The agent showed him the property deed, keeping his tone professional. "Sir, this is the deed for this property. The name on it doesn't appear to be yours."
The agent had been nothing but polite. Clement's eyes went bloodshot. He snatched the deed and tore it to shreds.
"Even if it's not mine, it's my wife's! We're not selling! Get the hell out!"
The agent told me Clement had seemed unhinged, muttering to himself like a broken record: "She's my wife. What's hers is mine. We're not divorced. We're just having a fight!"
There was no way I was going to let him squat in my house.
I told my mother what was happening and went back alone.
Clement was passed out on the couch, dead drunk, snoring loudly.
The apartment reeked of stale air—a nauseating blend of takeout containers left to rot for God knows how long and the sour stench of alcohol. I pulled out a mask and put it on, making no move to wake Clement. Instead, I called building security.
By the time they arrived, it took several guards to haul Clement upright before he finally stirred awake. He squinted at me through bleary eyes, rubbing them with both hands, looking again to make sure I was real.