being present and doing a little bit of work. It seemed like a great deal, so I agreed right away. The looming caveat of this arrangement was that I was expected to be in town most of the time - preferably ALL the time. I was able to make arrangements for weekends away or other special circumstances. I just needed to get another tenant to be on call in case something happened.
Tenants only had to put a note on their door or answer and decline when I walked around with the pest control service person. About a third didn't want it, but the rest were fine or didn't care. I stood outside as the pest control person went in and sprayed under the sink area and made his way out. It was a quick task and I didn't follow him. He was quick and I wanted to avoid invading people's privacy whenever possible.
Mr. Sweeney was not home, ever. Some apartments opened into a small hallway, but his front door opened right into his main room. I was shocked to see the state of his place: dark and terribly cluttered, objects and outright trash stacked in seemingly random places. The shades were drawn and what light filtered in showed that the air was thick with dust.
Whereas with tenants who actually lived in their apartments, I felt a strong moral obligation to preserve their privacy and respect the sanctity of their home, I looked at Mr. Sweeney's apartment as an abandoned museum or art installation. I looked at a lot of things. I didn't go through his stuff per se, but I inspected what was out. Everything was terribly common.
Many apple-shaped juice jars were gathered and empty. Noticeable piles of BART tickets with a few cents remaining. Piles and piles of newspapers and magazines. There was furniture against the walls and in the narrow slots between them, dust collected literally inches high. It was not only a hoarder situation, but an abandoned hoarder situation. It was a tomb.
A weird thing about that apartment building was that the owners never raised anyone's rent. At all. The building had been there almost 100 years, so it was definitely under rent control regulation, but that would have still allowed the owners to raise everyone's rent anywhere from 2 to 5% annually. They just... didn't. My rent was $925 a month when I moved in and $925 a month when I moved out twelve and a half years later.
As the building manager, I had a list of the amounts of everyone's rent, which gave a good clue as to how long each resident had been in the building. I moved in June 1, 2004. The person upstairs from me, with the exact same layout, though refurbished floors and new windows, he moved in two years later and paid $1350 - which I'm certain he still does to this day.
All apartments were renovated upon vacancy if the tenant had been in the unit for several years. By the time I left, renovated studio apartments were going for nearly $3000 a month. Consider the amenities - no laundry, no pets, no parking, no bedroom, no outdoor space, certainly no concierge, package delivery, pet washing services... though at least a dishwasher in the updated units, although still paper-thin walls. It was an outrageous price, "market rent" of the era, though they have since come back down to around $2000 a month.
Mr. Sweeney's rent was $326 - which by my estimate means he had been living there for at least 30, if not more like 40, years. I don't blame him for refusing to give it up. Surely somewhere under the dust and cigarette smoke stains, he kept things precious to him, all his things. It was his home.
Eventually, he died, and the lease was terminated. I can't remember if a relative came to clear out the things, but I recall it took months to clear the place out and renovate it. Everything had to be replaced. Everything.