I live in an apartment building that isn't terribly old, but it's at that stage where it's settling into its bones, so that things have a tendency to crack here and there. For example, during my first week here, I was sitting in the living room reading when I heard a loud POP!, followed by a dramatic pause in which I cocked my ear towards the disturbance, followed immediately by the shattering of my kitchen light fixture as it crashed into the tile floor. I had just moved in and had yet to purchase a vacuum cleaner or broom, as my former roommates had owned both. I spent two days walking around with shoes on at all times.
Another surprising delight of this little community is the fire alarm system. There was the most fantastic summer thunderstorm a couple of nights ago, and once when the lightning struck, our power surged. Next thing you know, the fire alarm in the basement of the next building over is chirping precisely every three-mississippi. And so it has gone for the past thirty-six hours (which is 43,200 chirps, in case you were curious).
At the end of long work days, I enjoy an evening spent lost in a book filled with beautiful and/or snarky words, and on this particular night I was on my back porch enjoying this one. (Read it! It's like word candy!) Now this is where I've been getting to all along, so pay attention. I'm in the middle of one of the single greatest sentences ever written ("Jimmy Stewart is always and indisputably the best man in the world, unless Cary Grant should happen to show up."), when the repair man pulls up just below my porch and hefts his belly-heavy load out of his station wagon, meanders on over to the utility door, unlocks it, opens, steps in, pauses, steps back out, hacks, hocks a loogie, clears his throat, and proceeds back through the door to investigate. Mmm, delicious.
Within minutes, the clanging is interrupted by a gargling burp. And yes, as a matter of fact, it did echo off the walls. This is when I decide to go back inside, but as my windows are all open, the clanging continues. As does the chirp, chirp, chirp every three seconds on the dot. Oh, there's a big sigh. Apparently we have the wrong tools to quiet the little birdie.
Our darling repair man proceeds to relock the utility closet, waddle on back over to the station wagon (whom you may call Nellie), and toss his tools into her backseat (that is not a euphemism-- although, funny!). Never one to disappoint, and always the pinnacle of grace, he opens the driver-side door, turns towards my building, and punctuates his efforts with a belch that can only be described as monumental.
And that's been my evening.
