While on my lunch break this afternoon, I had to act as mediator between one of my roommates and my landlord. Isn’t that how everybody wants to spend the precious minutes of their lunch break?
I don’t really know what the full story is, because to be quite honest, I wasn’t paying all that much attention.
Apparently, Anne (who quit her job back in May, in order to plan her wedding, which is not until December), is all up in arms because Leora, our landlord, is not giving Anne proper notice of when she is showing our apartment to potential tenants.
So Anne decided to call me on my lunch break, interrupting me at the peak of people-watching time, to churn out a bunch of jargon from the Tenant’s Rights Guide, which her lawyer fiancé (who is currently paying her rent) printed out for her.
She also wants me to chip in $25 for an alarm she bought at Radioshack. That way, Leora can’t “break into” our apartment.
Now, Anne. Is this some kind of joke played by you on me?
You really expect me to use my hard earned dollars on an alarm system to protect what? My 2001 hunk of a laptop, Julie’s trampoline, or your spineless, Penguin edition, Jane Austen box set?
At that point, I had to hang up with Anne, to answer Leora, who declared:
“Anne has issues. I wouldn’t get mixed up with a girl like that if I were you.”
Thank you, Leora.
And you know what? I don’t care anymore; I really don’t. I don’t care anymore because last week, I met with my new roommate, for a beer, in her rent stabilized apartment. And it was nice. Because that is the way it is meant to be: you should want to sit down and have a drink with your roommate.