Getting to Know the Neighbors

For a few years when I lived in Lansing, I would sometimes work for my friend Mark, a journeyman contractor. He’d get a job to, for example, re-do someone’s basement bathroom, and he and I would show up, armed with drill drivers and nail guns, and proceed to tear everything out of the old bathroom, re-route the plumbing, re-wire the fixtures, frame and drywall the room, then sand, paint, and viola! new bathroom.

Since he was a pro and I was merely a professional helper, Mark always handled the actual plumbing and electrical work. I got to run the nail gun sometimes, but that was about as advanced as I got. I’m certain that at some point, Mark pointed out to me that these days, most major electrical appliances, refrigerator, air conditioner, water heater, etc, get their own circuit in the breaker box.

Not, apparently, in my apartment.

The building I live in was originally built sometime around the beginning of the 20^th century. The interior has been updated throughout the years, but it still leaves a little be desired. Floors that cant to the middle of the room are the most obvious drawback of my domicile. Blowing a fuse almost every time I use my air conditioner is another. The A/C itself can run OK, but if I want to use a fan or two to help circulate the colder air, the A/C and everything in my kitchen—the fridge, the microwave—will eventually draw too much power and flip the breaker.

Oh, and did I mention that the breaker boxes for all four apartments that have been carved out of this house are in a tiny, closet-like room accessible only from outside the building? Consider it mentioned. This means every time I blow a fuse, I have to put on shoes, walk about forty feet along the outside of the building, unlatch the wooden door to the breaker closet (imagine the latch on an old screen door; you know, the kind with a hook that fits into an eyebolt?), and find the breaker that’s been flipped.

This isn’t usually such a big deal. Sure, the last time it happened, I was pretty sure I spooked a rat or something that had made a home in amongst the many autumns’ worth of dead leaves that have piled up around the roofing paper, old broom, and other miscellaneous junk that’s kept in there (the door doesn’t come all the way to the ground, making access incredibly easy for small animals), and the first time I blew a fuse, I had to flip switches in each of the four breaker boxes because none of them are labeled. So re-setting my breakers has gotten kind of routine. So routine that I walked out of my apartment rather exasperated—and forgot to grab my keys.

Yep. I locked myself out of my apartment, something I haven’t done since college. And heavy gray storm clouds were moving slowly across the sky, like a hungry bear stalking its dinner. Me.

Those of you who know me will not be surprised that as soon as I realized what I had done, the first word out of my mouth was one that begins with an “f.” Those of you who know me will also be surprised that the very next thing I did was laugh. Loudly. I kept laughing for a good five minutes. What else was I gonna do?

After my short burst of absurdist mirth, I took stock. Did I have a spare key? Yes I did. In my apartment. Could I get in through a window? No, I had been running my air conditioner and all of my windows were closed and locked. Were any of my neighbors home? Elizabeth who lives above me? Nope. Rachelle who lives behind and above me? Nope. Lupe or her husband, who live directly behind me? Bingo!

I only knew Lupe and Juan through their gas bill. It had been delivered to me by mistake shortly after they moved in, so I hand-delivered it to Juan. “Hi, here’s your gas bill, it was in my mailbox.” “Thanks.” That was about the extent of my conversation with Juan.

But Lupe was very helpful. She had the maintenance guy’s number in her cell phone, dialed him for me, gave me a glass of water while I waited for him to show up. We chatted about the gas bill (which unfortunately in the winter tends to be rather large for an apartment in a house that is about 100 years old—I suspect from lack of insulation), and the hassles of parking in the street.

Half an hour later, about an hour after I had locked myself out of my apartment, Brian showed up and let me in.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said. “Elizabeth’s had to call me at least three times.”