Having a super on the premises, is quite new to me. In my old place tenants were more or less on their own. Something utterly catastrophic needed to occur before help was on the way.
But now I have Frank who has become like a relative you see daily. If he’s not engaged with a sink or toilet, he’s hanging out front like an armed guard with tools instead of a gun.
All that’s missing is a stoop.
We’ve already had a few skirmishes since Frank, at 5 feet 3, 250 pounds is very sensitive. Takes one to know one, and the guilt over upsetting him has cost me many gallons of Ben and Jerry’s, as my frozen flag of truce.
Who knew ice cream could heal the world, or at least a hurt super.
Well, yesterday he came to check my heat because it’s like Miami in my apartment. We both could have been in bikinis it was so hot. Okay, a Speedo for Frank which, if you ask me, is the more disturbing image.
I had just scrubbed my floors, no favorite task of Thingirl’s, so I asked Frank if he could kindly take off his shoes. Well, at once, I saw how uncomfortable he became, because unbeknownst to me, Frank doesn’t wear socks.
Hmm. “Frank, don’t your feet get cold?” I said, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m never cold,” he said, flexing his forearms like a prizefighter.
So the big question was, did I want dirty work boots on my nice, clean wood floors, or sweaty feet?
“Frank, how bout some snappy, Brooks Brothers argyles? It just so happens I have a brand new pair that are just your size.”
Sorry Ed, but there goes your Christmas present.