The Kids in the Hall
I get started on my “new job” first thing Monday morning, after Ernest’s walk. I grab the box Lana gave me and plonk it onto
the Persian rug next to my coffee table. Alice doesn’t seem all that curious, even as I pull off the lid and start rooting
around. The mess of papers inside the box are such an anxiety-inducing jumble that I can’t help but get started sorting right
away.
It turns out Irene has an email for everyone on their tenant profile forms—as well as phone numbers, previous addresses, occupation,
and references. With so much personal information at her fingertips, her not using them (ever!) is even more boggling.
First step: announcing a change in leadership. I hit send on a group message advising all tenants that I am the new manager.
There’s no going back. I can officially get started on Project Turd Polish.
I’m currently on Phase One: Tenant Inventory.
I start by going through the tenants’ files in earnest and creating a new digital grid for easy reference.
Carmen Thurston 1D (Old White Perve) has been here for seven years. His occupation is listed as Outlaw, which I’m sure is
normal and nothing to worry about.
Jane Brando (Weird Girl Beside Me) is an administrative assistant. Not what I expected. The other morning, I spotted her leaving for work in bright pink tights, a wrinkled beige trench coat, and a purse that didn’t quite hold the giant paperback novel stuffed inside.
It made me feel bad.
Norman Olivers (A1 Incel) has a name so generic it borders on familiar. His listed occupation is IT, which I could’ve guessed.
He seems like the type who’s constantly glued to a computer screen for one reason or another. It probably doesn’t matter where
he lives—his life would just keep rolling down its flat, grey road, unchanged.
All these people will have to move in a few weeks, if I do my job well.
But that’s just how it goes, right? It’s like Lana said; this part of town has been gentrifying for years. Buildings up and
down the street have been bought to be refurbished. None of us can fight that.
Next, I move on to the list of tasks Lana sent. The electrical inspections are the most pressing, given our recent fire scare,
so I’ll need to book someone ASAP.
As I do some basic arithmetic, tallying up the monthly operation costs, it becomes abundantly clear: Irene isn’t charging
nearly enough in rent. This place is sinking faster than a pebble in Alice’s bowl.
It’s an odd kind of relief to know that Lana wasn’t full of shit. These evictions really are inevitable, no matter what. If
anything, I’m actually helping save Irene from herself.
Right, time to do a walk-through. Lana wants photos of the building to begin gathering interest. I close my laptop, pick up
my phone, grab a bottle of flat Perrier from my fridge to take a big swig, and head for the halls.
I’d almost forgotten how grounding it is to deep focus on a task. I realize just how much a few days of idleness messed me
up. I’m suddenly thankful to have something like this to do, small as it may seem right now.
I start on floor three, the level below me. Being on a level of the building I’ve lived in for five years but never having had a reason to go to feels like an odd breach. It looks exactly the same as floor four, paint chipping on white floorboards, but the feeling is all bizarro world.
The hum of a vacuum scrapes across the ceiling above, competing with the muted chatter of some anonymous daytime show echoing
through a door at the end of the hallway (3D: the apartment of Fancy Widow, who I now know from her tenant profile is named
Lorna Frank).
Lana shared in her not-so-patronizing instructions that it’s important to keep the buyer focused on “potential” and to eliminate
anything that distracts from that. Apparently, “shitty carpet and wallpaper” (the main features of the floors I’ve walked
through so far), aren’t as much of a concern as, say, “weird mysterious odor seeping into hallway from 1A Incel’s unit that
could be a body and might be impossible to remove.” (The first thing I noticed when I reached the ground floor). I suppose
a normal amount of tidying up won’t be enough to deal with that. According to Irene’s papers, cleaners come by once a month—and
they’re apparently responsible for the random bursts of cinnamon in the air.
When I get to the lobby, a dozen midsize cardboard packages are piled up precariously high next to the lobby door, as usual.
Naturally, we don’t have a doorman, so the mail carriers tend to just throw down the boxes in the landing. There are so many
right now that they’re spilling across the floor and blocking the way in.
I pull out my phone and attempt to take some pictures of the hall while artfully trying to avoid the mess. But it seems obvious
that part of the hallway is cut off compared to the other floors.
Just then, the door to the stairwell creaks. I shove my phone away as the dad of Uniform Family walks out, hair combed back,
ready to start his shift. As he passes by to go to the mailboxes, he respectfully doesn’t acknowledge me.
