Saturday, Nick and I were sitting in the living room eating jalapeno poppers and watching Waiting for Guffman. It was, quite simply, heaven on Earth. The girls who live above me had been moving out all morning, and when we heard a loud ‘bang’ as a piece of their furniture hit the pavement outside like a jumper, I thought nothing of it.
Nick got up and went outside to smoke a post-popper lung rocket, but quickly poked his back inside the door. “Dave, you’d better get out here”. I’ve been hucking furniture, showing apartments, typing up leases, making keys, painting, visiting the bank, waiting for repairmen – all as part of my new building manager duties. I knew August would be a rough month when I took the job, but I really thought I was over the hump. In short, the words “What the fuck is it now!?” quickly flashed through my brain like a Times Square marquee.
In their haste and deplorable moving wisdom, my lovely ex-tenants decided to lower a large boxspring off of their fire escape. And by ‘lower’, I of course mean ‘drop’. Said heavy object then bounced backwards towards the building and shattered both panes of my bedroom window. The window frame itself is bent beyond repair – to the point where I couldn’t even remove all of the broken glass. I took a deep breath, nodded profusely and affirmatively when they offered to pay for the damages, and covered the mess with cardboard and duct tape.
What would Schneider do? I mean, besides try to sleep with both of them?
