Hyde Park is a neighborhood in Austin, a couple of miles north of the University of Texas campus. With turn-of-the-century architecture, home-grown businesses and tree-shaded streets, it is a cool place to live. On the first day of 1986, I moved to Hyde Park. I lived on the second floor of a house at 4310 Avenue G and enjoyed it very much. Exactly half a block away was Shipe Park, which contained a pool I used frequently in the summer. Also close by was the Elisabet Ney Museum, formerly home to the German-born lady who was a pioneer in the development of art in Texas. A few blocks to the west was the Austin State Hospital, the oldest psychiatric facility in the state; I had been a food-service worker there during my UT student days. Around the corner was Fire Station No. 9. Why do I mention that fact? Read on, and its pertinence will be made clear.
My landlord, Mr. Byler, was a rather crusty old gentleman who earned a nice living with various real estate holdings in the university area. One of his helpers was a Mexican named Palenque. I liked the latter much more than the former, but both were involved in an event that was fairly catastrophic for me. The water heater in my upstairs home had to be replaced, which caused Mr. Byler pain since he would have to pay for it. I did not know at the time that a local ordinance required that he hire a licensed and bonded plumber to perform that work. Instead, he saved money by having Palenque do it. I actually helped him remove the old water heater and lug the new one up the stairs.
This would have been of no consequence except that Palenque did the job badly. Soon after the installation of the water heater, I could see that it was tilted to one side and not properly ventilated. In fact, the underside of the roof began to show smoke damage. If it were not fixed, the roof was eventually going to catch fire. Of course, I pointed this out to Mr. Byler. He sent Palenque to address the problem, but the best he could do was to jerry-rig it by sticking a couple of pieces of wood under the water heater. (Maybe there is a reason why such work is limited to licensed and bonded plumbers?)
It was still not right. Although I tried to be a low-maintenance tenant, I had to tell them yet again. With numerous other rental units to attend to, they turned their attention away from 4310 Avenue G. I take a portion of the blame here for not complaining more loudly and insistently.
The first week of November 1987 was quite a happy time for me. After almost four years of work, my first book (Breaking the Ice) came out. A party was planned for later that month to celebrate, but it never took place for reasons that you can probably surmise. Late in the evening of November 13, I was taking a shower when some unusual noises began to emanate from the main room. I opened the door and beheld a major disaster. There was a mass of orange, as the roof was on fire. The perfidy of Mr. Byler and Palenque was immediately and fully manifested.
I threw on some clothes, grabbed my most valuable belongings and ran out the door. I hollered to my downstairs neighbor—whose life was about to be impacted, too—“Eleanor, call the Fire Department!” Given the proximity of Fire Station No. 9, they were on the scene in a couple of minutes. I stood in the backyard watching as one fire truck after another pulled up and began spraying massive amounts of water at my burning upstairs apartment. It was a miserable feeling, but I was not entirely alone; dozens of neighbors came out on Avenue G and in the alley. It must have been around midnight when the last firefighters left. Just as Eleanor and her roommate had to find a place to spend the night, so did I. The next-door neighbor, a UT faculty member named Brian, offered to let me sleep in his spare bedroom.
The ensuing days and weeks and even months were a blur, but here is what I recall: (1) The other people who had watched the fire that night did more than just shake their heads and go home; they collected some money and gave it to me. (2) I gathered my burned and wet property, and moved temporarily into one of Mr. Byler’s empty apartments on Speedway. (3) Two of my brothers drove down from Dallas, took me to lunch and made some household donations. (4) I did not miss a day of running. (5) I also did not miss a column for the Austin American-Statesman. (6) I also did not miss a day of work at my job in the UT Library Science office. (7) The book celebration party was canceled. (8) Mr. Byler played hardball, denying any and all responsibility for the fire. That led to me filing a suit against him in Travis County small claims court. With the help of an attorney I knew from running and racing—whose work was done on a pro bono basis—I prevailed.
I saw Palenque one more time. No words were spoken, but guilt was etched on his face. As for Mr. Byler, I read his obituary a couple of years later.
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