🍌 The Case of the Fruit Thief

So, a few weeks back, my phone rings. It’s Marko — one of my long-time tenants. But also, before that, we used to work together in another life. I call him Walking Trouble, not because he causes problems, but because trouble seems to follow him around like he’s made of magnets, and bad luck is iron filings.

So when he called and said, in total seriousness,
“Lily, someone is entering my apartment and eating my fruit,”
I didn’t even flinch.

He swore he hadn’t given keys to anyone. Asked if we had changed the locks when he moved in.
Yes, of course we had. We always do.
But I reminded him gently, “Marko, even if somehow we hadn’t — which we did — it’s been two years. If someone had a key, wouldn’t they have stolen more than just... bananas?”

He accepted my logic (reluctantly), and I told him to let me know if it happened again.

Spoiler: It did.

A few days later, my phone rings again.
This time, Marko’s panicked. Like, full-throttle movie scream panicked.
He yells:
“SHE’S HERE! Sitting on my bed! Eating a banana! LILY, COME NOW!”

I’m still processing. Who is she?!
I ask calmly, “Marko, who is in your apartment?”

He yells again:
“ALL MY FRUIT IS ON THE FLOOR! SHE’S SITTING ON MY BED EATING A BANANA!”

Click. I hang up.
I immediately call Mario (our technician, professional jokester, squirrel whisperer in training) and Steve, my assistant who’s as steady as a plumb line. We go together. This feels like a situation.

We knock on Marko’s door. He opens it, furious. His face says, “I told you so,” and “I haven't slept,” all at once.
“I tried to kick her out,” he snaps, “but she hid under the bed!”

Again I ask, “Who?”
And this time, with the passion of a man who has truly had enough, he roars:
“THE SQUIRREL!!”

Mario, Steve, and I all look at each other. The kind of look that screams “don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.”

We walk into the bedroom. There’s fruit carnage on the floor — apples, banana peels, some half-eaten plum situation. Mario heads to the balcony door and opens it wide. That’s when we see it.

The air conditioner unit sits below the door. And from there?
A strip of black garbage bag plastic, taped up to the top frame like a flap. Torn at the bottom. A squirrel-size entry point, as if someone built a squirrel-size curtain.
A couple of chairs block the door — apparently, squirrel-proofing 101.

Steve grabs a broom. Gently slides it under the bed.
The squirrel squeaks in protest. Then — ninja mode activated — it bolts, scrambles out from under the bed, launches onto the table, and FLIES out the balcony like a grey, fuzzy parachute.

We rush to the balcony, look over… and sure enough, she’s fine. Alive. Sprinting across the lawn toward a bush like she’s got somewhere to be.

Mario turns to me and says,
“Did you see that? Lily, she turned back and told us to F-off.”

And just like that, the three of us — Mario, Steve, and I — lose it. Laughing so hard we can’t breathe.

Meanwhile, Marko’s standing there, dead serious. Still mad. Still fruitless.

He crosses his arms and says,
“I told you she comes here for the fruit.”

I wiped my tears and asked, “Why did you keep calling it she? I thought there was a woman in here!”

And he goes, “But in my language, squirrel is a female noun.”

That’s when he started laughing too.

Thank the cosmos I know Marko from before — if this had been a brand-new tenant, I’d be getting

a one-star review and a fruit bill.

🧡 Got a hilarious tenant or landlord story?

Maybe your own squirrel standoff? Or a confused call that ended in laughter?

I'd love to hear it — and maybe even feature it (anonymously or not — your call) in a future blog post!

📩

(Bonus points for fruit-related incidents.)