I suppose I’ll have to come back later to get a better snapshot.
I take the stairwell into the basement area next and am greeted by the usual musty, concerningly earthy scent. The basement truly shows the building’s age, with its low ceilings and cinderblock walls.
I’m standing under the always-flickering light when I notice the tiny rice-shaped brown specks. I wish I hadn’t inhaled so
hard when there are freaking mice droppings in the zone. Great, I will have to get an exterminator to deal with this.
“What’s your problem!”
I jolt as, out of nowhere, a loud thump sounds.
It’s Old White Perve’s voice, coming from the lobby.
My heartbeat skips with the flicker of the lights. Does he know what I’m up to already? Visions of my murder in this dank
basement flicker behind my eyes. I can imagine the interviews my mom would give to the media: “She tried so hard at everything.
Always got straight A’s but had mini breakdowns earning them.”
“It was blocking the door from closing properly!” Jane’s voice is sterner than its usual fluttery tone. A creak sounds from
above.
Something’s going down in the lobby above me.
I tiptoe back up the stairwell as Carmen’s voice drawls, “Look, I ain’t here for no drama!”
The shadows move against the propped-open doorway above me. Jane lets out a frustrated screech. “It’s unsafe! Anyone could
walk in here.”
I finish making my way up the stairs, until I’m close enough to see the back of Jane’s head. Her red hair is bouncing with
the sound of her voice, her head shaking with the power of her words coming out. “Doesn’t it bother you some vandal just broke
into the building?” She’s got a large crunchy Ikea tote bag propped under her arm. She points in what I’m guessing is Carmen’s
direction, her chewed fingernails holding on to the last few chips of bright green nail-polish. “I’m going to talk to Irene
about this.”
Shit. Normally, this is the kind of situation I’d get the hell away from without a second glance. But since I’m supposed to be keeping the tenants calm and out of Irene’s hair, I guess this is my fucking rodeo now—whether I like it or not. I inhale. Time to go shut this mess down.
I step into the entryway and Jane turns to notice me, a twinge of curiosity in her expression. I wave, like I wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Hey there. Everything okay?”
They both stare at their shoes in response. Carmen’s ears are red as he crosses his pale, freckled arms, jaw clenched. Even
though these two people aren’t usually dripping with joie de vivre, nor is the bare light bulb on this landing (that will
need to be replaced if I want to imply that this building isn’t a shithole), the situation still looks dire.
I take a quick breath and summon my best work smile—the kind I’ve had no problem pulling out for unsavory clients like Bob
Wolch, until recently.
“You might have seen the email I just sent around? I’m helping Irene out, doing some building inventory.” I hold my phone
up as if this validates something as I take a more purposeful stride into the room. “I’m happy to help if there’s anything
you need.”
Jane angles her head in Carmen’s direction before staring at the packages that litter the hallway. “Carmen’s constant stream
of deliveries and random boxes are getting out of hand. They’re blocking the doorway and it’s not safe,” she huffs.
“That doesn’t mean you should kick my package across the room.” Carmen’s voice is stern against his clenched jaw. “That’s
my private property.” He points to a box that has a clear foot-size dent in it, which explains the initial thump I heard.
Jane leans close enough to me that the distinct scent of her Aussie shampoo filters into my nose. “Carmen has random people
coming in and out of his place all the time, and then right after a break-in, his package is wedged in the doorframe. Isn’t
that a little suspicious?”
“They’re not random.” Carmen’s leathery neck has instantly shaded to pink. “They’re my associates.”
Having “associates” when you’re the type of guy who carries a comb in your pocket can’t be anything good.
“And let’s not forget all the other weird stuff going on here,” Jane continues. “Like the fact that my underwear keeps disappearing
from the laundry room. Couldn’t these things be connected?”
“What in the hell are you accusing me of here?” His face has now gone deep red and patchy. “What would I steal underwear for?
I got my own intimates.”
This is not a thing I wanted to hear about at all.
Jane just shakes her head, arms crossed, cupping her elbows. Honestly, I can’t believe she’s so directly accusing this guy.
Carmen seems like the kind of man who processes his emotions by smashing beer bottles against dumpsters. And podcast volume
aside, she’s not usually one of the more vocal tenants. Already, she seems to be second-thinking her outburst. She shifts
uneasily on her feet, watching me warily as she waits for my reaction. There’s a run in the back of her pantyhose I’m not
sure she’s aware of.