We’re being inspected today, Internet. Getting the ol’ “once over” from the Landlord. Normally, this wouldn’t be a cause for trepidation, but there was a bit of a “situation” last weekend.

(We are monitoring all possible outcomes and effects of this “situation.”)

Here’s what happened: The Redhead and I were up on the roof in the hot tub, enjoying some margaritas and beers, when a couple and their kid came up, suspiciously, around 11 PM. Wait, let me back up a bit.

BACK STORY TIME:

Our building has been rotating through Landlords lately like a shaky bullpen goes through Mid Relievers. The first Landlord, from my perspective was a good guy, but quickly disappeared when it was discovered by the building owners that the reason an apartment on the 3rd Floor wasn’t being rented out is because he was running a Meth lab out of it. So there was that. Then we got this Albanian Broad who clearly just took the job so she had somewhere to give birth. She showed up already looking about 11 months pregnant, then was gone 4 months later for maternity leave. During that time, my big run in with her was over the apartment above us leaking into ours, and her saying she’s out of town and will call the plumber Monday. This happened on a Thursday. 

(Mid afternoon on a Thursday, too.)

After that we had a string of decent ones, recently settling on a new guy about 3 weeks ago. His first order of business was to put out a memo saying we can no longer have doormats and that no bottles, cans, or alcohol or any kind is allowed on the roof. My first order of business was to scoff at said memo, and mutter under my breath, “This is a private pool, not the Village Field Club. I’ve lived here 7 years and will continue to enjoy cocktails at sunset on the roof despite the orders of this, ‘Chris’ character.”

Congratulations, Internet! You now have enough back story to continue. And so we shall….

At was about 11 o’clock at night, so while The Redhead was probably feeling a loose and relaxed margarita buzz, I was definitely a little further along, which means that I was considerably more “chatty.” In fact, one might say if one knew me, that “chatty” was a very polite and reserved way of describing how I can be after a few hours of revelry. “Loud mouthed jack ass,” would be another. Anyway, upon the arrival of this couple and their 10 year old son, I immediately said two things:

• “How’s it going? Want a beer? I’ve got longnecks!”
• “If the hot tub isn’t hot enough, I know where the controls are hidden! I can turn it up for ya!”

The Redhead turned to me, with a polite smile but stop signs in her eyes, which I found curious. She said in a controlled yet friendly voice, “Tucker, this is our Landlord, Chris.”

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to meet you,” I muttered, still hearing in my head the echo of my two previous statements floating across the pool and out into the night, dancing off the adjacent buildings and singing back to me in a chorus. I had flaunted his authority and offered to screw around with building property. “Hey, we got rid of our doormat,” I thought to offer, but The Redhead was already in there, covering and doing her thing: killing with kindness and winning them over. For the moment, I felt safe. Safety leads to mistakes.

As our poolside bivouac continued, all ranges of topics were covered. What we did (or didn’t do) for a living, where we were from, the fact that his wife had a thick German accent, and how long we’d lived here. That’s when my relaxation may have done us in. While wrapping up some yarn about moving here or the building or some other personally bloated anecdote, I mentioned, “Thank God for rent control.” Chris turned to me and said with interest, “This building doesn’t have rent control.” I said the only thing I could think of: “Oh, yeah? Huh, I thought it did.” He immediately fired back, “What do you two pay?”

We were now possibly screwed. If I didn’t answer or lied, he’d know. All he had to do was look it up the next morning. So I told him our laughably low rent. He simply said, “Wow, really?” That didn’t sit well with me, so I immediately started justifying it: “You should see our stove, though. It’s not really old, but I know it saw Superbowl XIII,” and, “We’re lucky if our air conditioning can get colder than 71 degrees. That thing just looks exhausted.” By that time, things had moved on, the wives were talking about something different, the kid returned from the pool, and Chris’ attention was gone. I tried in vain, grabbing at straws and hoping something would click. “We barely get sunlight, but we love it. We try to take very good care of the grounds. I reported a fire and saved the building once!” 

The evening started to wrap up. They began packing up and leaving, now realizing how late it was for the kid. We said our goodbyes and all agreed that we looked forward to seeing each other around the building. The kid also stole my towel, but I don’t think that was on purpose since they were both blue. Either way, the day had ended.

A few days pass, and one morning we get another memo on the front of our door. This one informs us that Chris will be conducting an apartment to apartment inspection, specifically to assess the age and style of all appliances and facilities. Now sure, this could be a very good thing, or it could also be a very bad thing. Maybe we’ll get a new stove. Maybe we’ll get a new stove and another 100 bucks tacked on to our rent. Either way, I sit here waiting for the inspection, unsure if I should leave, be here to field questions, or make sure nobody ever sees or hears from “Chris” again. Ahh, but that kid will talk. And don’t sit here and tell me that Germans aren’t… persistent, Internet. She’ll put it together eventually.

Inspections were scheduled to begin at noon, but The Redhead spotted Chris at Ralph’s around 12:45, so he’s taking his merry time. I impatiently await the consequences of my actions…..

Or I had nothing to do with it and this was going to happen anyway. He’s an arm of a corporation, not a miserly old Scrooge out to get me. Then again….

More on this story as it develops.