Love for your landlord

When you’re landlord in Harlem calls, you can assume one of three things:

1) They have lovingly called to break the news that your apartment is on fire
2) They have lovingly dialed your number to tell you someone has broken into your one bedroom apartment (devoid of furniture) and stolen your only chair
3) It’s rent day and you’ve yet to pay up.

At least that’s the case with my landlord. If you are on good terms with the King or Queen of your block then life in New York is a lot easier. Coming from a co-op these things are especially important. Toilet broken? If you’re a pain in the ass tenant, you will be forgotten, play nice and your plumbing will not contribute to the shit in your life.

So when my landlord called today and left a message I got a little freaked out. Was my apartment on fire? Did someone steal my one fold-up chair (that actually isn’t even mine but borrowed from my ex)? Could she be calling about the rent that I have yet to scrounge? Better just face the music, call back, call back and suffer the consequences. I’m a survivor damn it!

I quickly dialed her number, no answer. Dear Lord it’s a fire, she’s on the street helping put it out, taking the charred remains of the fold up, shaking her head and thanking the Lord no one was hurt. Don’t be silly I tell myself, she’s just taking a break. I call again, ‘Hello’.

Turns out a package arrived for me from my folks back home. Seeing I was out all day, the Matriarch of the building signed for me and is currently holding it within the safe confines of her apartment. Ah, Sugar Hill you just can’t beat it.