Eviction Party

One man's mission to get his house back.

by Mike Newall

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Published: Jun 3, 2009

Todd had given his house away, and now he wanted it back. So last week he flew home to South Philly from Los Angeles, where he currently resides with his TV star girlfriend (I'll explain later), and set up camp with his next-door neighbors, Tara and John. Todd's plan was to wait inside their house until the tenants who'd been occupying his place for months without payment took their giant snow-white German shepherds on their early evening walk. Then, he would get inside and quickly change the locks.

Todd was nervous. He'd negotiated the rental agreement from L.A. and had been arguing with the deadbeats over the phone for weeks. Now he would confront them. They were a husband and wife, and Tara told Todd that the husband was 6 feet 5 inches, 250 pounds. Plus, there were the dogs. Figuring a show of force would prevent fireworks, Todd had asked friends to meet him at Tara's. He promised everybody beer and pizza, and called it an eviction party. All of his friends thought this was a dumb idea.

"You're looking to evict via south philly group reconnaissance mission under the guise of a 'party,'" one friend e-mailed. "This isn't a joke for all of us to participate in."

At 5:30 p.m., they weren't there yet. Todd was unloading the beer from his car when his phone rang. It was Tara.

"They just went for their walk!" she screamed.

Todd grabbed his backpack with his drill and some hinge locks — plus his mortgage papers in case the police got involved — and ran for the house. He turned his key. It still worked. He took a quick glance around. The place was in pretty good shape, but layered in dog hair. The tenants' stuff was boxed up, like they'd never unpacked. Todd prepared his tools. The dog walks lasted 15 minutes. Todd's hands shook.

Todd's a friend of mine. A neighborhood kid from the Northeast, he landed a production job on a TV show that fixes up people's homes. He was young, making money, traveling the country and staying in hotels 280 days out of the year, so he bought a place to come home to — a fixer-upper on a small street near the Italian Market. Todd, his brother Eric, and his father, Kenny, a retired fireman, pulled out the shag carpets and nicotine-stained drop ceilings, exposed some brick walls and patched up the leaky roof. Todd's show even filmed an episode there, remodeling the living room with oak wood floors. The place looked great. Todd rented it to family and friends. I lived there for two years with Todd and another friend. In the summers we held big barbecues.

"A lot of attractive women have had a lot of fun in this house," Todd likes to say.

Eventually, Todd met a beautiful actress, moved out West, and rented the place out. The current occupants found it on Craigslist and requested a two-year lease. Seeing dollar signs — and being a trusting guy — Todd made the mistake of letting them move in without first signing a lease or handing over money. Now they were squatting, claiming they'd sent all their funds to her ill father in Vermont.

"Well, you get the Moron of the Year Award," Todd's lawyer told him after reviewing the situation, explaining a formal eviction could drag on for months. Even though they hadn't paid a dime, getting them out would be a struggle.

"Hire some goombas," said the lawyer.

Todd didn't want to hire goombas, but he wanted his house back. So he was drilling new locks into the door as the squatters walked their dogs.

Things weren't going well. The drill battery died. Todd recharged it but it died again. He got the last screw in just as someone pulled on the door. Todd looked through the peephole. He remembers thinking the husband looked like a cross between the former football player Michael Strahan and the actor James Earl Jones. (Todd gets annoyed when people tell him he resembles Justin Timberlake.)

Todd took a deep breath and opened the door.

"This is my house," he said.

"It's our house," the husband replied. "And I want you to leave now."

After a few minutes, Todd allowed them inside to talk. Next door, Tara, her mother, and her girlfriend, Joy, had water glasses to the wall, straining to hear the action.

"They're yelling," said Tara.

"Todd's telling him to be a man," said Joy.

Now, Todd's friends were trickling in and — having checked on Todd — taking seats at the kitchen table. Tara put out bowls of Tostitos Scoops.

"Have a Scoop," she said.

Time stretched on. The ladies took a break from the wall to smoke their Misty Menthol Lights. Tara's mom works at a podiatry office, where Joy's husband, Frankie, has been missing appointments. Everyone agreed that was a shame and the ladies laid out a calendar and hashed out a new appointment.

Police Officer Mike was there, too. He was off duty. Some muscle. He sat on the floor playing with Tara's new puppy.

Todd came in. He looked exhausted.

"They're leaving Sunday," he said, and ate a Scoop.

On Sunday, Todd turned the lock and they were gone. He cleaned up the dog hair and held a party to celebrate.

"It's good to be home," he said, raising a beer.

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