The Kids in the Hall #2
I’m trying to craft a response that recognizes the situation without putting me on anyone’s bad side, when Carmen fires back,
“You know, I’ve had a few packages go missing myself, matter of fact. Maybe I can lay a trap—borrow a turd from Hank’s litter
box to package up for the thief.”
Shock slackens Jane’s features before they contort in disgust. “What the actual fuck?”
He lets out a disappointed sigh, like he’s lost faith in her as a person.
“Hey guys!” I cut in, hoping to head off another round of vandal speculation. But as both of their gazes snap to me, I immediately
second-guess getting involved. I prefer my conflicts sanitized and corporate—not whatever this is. “I was actually going to talk to you about your packages, Carmen. There are quite a few, and they need to be moved to your unit in a timely manner.”
Carmen rolls his eyes, and I can tell my words won’t be changing a thing. “Irene’s always been okay with it.”
There it is. As suspected, Carmen is a little weenie. If I try to tell him to change his ways, I bet he’ll go running to Irene,
which would be exactly what Lana doesn’t want happening.
I nod in fake understanding. “I appreciate that, but with Irene’s broken ankle, I think it’s best we try to reduce the hall
clutter. We don’t want anyone tripping again.”
Sincere concern drips from me and lands on Carmen’s face. He wipes it off just as fast, turning on his heel and stomping back
to his apartment.
Jane shoots me a wide-eyed look, like, Can you believe this guy? “It’s no use trying to be reasonable with him. You’re right, this is a fire hazard. The marshal told us to contact him if we noticed any other issues.”
Shit. If she contacts the marshal, the alert will also go straight to Irene. How is it so hard to keep these two from pestering
a semisweet old lady?
I hold out my palms in a placating gesture. “There’s a better solution.”
“Which is?” Jane raises an eyebrow.
Good question. “Look, if you contact the marshal, I’m sure the packages will miraculously disappear for a week and then start
piling up again. I’ll come up with something more long term.”
Jane sighs, brushing back the strands of her bangs that cling flatly to her forehead. She looks like she’s on the edge of
something—crying or something else. Obviously, these packages aren’t the real problem.
My gaze falls away from Jane and snags on the tufted carpet by the door with the metal mesh window.
At once this entryway feels like the most meaningless place to be.
Like, if they were to cumulate every situation happening in the world at this given moment, this would be the most insignificant use of our life on earth.
The door to Carmen’s apartment down the hall flies open again. I catch a glimpse of mismatched furniture, cluttered with ornaments.
I spot three lamps on one table before he notices me peeping and closes his door.
He’s holding a laundry basket. He comes into the lobby, starts picking up packages and throwing them in.
“All good here now?” Carmen bites at Jane.
Jane looks at me instead. “Fine.”
I keep my grin in place and try not to flinch as Carmen shoves past me to grab another box. His belt buckle glares at me,
too close for comfort.
If I’m going to survive these people for six more weeks, I have to reframe this. I just need to pretend this is a professional
development opportunity. Good practice for handling entitled clients who sometimes make me want to disassociate. And when
I’m back at the office—Lana as my client, promotion in hand—I’ll have plenty more of them to deal with.
Carmen heads back to his apartment, and Jane walks out of the building via the front door. Peace having temporarily been restored,
I continue into the basement to complete my inspection.
The laundry room is decent (for Valleyview standards, which means there’s a pile of old detergent boxes and lint balls that
tenants just tossed next to the bin provided without giving a shit); the garage is full of what I can only guess is more of
Carmen’s junk (including a box of twisted metal that gives a real your-catalytic-convertor-is-not-safe-here vibe); a few cars,
including Divorced Dad’s red Santa Fe, and a rack full of rusted bikes whose owners have long since moved on with their lives.
After leaving the garage, I reopen my phone’s notes app in the hallway.
I write all the tasks needed:
-Electrical inspections (Several suites and areas)
-Have Carmen clear out his boxes/junk/tools/bullshit from common areas
-Figure out origin/get rid of odor on first floor (somehow)
-Exterminator
-Get someone to clear out/donate old bikes
It isn’t long. It seems so doable that it’s like a glimmer of hope after such a dark tunnel. The hardest part will be convincing other tenants to do things.
Inspections will involve getting access to their units. I get the feeling it’ll be like dealing with toddlers again.
But the faster I can help sell this place, the faster I can get back to my real life. My better life—away from this place
and all this bullshit.
In a few weeks this shit show will all be over.
I just have to keep my eyes on the prize.