My rent is pretty high this year. After three years of cramped dorms and awkward sublets, I decided it was time to class it up a bit by signing to live in one of the local real estate magnates ""Gold Key"" properties.
As you might expect from a building so pretentiously titled, my place comes with all the fixings—hardwood floors, plush furnishings, his-and-her sinks and one of those red heat lamps in the bathroom. Oh, and an Andre the Giant-sized hole by the elevator.
It's been there for a while too—almost as long as me. I moved in on a Sunday. The hole showed up on Monday. That was a month ago.
The hole was small at first. Just about the size of your standard-issue New Balance sneaker. I didn't see it happen, but judging by the thickness of the wall in question, and the lingering scent of urine, I'd venture a guess that there was some booze involved.
With every passing weekend, though, the hole gets a little bit bigger. Scratch that. Every passing weekend it gets huger. And every Monday morning, the crack maintenance staff breezes through to mop up the urine and sweep away the plaster. But for whatever reason, they just don't seem interested in fixing the hole.
That's not exactly the kind of service one expects from ""Gold Key"" residence, but that's the kind we get. Five floors up, my refrigerator door hangs precariously off the rest of the fridge, tethered on by duct tape and some dodgy bolts.
A man with a toolbox came to look at it, and told me he needed to order some parts. He said they'd be in by the end of the week. That was also a month ago.
On account of the management's apparent lack of interest in the hole, I considered taking the law into my own hands. But I'm no good with Spackle and my plastering skills are just an embarrassment to my family.
With the manual labor option out of the picture, I considered trying to stem the expansion of the hole by putting up a polite note, something like ""Dear neighborhood brutes and rogues: Please refrain from destroying my home. Sincerely, Joe.""
Then I remembered who I was dealing with: people who have no qualms about putting themselves, or perhaps others, through walls. This is not a demographic known for its understanding, to say nothing of its literacy. So I passed on writing a note as well.
Finally, I thought I'd found my answer when I came face to face with one of the maintenance men outside the building. But when I asked if he planned on fixing hole, his only response was, ""Come on man."" Then I asked if he'd seen the hole. He just laughed it off like I was making the whole thing up.
This reaction could mean a couple of things. Maybe he really hasn't seen the hole, which I doubt, because the maintenance man in question is not Stevie Wonder. But for all I know, he's already ordered the parts. But if they need a stopgap, I know of a semi-detached refrigerator door that can plug the hole quite nicely.
