On Housewares, Homicides, and Comedic Duos

I wake up at 8 this morning, which is pretty rare for me. Applying Occam’s Razor, I figure that I probably just had to pee, but when I get to the bathroom I realize that isn’t true. “Strange,” I think, but I go ahead and let out a few drops for the sake of tradition and then go back to bed. Then I begin to hear what has awakened me: a semi-rhythmic knocking sound.

“Just ignore it,” I think to myself. “Sleep is so good.” (This is true.) Thwok. Thwok. Pause. Thwok. Pause. Pause. Thwok Thwok Thwok. Pause. Thwok. I find myself tensing for the next sound, waiting for the metaphorical other thwok to fall, getting jittery and crazy like those poor pigeons who peck buttons and receive rewards on a random basis (unlike those very stodgy and comfortable pigeons with a steady reward schedule).

The mystery of the thing also begins to grip me. “What is that?” I’m thinking. “Is someone hammering something at 8 am?” (In retrospect, this seemed like a crazier idea than it probably is.) “Is there someone on the roof? Are we experiencing a series of small earthquakes, entirely localized next to my apartment’s wall?”

I finally get up and look. I check to see if my big wall clock is somehow malfunctioning (it’s on that wall, and has relatively loud gears). No dice. I check outside. (What I’m going to do about it if the source is outside, I don’t know, but I’m not really in plan mode yet.) The noise is not coming from outside. I decide to get very close to the corner where the noise is coming from, crouching up next to it and placing my ear against it like I’m listening for a fetal kick.

I figure out what it is at about the same moment that a drop of water splashes on my head.

So my roof is leaking, and the “thwok” sound is water striking the back of the tv. No big deal. I’ve seen enough sitcoms to know to handle this situation. I get a pot, and try to set it on the back of the tv. It slides off. This is awkward. I try for a larger pot, thinking it can balance against the wall. It also also slides off. This is increasingly awkward, as I only own three pots (and of course, though they wouldn’t stay, each of these failure pots did get drops of the water in them, which I would later discover was gross and yellow-y.). I place the third pot, bracing the handle against the back wall. I'm frikkin Goldilocks. The third one was just right. So far so good.

Thwank! Thwank! The dripping now has a tinnier sound -- the hammer has been replaced by a timpani. This is also my smallest pot, so every time it hits, the water is splashing out. This is not so much a water collection system as it is a water dispersal system, trading larger area for slightly less total dampness. I rearrange the tv and the wii so they avoid the water and decide that’s as good as it’s going to get.

I call the manager, but only get her voicemail. There is no 24 hour maintenance phone number, because we’re not really that type of complex.

I return to bed and try and sleep more, but it’s not working. I turn on both of my fans and the a/c to attempt to drown out the dripping sound. (Yes, it’s rainy and cold, but I now have the a/c on.) My apartment now sounds a little bit like being inside of a jet plane, but its still not enough to drown out the sound of the dripping. (I briefly imagine it as some sort of terrible graph, where all of the air circulation creates a pleasing but low white noise -- a solid blue bar at the bottom of the graph, years of plenty and steady supply -- but above them is the angry high pitch of the random dripping sounds -- an angry red line of shocks and drops.)

The dripping sound is increasingly arrhythmic, and is producing a new range of tones. In addition to the tympani, I could swear there’s also a washboard, a wood block, and maybe a triangle for good measure. There’s a ho-down happening in the corner of my room, a god-honest symphony, though at the time I don’t think to investigate this escalation.

I’m not sure sleep ever comes, although it must have at least for a little bit, because I do remember briefly dreaming that I was Mr. Wilson and bitching about the neighbor kid’s new drum set.

Two hours later, the apartment manager returns my call. “Can I come into your apartment to take a look at the leak?” she asks. Yes, I say, bring an umbrella. “That’s good, I’ll bring a bucket and a tarp.” A bucket and a tarp? That’s her best solution? Call me cold-hearted here, but I’m not so interested in treating the symptoms as I am in preventing the disease. Isn’t there anything she can do to stop the leak? “Oh no,” she says, “We can’t work on the roof until it’s dry.” Oh. “See you after 11!”

