So I'm coming home from a perfectly lovely evening downtown--forget for a moment that it was on the Lower East Side and took me an hour to get there, and I digress--in celebration of the Kvetcher (no relation), and all the kvetch enthusiasts from all around this great city, including Jewschoolers Shamirpower, EV and Mobius himself (plus Kyle's Mom) were in attendance. True, many of my homies are still in the Holy Land, and I miss them something fierce, but it was nice to throw back a cocktail or two and relax a little.
Thanks to our great decision to take a cab, I ended up home a mere twenty minutes after leaving the party, and all was right with the world.
Then I heard the noise. It was faint, and not wholly recognizable at first. Was it the whir of a neighbor's A/C unit? Was it air, passing through a screened-in window? A television, trumpeting jungle sounds? Maybe, yuck, it was a cockroach or four skittering across the tiles in my bathroom? Or was it...dripping? I hadn't left the sink on, had I?
Entering my apartment, I flipped on the light for the bathroom and beheld the glory of a rainstorm happening inside my bathroom. It was highly localized; with drips coming down from the ceiling in almost every corner of the bathroom. Luckily, my laundry was unmoistened--because, ugh, moist dirty laundry, gross--but the floor was covered in a thin layer of water. The "rain" was still coming down. And it was 1:30 am.
What's a girl to do? Is she the crazy downstairs neighbor who raps on her upstairs neighbor's door at 1:30 in the morning? What if she were to be whisked inside and held prisoner, with no Elliot Stabler to rescue her? No, she needed help. Then she remembered: the super.
Of course, this made her the crazy upstairs neighbor who disturbs her super at 1:30 am. But that turned out to be the right decision. He accompanied me to the apartment and he knocked on the door, learning that the dude--clearly a Rhodes Scholar in the making--had drawn a bath and left it running, probably for hours. He just forgot. But did he say he was sorry? I'll let you guess.
And so I returned to the rain-slick tiles of my bathroom, removed the sodden magazines I'd hoped to read this week, and looked at the cracked and frayed ceiling, wondering if it is possibly going to fall in in the middle of the night, or whilst I am next relieving myself. I thought back on the other adventures I've had with this toilet, and can't help but Carrie-Bradshaw-wonder: why do we pray and pray for a sign to show us what to do, and when it arrives, we refuse to see it?
And now, back to my regularly scheduled program. Which is basically kvetching and promoting my work. So that's a treat in store for y'all.