Opening the letter, Brice looked down at the signature. When did Dave start using official paper? Dave was the kind of guy who would give you a message written on a paper towel. Surprise changed to shock, changed to anger, as he read.
To Whom It May Concern:
This is to inform you that improvements will be made to each apartment. All tenants will be given ninety days in which to
vacate. Please know you will be given first priority to rent an apartment at fair market pricing.
Yours sincerely,
Dave Turcott, Building Manager
Such devastating news, and the letter wasn’t even personalized. Everyone knew there was nothing fair about fair market pricing in Vancouver. This had to be a mistake. Surely this wasn’t meant for him? He’d lived here almost as long as anyone in the building had, including Dave. Brice had always paid his rent on time. He was quiet except when overcome by wine and disco. This letter had to be for someone else. Brice looked again at the front of the envelope: “To Mr Brice Sanderson. Apartment #302.”
How could this all be happening in one day? He had ALS. He had to stop work because of it. Now some rich-prick-land-barons were telling him he had to move. What was he supposed to do? Go and live with the seagulls in Stanley Park? Brice needed to speak to Dave but he knew better than to call him for elucidation on his eviction notice. Even with the myriad ways of contacting someone these days: a call, a text, an email, a Facebook message, a tweet. Any type of communication during a crisis in the building was a warning bell for Dave to hide. So, draining his glass, Brice got up out of his Lazy-Boy and took the stairs down to suite #101 to talk to Dave the good, old-fashioned way. Mano a mano.

About the author : DaphneLWright

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