Maintenance

Every day I tell myself it’s only temporary. I’ll quit by thirty, get into an honest trade, something specific like carpentry or electric. For now, I do everything and nothing. I show up each morning, tool bag in hand, and report to the manager’s office. I receive a stack of work orders, check out the keys I need, then walk the halls, knocking on doors and saying the word maintenance a lot, fixing things if I can.

This morning, I start with a woman on the second floor. Water damage has taken over her bathroom ceiling overnight. Her apartment is broken and infested, just like the rest, but it’s not her fault. She keeps the place tidy.

She talks a lot. Mostly to get away, I tell her I’ll check the unit above.

Up on the third floor, I knock on the door and say my favorite word.

No one answers right away, so I start thumbing through keys, but before I can find the right one, the silver knob turns, and the door opens as far as the security chain allows. A narrow white stubbly face, scrunched in confusion, thrusts itself into the gap between the door and the frame. He’s a decade older than me, and a foot shorter. He quietly asks me who I am, and I reply that I’m maintenance. I explain the situation. When I ask to come in, he only coughs. The door closes, and for a second, I’m pissed.

But then it drifts open again. I make my way inside. He sits a few feet away on one of those walkers that doubles as a seat, and he’s naked from the waist down. He’s surprised, looking at his own parts like he’s forgotten what’s there. Determined to see anything else, I take in the apartment—cat litter and stains on the carpet, dishes crowding the sink, pudding cups on the counter, a flashing flatscreen, a bed with no bedding, a tipped-over bottle of wine.

He reaches for a piece of newspaper so he can cover himself. It’s coming down from his ceiling, too, he tells me, and nods toward the bathroom. I’m there in two steps. It’s a constant drip. Above him is the roof, and this time of year, melting snow. Then through a seam in the floor, probably along his tub, to the woman below. A thin puddle covers the linoleum, and my boots almost appear to be on top of the water.

It’s been like that all week, the man yells from behind me. He tried calling, but his phone hasn’t been working. The water keeps dripping. I don’t know how to fix roofs, and management won’t pay the people who do. It makes me sad to imagine what I can do for him, realizing how small of a thing it is.

I walk out of the bathroom, and he’s watching his feet, waiting for me to leave. The newspaper conforms to the bony curvature of his hips, the business section, explaining in bold letters how the housing market is up. I tell him there’s a mop downstairs in the maintenance shop, and a bucket. I tell him I’ll be right back.