February 10, 2008

• Strange Days

  I like Sunday brunch. It is a nice, social time that lets people enjoy the dregs of the weekend without making Monday mornings worse than they inherently are. Plus, what more could you want from life when you’ve got a poached egg, salmon, and spinach on an english muffin? Besides a mimosa. Which, oh look, is a part of it all. Chin, chin my friends.

  I usually stress about the cost of dining out, and thusly avoid it, but once in a while a little brunch is just what the doctor ordered. I’ve had a strange few days.

  Thursday night, I’d just come home from running and was stripped to my sports bra, stretching. Shaun was in the kitchen, fixing dinner. We were listening to Camera Obscura. There was a knock on the door. Shaun answered. It was our super, Victor, and two men.

  “This is the building owner and The Inspector,” Victor said. Spatula in hand, Shaun let them in.

  The inspector was a bulky trench-coated hasidic jew – the kind with the two long curls dangling down. He blushed to come upon me, half naked in yogic cow pose.

  “Hi there,” I said. “Whatcha doin’?”
  “My job,” he mumbled, refusing to meet my eye. I felt bad to have insulted him with my secular spandex. I had to remind myself that he was in my home, unannounced.

  The inspector proceeded to go from room to room with a digital camera, taking pictures of everything. I thought it was kind of strange that he seemed to be inspecting everything, making sort of a digital floorplan. I’d assumed he’d come to inspect our heater, which we keep off as it leaks boiling water onto our neighbors below. But he seemed oblivious to it.

  Soon, the men left and Shaun and I were eating our home-made mac and cheese. I was troubled by the men. I didn’t know why they’d been there.

  “Do you think that inspector was from Yeshiva University? Perhaps he was inspecting the building, generally, to see if they wanted to buy,” I said.

  The next time we move, it will be out of this city. We are not going to get another apartment while we live here. We commiserated, watched Curb Your Enthusiasm on DVD, and went to sleep.

  Friday, I mentioned the scenario at work. My colleagues were aghast.

  “Why did Shaun let them in?”
  “Well, we knew Victor. It seemed official.”
  “Did you ask for ID?”
  I laughed. They were serious. “I don’t generally ID people who knock on my door.”
  “This is New York,” they said, “unless you want to be assaulted in your home, you ID.”
  I felt like an idiot. They were right. Why was I so stupid?
   
  My colleagues told me that since I live in a rent controlled building, my tenants rights state that my landlord has to give me 24 hours notice if anyone needs to be let into my unit. Also, they cannot terminate our lease. If we pay our rent on time every month – which of course we do – they have to offer a lease renewal when our lease expires in October.

  The colleagues went on to tell me horror stories of crooked supers. The dean of student’s landlord was breaking into people’s mail, stealing their checks, and having a friend of his cash them. Our catalogue distribution manager invited his super into his home and similar events took place. A week later his place was burglarized. “I let them make a floor-plan of my stuff,” he said, “it was stupid.”

  Ask for ID. Never let anyone in. Be suspicious. Assume the worst. Do not interact. Do not open your home up to anyone.

  “I used to be nice,” my office mate told me, “but then I was mugged. Live here long enough and it will happen. Its just a matter of time.”

  On my way home, a black car followed me close for a few blocks. A man jeered at me in Spanish from the passenger-side window. I dogged into an ally and ran home, where I cried. 

  The next day, Saturday, a man masturbated at me in the landrymat. His penis was wrangled through a hole in his jeans pocket. I’d just put a load in the dryer and sat down next to him. I cracked open my book. Why is the bench jiggling? I looked over. Oh.

  I moved. There is a mirrored boarder around this laundrymat. No-matter where I moved, the man’s eyes seemed to follow me. Everyone in the Laundromat knew what was happening and no one was doing anything. Everyone just seemed to be avoiding him. It was gross and weird.

  When my laundry was done, I had to walk by the masturbator to retrieve it. The bench had stopped jiggling, but the man was now napping on the bench, legs splayed.

  After all this, my dryer was broken. Everything was still wet. 

  I know a brunch can’t fix this. But I hope it will make me forget about it for a few hours at least.

  • 9:48 am
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