01.25.23

I feel unclear on the extent to which I’m to supervise my super when he comes by to fix something for me.

I texted him yesterday morning because I was panicking, thinking my fridge wasn’t working. I had just gone grocery shopping, and I always keep my freezer stocked, so a loss of what’s in the fridge equates to, I would guess, between two and nine hundred dollars (inflation, am I right? How topical). I’m not in the tax bracket to just accept those kinds of losses, so I texted him at 10:52am. In the text regarding the fridge, I also told him about two things that have been issues for me in my apartment for months, since before he even started working here. Moments later, I pressed on the plug for my refrigerator and it kicked back on. I must have tapped the outlet the wrong way while trying to toss paper towels up on top of my cabinets (if you were wondering — one roll did fall into the space behind the fridge, and there’s no way for me to get it. It lives there now, along with a pint container I once dropped back there). I amended my message saying the fridge was fine actually but I still needed help with those other two things — the kitchen light and the drip in my tub. He swung by yesterday afternoon and assessed both situations, and said he’d be back tomorrow with what he needed to fix both.

Ruben knocked on my door at 8:55am this morning, and I was still in bed (I told him between 9am and 1pm would be fine to come by, but I can’t fault the guy for being early — I’m the one who shouldn’t still be in bed at that time. Be a grown up, Emma!). I was just laying on my phone, awake. I got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and walked out of my bedroom to find that I had what can only be described as a mountain of recycling in my foyer, a Yesterday Problem left for Today Me. I awkwardly and loudly moved the boxes and bottles and cans into my bedroom and shut the door behind me, also hiding my unmade bed and my piles of laundry and clothes I’m half-heartedly and aspirationally putting on Poshmark. I always feel like I need to cover up the fact that I live in the apartment when my super comes in, as if he would scold me for it being messy. I opened the door to him with greasy hair and unbrushed teeth.

He got to work on the light in the kitchen, using my Facebook Marketplace kitchen island as a workspace. I sat at one of the stools and just… Watched. I didn’t have anything to add to the situation, no way to help, no home improvement knowledge to speak of. I don’t like to hover, but I always feel weird abandoning someone who is working on something for me. Especially because there are only two rooms and not a lot of places to go. Anywhere I move away to will be no more than ten feet away. I listened to him gripe about “the last guys” and the terrible choices they had made in their construction and wiring and fixes in my apartment, and in the building in general, and made myself useful by agreeing with everything he said. I think about how some of my friends make jokes about the sign in the lobby of my building that gives it a D in energy efficiency. That must be because of The Last Guys.

Ruben fixed my light. It’d been out for months. I had tried just replacing the bulb, but something had shorted in the wires when I unscrewed the last one, largely because the light was not mounted on the wall properly and it basically fell off when I touched it wrong. I didn’t tell him about it for a long time because I hate calling my super for stuff. I know it’s his job, and he likes me and he always does a good job, but I still don’t want to bother him. When I told my parents that the light had a wiring issue, months ago, they encouraged me to call right away — it could be a pipe leaking, or some kind of larger issue in the building that caused the light to short out. This did not persuade me.

When I first moved in, my apartment had no gas. It had water and electricity but no gas — my stove and oven were not functional. When I signed my lease, the guy from the management company told me I could call ConEd when I moved in and have them switch on the gas, it’d take a day. I took his word for it. It turned into a five-month fiasco. The apartment had been vacant for more than 6 months before I moved in, so ConEd had to come inspect it, and unlock the apartment’s gas line in the basement. That took months. Then the oven wasn’t working and someone else had to come fix that. I moved in in late April of 2021, and my stove did not work until late September 2021. Fives months. Five months. Couldn’t cook anything. For some New Yorkers, perhaps richer, more glamorous Carrie Bradshaw types, this wouldn’t have mattered. But for me, it was a nightmare. I went through a breakup and couldn’t even bake my woes away. Throughout this time, the building manager changed six times. Each time a new guy started, I had to basically restart the process, brief them on where I was in the situation, connect them with ConEd... It was insane. I was always badgering the Building Manager of the Week via text message, calling ConEd to set up appointments and expedite approvals and paperwork, using free consultations with lawyers to determine whether or not I had to pay rent for an apartment that I was led to believe was ready to be lived in but in fact was yet uninhabitable, and whether I was allowed to move in under false pretenses (but what a hassle to elevate something in housing court). So now I don’t like to be annoying if I don’t have to (even though Ruben had literally nothing to do with any of this, and has no knowledge of it now). Thus, I cooked in a dark kitchen and let my tub drip for months and months, occasionally spraying the rust-colored spot it left with cancerous-smelling Iron Out.

Ruben fixed my tub as well and had me sign a document that said he fixed the two things I asked him to fix, to be sent to building management. His handwriting is loopy and neat — I recognize it from signs that get posted around the building. “Don’t buzz in unknown people,” “Dryer not working,” “No elevator service to 3rd floor until” and then the bottom with the date was folded under the sign, because the date that the third floor was supposed to have restored service had come and gone. Sucks for them. I have lately noticed him writing his notes on a paper with various dogs around its border. I’m sure it’s just all he has right now, but I think it’s very funny.