Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Inspector
"This is a one-bedroom. Is this the bedroom?" The city inspector looked into the room on the left of the entryway. It 's filled with boxes, some empty, most loaded with books, journals, cassette tapes, & collected junk. It has a table comprised of a plank laid across filing cabinets. "Where do you sleep?"
It's a question I hear every year, either from this inspector - the short, efficient black woman, or the affable, middle-age, rumpled white man. He was here last year. "That room is my workspace & attic. I sleep in the other room on a futon."
The white guy, I've learned, is the more nosy inspector. He actually looks at the window locks by the fire escape, twiddles the radiator valves, turns the faucets on & off, pokes into corners. I think he's trying to see what's in the boxes, the crates of CDs. There's also an xylophone leaning against the wall, & diner booth jukebox on the floor, & some paintings propped on the boxes. The woman can see the open path to the shadeless window, the two latches on the sash, & the fire escape railing beyond; feels the heat in the apt ("Better too much than too little, " she said in the hot hallway downstairs when I escorted her in). The room has no water stains in the ceiling, no extension cords criss-crossing the floor. There's a smoke detector with a glowing red light. She doesn't even enter the room.
She doesn't like the bathroom. Neither do I. Had a leak upstairs two weeks ago. Leak fixed, ceiling tiles not replaced. Empty hole showing the floor above. I tell her the truth. "I pester the handyman, he probably figures he'll have to fix stuff anyway when he gets your report. It's annoying."
"The owner" - she looks at her clipboard - "Mark, he ever come around?"
"Once in awhile. I have his number. He returns his calls. I'm a good tenant. But he'll kick the guy's butt. He always does this time of year. No reason for me to call him ... yet."
She checks out the little kitchen area. "You have gas?"
"Nope, I had turned it off. It was a waste. I hate gas. Never used the oven, here or in my old place."
"How long you lived here?"
"Since 2004." That probably settled any question of lifestyle. I'm entrenched. She inspects better places & she inspects worse. In this building. I'm a slob in the manner of a divorced college teacher. But you've have had to have visited one to know.
"I see you have a microwave."
"I have everything I need. Just don't keep them out on the table. "
She's finished in a few minutes. I sign the report. "Thanks for coming on time," I say.
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
It's a question I hear every year, either from this inspector - the short, efficient black woman, or the affable, middle-age, rumpled white man. He was here last year. "That room is my workspace & attic. I sleep in the other room on a futon."
The white guy, I've learned, is the more nosy inspector. He actually looks at the window locks by the fire escape, twiddles the radiator valves, turns the faucets on & off, pokes into corners. I think he's trying to see what's in the boxes, the crates of CDs. There's also an xylophone leaning against the wall, & diner booth jukebox on the floor, & some paintings propped on the boxes. The woman can see the open path to the shadeless window, the two latches on the sash, & the fire escape railing beyond; feels the heat in the apt ("Better too much than too little, " she said in the hot hallway downstairs when I escorted her in). The room has no water stains in the ceiling, no extension cords criss-crossing the floor. There's a smoke detector with a glowing red light. She doesn't even enter the room.
She doesn't like the bathroom. Neither do I. Had a leak upstairs two weeks ago. Leak fixed, ceiling tiles not replaced. Empty hole showing the floor above. I tell her the truth. "I pester the handyman, he probably figures he'll have to fix stuff anyway when he gets your report. It's annoying."
"The owner" - she looks at her clipboard - "Mark, he ever come around?"
"Once in awhile. I have his number. He returns his calls. I'm a good tenant. But he'll kick the guy's butt. He always does this time of year. No reason for me to call him ... yet."
She checks out the little kitchen area. "You have gas?"
"Nope, I had turned it off. It was a waste. I hate gas. Never used the oven, here or in my old place."
"How long you lived here?"
"Since 2004." That probably settled any question of lifestyle. I'm entrenched. She inspects better places & she inspects worse. In this building. I'm a slob in the manner of a divorced college teacher. But you've have had to have visited one to know.
"I see you have a microwave."
"I have everything I need. Just don't keep them out on the table. "
She's finished in a few minutes. I sign the report. "Thanks for coming on time," I say.
Labels: Elizabeth NJ, home furnishings
