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I can fix it. It is not that serious. But my frustration is just a buildup of all the inconveniences I’ve been dealing with. If this had happened on a different day when I was not already overwhelmed, I would’ve just laughed. But now I have yet another unnecessary issue to add on my growing list of bullshit.

As I am driving, I consider what I should eat for dinner. I have left over pineapple pizza in the fridge, or I could order from the Jamaican restaurant down the street. I could go for some of their oxtail, but they upped their prices to twenty-two dollars for a small plate.

A small plate.

That is madness. Principle alone prevents me from ordering the meal even though I am craving it. I can buy two meals for twenty-two dollars.

I park in the driveway of my house and climb out of my car, grabbing my purse as I get out. I reach my front door when my adorably feisty, older next-door neighbor—Ms. Jean—limps unsteadily towards me. Her usual salt and pepper afro is gone, replaced with long braids. She is dressed in her church clothes, which means she had Bible study at her house. I love when all the older ladies get together. It’s my prime time to get validation on how beautiful and smart I am, how they wish all their grandchildren could go to school and be like me.

I take pride in that.

“Joyce!” she yells. I meet her half-way to shorten her distance to me. I know better than to try to help her. She is the most stubborn person I know.

I smile gently at her. “Hi, Ms. Jean.”

“Child, you look tired. Did you lose a little weight?” she says with a thick Jamaican accent. One thing a Caribbean woman is going to do is make sure you are aware that you aren’t looking your best. She makes up for it by shoving a Styrofoam food container at me that I did not notice before. “I made you some food. Eat all of it.”

I open it slowly, knowing whatever she gave me is going to be delicious. Inside is the oxtail I was just craving. My knees almost collapse from under me at the sight of it. “You are an absolute angel.”

She grins widely, her big brown eyes twinkling. With how beautiful she is now, I know she was a catch in her younger days. “You’re welcome, child. Before you go, I need your help.”

“Anything you want. Except murder, of course.” I lift the food container to my nose and take a deep inhale of its aroma. I lick the corner of my lips, trying to keep myself from drooling. “Actually, I’m good with murder if you keep cooking food like this for me,” I tease.

She giggles. “My landlord is telling me I have to move out in thirty days.” While I own my house, she moved in last year and has been renting. She sold her previous home when her husband died, and put a huge chunk of the money away in a trust for her grandchildren.

I tilt my head. “Did he give you a reason why?”

She contemplates my question for a moment then shakes her head. “He didn’t say. He just said it was within his rights.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong? Like paying rent late, or violating the terms in your lease?"

She shakes her head again. "Absolutely not. I have been perfect.”

I hold out my empty hand. “Alright. Call him and give me the phone, please. I’ll handle it for you.”

She does as I say. The landlord picks up after the third ring. “Hello, Jean.”

“You are speaking to her lawyer, Joyce Parker.”

“What does she need a lawyer for? All I told her is to get out. I have the right to say that.”

“Actually, you don’t. Pursuant to state law, a landlord can only evict a tenant for (a) violating the terms of their lease or (b) not upholding their responsibilities under the landlord-tenant law.”

“But I—”

“I’m not done, sir. Ms. Jean has neither violated the terms of her lease, nor has she been late on rent. Therefore, what is your reasoning for telling her she had thirty days to leave? Her lease has six more months.”

“She has violated the terms of the lease!” Now, he’s just making up things.

“Do you have any proof?” I question. I know he does not have proof. If he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We would be going to court.

“I-I do. Somewhere around here,” he stammers.

I roll my eyes and smile at Ms. Jean, who is observing me closely. “Sure, you do. But let me spell this out for you. You either forget about trying to evict her, or I’ll take you to court. You’ll not only have to pay your own attorney fees, but also mine as well as the court fees. Choose your battle. I’ve been looking for something fun to do.”

There’s a long pause. “I won’t be evicting her. But I—”

“Sounds good. If you bother her with this again, you’ll have to deal with me in court.” I flip the phone shut—it is very old, but surprisingly functional—and hand it back to her.