Dear Girls Above Me,
“I’m so sad. I couldn’t live a day without my iPhone. Rest in peace Bill Gates.” Let me lend a hand, rest in peace Steve Jobs.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“So I guess they found Obama Bin Laden pretty much dead at a house in Iraq.” Literally nothing in that sentence was correct.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“Doesn’t global warming just mean more warm weather vacation spots?” You’re sounding an awful lot like President Bush.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“So I missed that eclipse thingy last night. I’ll just catch it next year.” The previous solstice lunar eclipse occurred in 1638.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“It’s Wear Purple Day? Now I have an excuse to match my new bra and panties!” Putting an end to teen bullying one thong at a time.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“Did you hear that all these kids were rescued in Chile after being trapped in some mountain?” Miners, not minors.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“What oil spill? I thought I heard there was a flood somewhere.” Current events must feel like a Rubik’s Cube to you.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“Did you see that Schwarzenegger’s in a new movie? Is he allowed to do that when he’s Mayor?” Only if Governor Obama OK’s it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One of the many annoying parts of living in an old apartment building is the constant surprise maintenance. If one person clogs a toilet with a tampon or someone’s pilot light blows out or someone loads an outlet with too many plugs, Mr. Molever hangs up freshly laminated signs that announce “emergency water shutoffs,” “gas deactivation tests,” and “electricity drills.” Of course, I rarely pay attention to these notices, which often comes back to bite me in the butt. Especially the water-shutoff ones.
One day I was enjoying a perfectly satisfying morning poo, and when I flushed the toilet … silence. The metal handle jiggled but yielded no water. I went to the lobby to get some answers and found a warning sign that read TODAY WE CELEBRATE OUR “FIXING A BURST WATER PIPE DAY.” PROPER WATER CIRCULATION WILL RESUME LATER TONIGHT.
Pat must’ve used the one bonus courtesy flush you get after they shut off the water. You know, for a guy who’s constantly leaving me little notes that I don’t care about, a Post-it in this case might’ve been a good idea. Well, fortunately, I was dressed and ready to take on the world because there was absolutely no chance I was going to spend the entire day in my apartment with that floater lurking in the bathroom.
The biggest (non-girl-above-me) problem with my apartment is the shower. I feel comfortable admitting that bathroom upkeep has not always been my top priority. I mean, it’s not a frat house lavatory, but it ain’t the Four Seasons either. However, one of the luxuries I’ve become rather accustomed to in my life is hot water. Recently, that comfort has been taken from me and replaced with a stream of pure glacier water piped directly from the Arctic. Even prison inmates get hot water. They may get gang-raped while trying to wash their hair, but the water raining on their violated bodies when it’s over is always nice and warm.
I asked Pat, who was on a much later showering schedule than I, whether he was experiencing a similar problem. He responded, “My showers are as steamy as an episode of Gossip Girl.”
“Is that … hot?”
“Ohhhhhh yeah.”
The gentleman I needed to speak to concerning this predicament was the one they call Stanley. He heads all of the maintenance for the building and is also the biggest weirdo on the property. I don’t know much about him personally, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he illegally dwells in the janitor closet that happens to be on the same floor as my apartment. One day I was walking Marvin, and I happened to peek into Stanley’s maintenance room. The door was ajar, just enough for me to see him lying on a fold-out cot, staring up at the ceiling humming the Britney Spears song “Circus.” I felt as if I were trapped in a second-rate horror flick. Thankfully, he didn’t notice me; otherwise I’m pretty sure he would’ve chopped me up and worn my reconstructed skin as a costume, or worse, started a conversation with me.
Stanley has a bizarre connection to the apartment building. I’m convinced he can feel what the building is feeling. I have often found him with his ear up against the wall in the hallway as if he were communicating with the building. I’ve tried listening myself, but all I hear is Pat watching Judge Judy. I can’t imagine the pain he must endure during an earthquake. But as long as the building is still standing, I’m sure Stanley will be as well.
I stood in my foyer, mentally preparing myself for this awkward interaction. Ever since my breakup, I’d found it much harder to chat with people I don’t know, something I used to be able to do with ease. I don’t know if my confidence had been adjusted since my ex had ended things or whether my overall outlook on life had become much more pessimistic. Either way, at that moment, having to ask Stanley to fix my water heater was not high on my list of dream activities.
CHARLIE’S LIST OF DREAM ACTIVITIES
1. Being the official sunscreen applier for a Baywatch reunion movie.
2. Being the official taste tester at Krispy Kreme headquarters.
3. Being the official sex therapist for the Pitt-Jolie household.
4. Being the official test driver every time Batman gets a new Batmobile.
5. Not having to ask Stanley to fix anything or whatever.
But it needed to be done, as ice-cold showers were beginning to give me a permanently high-pitched voice, which hampered my ability to effectively sing along with my Barry White records.
As I opened the front door, leaving my quiet room behind (the girls were shopping in Beverly Hills), standing directly in front of me, as if he were psychic, was Stanley. I was taken aback to see him so soon, although he did not seem to be startled in the slightest. It was as if he knew I was on my way to pay him a visit. The building must’ve told him.
“I haven’t been getting any hot water in the morning,” I said.
“I know,” he responded.
“How did you know?”
“Come with me.”
Stanley turned around and walked with his bowlegged strut down the underlit hallway. I gave Marvin one last pat on the head and off I went, to either find out about my shower or get murdered by my handyman.
When we reached Stanley’s janitorial closet, he pulled from his pocket a chain of what must have been fifty keys. All of the keys looked the same; none had any distinct markings or colors. He intuitively knew which one opened the door to his room without even looking. I stood behind him, not sure if he wanted me following him into his private area or not. He disappeared into the dark closet. I heard the sound of a striking match, accompanied by the faint aroma of a candle that smelled like pumpkin. He popped his head out and motioned for me to enter.