I check on the little freshwater still and discover why my orchestra has been swelling. I now have three leaks! Luckily I already have the pans out. I do a little more creative rearranging, and now all of the pans are collecting (and splashing -- so maybe I was a jerk and do need that tarp and bucket after all). Since all my pans are now deployed, I worry about future leaks. I quickly catalogue other options -- I own a measuring cup and a mixing bowl, and in a pinch maybe I could use a tupperware. It would be like living in a Target aisle.

I then briefly pause to worry about what I’m going to cook if all of my pans are busy, but these worries deflate when I remember that I’m a bachelor and eat poorly.

I dump out the pan that is full (this is where I discover the yellow water). “I may be a bachelor, but I don’t think that yellow-y stuff lining the pan can be good for my diet,” I say to no one. I don’t know why nutrition is on my mind so much; it’s not like I’m under-fed.

I quickly shower (ha! now I’m purposely immersing myself in water!) and wait for the manager. I really want her to do something to stop the leaking. I rack my college-educated brain for ideas on how to motivate her. I hit upon something about how important context is -- stories about people ignoring famous violinists in subways and all that. I decide to do my best to suggest through context that it’s not cold and rainy outside and that there is no problem with getting on the roof. I open the window. I put on a pair of shorts. I think about playing reggae music or something, but think this would be a bit heavy-handed.

She arrives with the maintenance guy, Omar, right on time. She’s very short and talkative; he’s big and tall and silent. They’re like some comedic duo -- Timon and Pumbaa have come to fix my leaks.

“That’s quite a leak!” She says. Thank you, I say. “You know what I think is happening is that water is pooling above your ceiling for some reason.” Makes sense. “If we puncture it, we might be able to get it all to drain out of one hole instead of three.” So your solution to three leaks is to add a fourth leak? Part of me wants to chant USA! USA! USA! But we go for it. Omar stretches up with his screwdriver and worries a hole into my roof. Which remains dry. It’s awkward.

Omar is undeterred. He moves over and tries again. My roof now has five holes. This newest one starts to drip. It turns out that I am lucky that they brought a bucket, because as I said, I’m out of pots for my new leak.

The other three leaks continue unabated. It continues to be awkward.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do on the roof until it’s dry?” I ask. It’s supposed to rain all weekend.

“The sealant only works on dry surfaces,” the manager says.

“Oh,” I say, trying to look glum but not too glum, like a kid in a movie right before the major league football player offers to throw a few passes with him.

“That noise is kind of irritating, though,” the manager says. I let the moment linger, willing her to continue. “It might drive you kind of crazy.” I nod vigorously at this. “It sounds kind of like a prison,” she finishes. Hey, lady -- you rented it to me.

Omar’s eyes have widened. I think he sees where this is going. “You know, maybe we could climb up there and put a tarp on the roof. It wouldn’t fix it, but it would maybe keep it from leaking in.” Omar is definitely frightened now. I don’t think he signed on for this. The manager, however, is building herself up to it. “The weather’s not that bad,” she says, “and it has to get done. I’m not scared.” She casts her gaze on Omar -- daring him to contradict her? “I’m not scared, I’m not scared,” she repeats. They look a little like two kids about to enter a haunted house.

“Let’s go! I’ll get the rocks; you get the tarp.” I wonder briefly why I still haven’t heard him speak. I worry if I’m watching colonialism in action -- the silenced dark man being forced into dangerous work by his white European boss. Suddenly I see her title in caps -- not just any manager, but the Manager. Then I remember that I haven’t slept well.

Omar lumbers out of the apartment, led by the Manager, who is gyrating like an electron with all the built-up energy. I picture her accessing the roof via quantum leap. I picture Omar as Scott Bakula’s trusty sidekick Al from the show Quantum Leap, punching numbers into his little retro-futuristic palm pilot. “There’s a 5% chance of you dying on this roof,” he says to her. His voice is rich and sonorous. Why doesn’t he talk more often?

“You need more sleep,” I say to no one. I finish getting ready for work, and just as I’m out the door I hear actual footsteps on the roof, and the Manager’s lilting voice directing Omar at his tasks.

One last thing: as I’m driving west to get to work, an ambulance comes roaring along headed east. There are plenty of places it could be going, but a part of me is worried that it is heading to my leaky apartment, and that I may have inadvertently led to the death of the apartment Manager and poor, trusting Omar.