Fieldstone Apartment Enterprises LLC v. Noah Polesky & All Occupants

Let’s get one thing straight: in the grand, dramatic soap opera of American landlord-tenant relations, nothing says “I’ve had it!” quite like slapping a $1,109 bill on someone and saying, “You’re out.” But here’s the kicker—$954 in unpaid rent, $155 in fees, and a mysteriously blank line where the damage costs should be, yet somehow totaling $1,109? Someone did math we’re not seeing, and honestly, that missing number is giving this whole thing a very DIY spreadsheet energy. Welcome to the eviction showdown at 1103 Fieldstone Way, Mustang, Oklahoma—where the stakes are low, the drama is high, and the drywall may or may not have been personally offended.

On one side, we’ve got Fieldstone Apartment Enterprises LLC, which sounds like a villainous real estate conglomerate from a John Grisham novel but is, in reality, probably just some property management group trying to keep the lights on and the rent flowing. Represented by the no-nonsense Darquita L. Maggard—licensed attorney, certified rent collector, and likely someone who does not suffer fools—this LLC is playing hardball. On the other side? Noah Polesky, a man whose name appears alongside the ominous phrase “& All Occupants,” which, let’s be honest, makes it sound like he’s running a commune or possibly a secret underground fight club out of Apartment B. We don’t know how many people are in there. We don’t know if there’s a pet iguana named Steve. But “All Occupants” is the legal equivalent of “and whoever else is crashing on the couch,” and we’re here for it.

So what went down? Picture this: February 2026. The air is crisp. Rent is due. Noah Polesky, presumably busy living his best life—maybe binge-watching something, maybe deep into a DIY home renovation that went horribly wrong—fails to pay the $954 owed for rent. That’s not chump change. That’s a new laptop. That’s a plane ticket to Cancun. That’s two months of Peloton subscription and the bike. But instead of paying, Polesky appears to have gone radio silent, leaving Fieldstone Apartment Enterprises staring at a gaping hole in their monthly revenue and a growing sense of dread.

Then, to salt the wound, there’s an additional $155 in “unpaid fees.” Now, what are these fees? Late fees? Pet fees? The “you-left-a-stain-on-the-carpet-and-we’re-not-sure-what-it-was” fee? The filing doesn’t say, and honestly, we may never know. But $155 is the kind of fee that starts small—$25 late charge, $50 for a broken key fob, $80 for the emotional distress of finding someone’s half-eaten sandwich in the communal fridge—and snowballs into a grudge itemized bill. And then—plot twist—there’s also damage to the unit. How much? We don’t know! The form literally has a blank: “$______ for damages.” But the total demand? $1,109. So do the math: $954 + $155 = $1,109. Which means… the damages are $0? Or someone forgot to fill in the blank? Or—gasp—are the damages included in the fees? This is not just an eviction case. This is a mystery wrapped in an accounting error, stuffed inside a legal form.

Regardless, Fieldstone didn’t just sit there like a sad landlord with a clipboard. They followed procedure like true rule-followers. On March 5, 2026, they sent a notice—via certified mail, and posted it somewhere on the property, because why do one thing when you can do two?—demanding payment or departure. This is the legal version of “last chance, buddy.” Pay up, fix the mess, or pack your bags. But Polesky, true to form, did… nothing. No payment. No apology. No dramatic exit with a U-Haul and a sad playlist. Just silence. And in landlord law, silence is basically a full admission of guilt, at least procedurally.

So now we’re here: March 13, 2026. Darquita L. Maggard, armed with her bar number and a righteous cause, files a “Landlord’s Sworn Statement Requesting Eviction” in the District Court of Canadian County. This isn’t a full-blown lawsuit with depositions and expert witnesses. This is Oklahoma’s streamlined eviction process—fast, efficient, and designed for situations exactly like this: rent unpaid, notice served, tenant unresponsive. The court date? March 23. That’s ten days later. This isn’t Law & Order. This is Fast & Furious: Rent Collection Edition.

Now, what does Fieldstone actually want? Legally speaking, they’re seeking injunctive relief—a fancy way of saying “make this person leave.” They don’t want a jury trial. They don’t want punitive damages (no, they’re not trying to bankrupt Polesky for fun). They just want the court to say, “Noah, you’re out.” They want possession of the apartment back. They want the occupants—plural!—cleared out. And they want that $1,109, presumably to cover the rent, the fees, and whatever phantom damage may or may not exist. Is $1,109 a lot? In eviction terms? Not really. Most evictions involve larger sums. But it’s not nothing. It’s enough to matter. It’s the difference between “oops, forgot to pay” and “this is becoming a pattern.” And in property management, patterns are dangerous. One late renter leads to another, and before you know it, you’ve got a building full of people who think “pay when you feel like it” is a valid financial strategy.

But here’s where we, the peanut gallery, start picking sides. Because while Fieldstone has the law on their side—no rent, no stay, it’s pretty cut and dried—there’s something oddly unsatisfying about this whole thing. That blank line for damages? It nags at us. Was there a hole in the wall? A clogged toilet incident? Did Polesky turn the living room into a mini indoor skate park? Or is this just a case of a landlord bundling everything into fees to avoid having to prove actual damage in court? And what about Polesky? What’s his story? Did he lose his job? Was there a medical emergency? Did he just straight-up ghost because adulting is hard? The filing doesn’t say, and the court likely won’t ask—not in an eviction hearing. This isn’t about sympathy. It’s about procedure.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the amount. It’s the blank. The fact that a legal document demanding someone be kicked out of their home has a blank space for damages—yet still arrives at a precise total—is either a clerical oversight or a masterclass in creative accounting. And while we’re not rooting for rent dodging—let’s be clear, pay your rent, folks—we are rooting for transparency. If there’s damage, name it. If there’s a fee, justify it. Don’t leave us hanging with a blank line and a suspiciously round number.

At the end of the day, Noah Polesky will probably be out by April. The occupants—wherever they are—will scatter. Fieldstone will rekey the unit, maybe paint, maybe charge the next tenant a “mystery damage mitigation” fee. And Darquita L. Maggard will move on to the next case, another chapter in the never-ending saga of people who don’t pay rent but really, really want to keep living in apartments.

And somewhere, in a filing cabinet in Canadian County, this case will sit—SC-2026-HHF—not for homicide, not for fraud, but for $1,109, one blank line, and the eternal question: who really owes what to whom?