The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Monday, February 09, 2004  

IT’S 5-OH-1
Do You Know Where Your Building Manager Is?

The law suit recently brought against me by my landlord, or more specifically, by my landlord’s sometimes-big-haired agent, she who also acts -- and I mean that -- as the building’s manager, is crumbling before her own all-too-made-up eyes.

We have agreed not to speak with each other any longer. Any and all contact must be in writing.

Regardless, I’m avoiding the sometimes big-haired one, if only because of the enduring sense of repulsion the sight of her engenders.

It’s not easy, as her office, if one could or should call it that other than, say, the place she parks her butt each day, is just down the hall.

And so is the “trash room,” or the place in which is housed the trash chute, though, as often as said chute becomes jammed or overloaded -- at least once a week -- the space has more than earned the appellation trash room.

Despite our agreement to remain orally uncommunicative, I continue to avoid her because, you will not be surprised to learn, I cannot guarantee control over my smart mouth.

But, as I write this, it’s 5-oh-1, meaning 5:01 p.m.

That’s means it’s safe. Safe, because while I don’t know exactly where the building manager is, I know exactly where she is not. Because, now that it is 5:01 p.m., she assuredly is not in the place she parks her butt each day.

And so, if you will excuse me, it’s time to take out the trash, or at least, the trash from my garbage cans.

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