His rectangular closet felt more lived-in than my own apartment. From what I could see in the candlelight, he had a vintage army cot for a bed that was folded up and propped against the wall. I assumed he did that every morning when he woke, giving himself enough room to move around during the day. He had a few workman jumpsuits hanging from a plumbing pipe that ran from one wall to the other. Besides that, he had mostly tools, rusting appliances, some mops, and a couple of mysterious contraptions that were in the middle of restoration at a small table in the corner.
“I don’t have any electricity,” he said in a gruff voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but I still wish for you to have it,” I responded.
“I could rig it if I wanted to, but I don’t. Okay?” he said as he began searching for something.
“Okay,” I said, wondering which steel pipe would afford me the best chance at getting a clear shot to the head. I knew I would eventually be overpowered, but if I could leave a big enough mark, someone in the building might discover the location of my b
ody within the next year or so.
“I found it.” Stanley pulled out a worn blueprint from his stack of papers, breaking my concentration. He handed me a thin document. I stared at it, puzzled for a few moments. It just looked like a series of carefully sketched lines. Some sort of map.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never been a fan of cartography. If you could just show me how to fix the water issue, I’ll get out of your hair.” Oops, he was balding. I hoped he didn’t take offense to that statement. I had so wanted my death to be painless.
Stanley leaned in close to me, wanting to show me something on his map. “Right there. That’s your problem.”
His finger pointed to a line that ran from one complicated-looking square to another. I was confused by all the lines and numbers, but after a while I began to realize that he was showing me a blueprint of our building.
“Is that my apartment?” I asked. I was starting to feel just like Lisbeth Salander putting together all the loose ends of a high-profile case, the only difference being that I was missing a dragon tattoo, nipple piercings, trained combat skills, and computer-hacking capabilities.
“Your problem is that you share a water heater with someone else in the building,” Stanley announced.
“Who?” I asked.
“This apartment, right here.” His dirtied fingernail pointed to the unit above me. The girls.
I should’ve known that it was Cathy and Claire who had been stealing my hot water. For as long as I’d heard them, their showering habits had been ridiculous. Some days I would note a combined two hours of bathing. I’m someone who gets bored in the shower after just a few minutes. I had even made the switch to Pantene Pro-V’s 2-in-1 Shampoo and Conditioner, just so I could get it done all at once. Get in, rub-a-dub-dub, and get out. I guess men and women have different showering habits. But honestly, what could the girls have been doing in there that would possibly take up so much time? I had my theories.…
Shaving their legs and other sundry parts (I’ve heard all about the red-bump irritation).
Practicing for American Idol (there’s no way Cathy’s making it to Hollywood Week).
Generating steam for nude re-creations of their favorite noir films (not likely, but my favorite theory so far).
Pooping (covering up bowel sounds from each other with running water. Didn’t work on me, though).
eBaying (I believe Claire pretended to be in the shower but secretly outbid Cathy on a cashmere sweater).
Hangover nap time (how else could they explain the morning of April 17, 2011, when the water ran for five hours straight?).
I said my good-byes to Stanley, and he responded with some sort of good-bye grunt that was a cross between “See ya later” and “I’ll be killing you later.” Now I had someone other than the girls keeping me up at night in fear.
On the way back to my apartment, it hit me. I found that the only feasible explanation for my recent hot water shortage was that the girls were all of a sudden waking up earlier than I was and using it all up. I have always considered myself to be an early riser. Those days, I couldn’t sleep much later than eight A.M. And the first thing I did to start my day was take a shower. The girls above me, on the other hand, could sleep later than Lindsay Lohan on a bottle of Ambien. I’d even clocked them rising as late as three in the afternoon. So why the abrupt change in schedule? It’s not like they all of a sudden had nine-to-five jobs or anything. Was it possible that my two familiar voices had actually found a line of work other than selling used clothes on eBay?
I decided to cancel dinner plans with an actor friend of mine who wanted notes on his reel (the only note I had written so far was “Give up!”) and awaited a conversation from the girls that would shed some light on this quagmire. Unfortunately, they weren’t giving me what I wanted. So I waited.…
“He’s really hot but sometimes in public he acts so premature. Grow up!” You’re not even remotely using that word correctly.
And waited …
“Do you think I could ever win an Emmy for just loving Grey’s Anatomy so much?” No I don’t.
And waited …
“What does it mean to be Lacoste Intolerant again?” The inability to wear a preppy shirt.
I was losing brain cells by the second. When were these girls going to spill the beans as to why they were waking up so early? Finally, while I was in the middle of making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, accompanied by some Top Ramen noodles, they filled me in on the secret.
“You know I don’t even like Pilates, right?” Cathy said.
“Yeah, neither do I,” Claire replied.
“But the instructor is just so hot.”
“I know, it’s like offensive how hot he is. I would so rub up against his calves if he let me.”
I looked down at my own legs and became fairly certain that no girl had ever yearned for them. I flexed my calves, hoping they might transform into something more attractive. They didn’t.
“It sucks that he only teaches morning classes,” Cathy admitted.
“And we have to wake up so early to make ourselves look all sexy and stuff. The things a girl will do for an Australian.”
Aha. I knew there was no chance they had become employed. I should’ve known that this sudden behavioral shift was all because of a beautiful Australian man. As usual.
After continuing my eavesdropping for a while longer, I found out that the Pilates class they were taking started at eight A.M., which meant that their showering began at six thirty A.M. Since Cathy and Claire shared a bathroom, one of them would take the first showering shift, which lasted about thirty minutes, and then the other would get in. This meant that hot water poured out of their faucet nonstop for over an hour. No wonder I had been bathing in icicles.
So I decided to beat the girls at their own game. I switched my regularly scheduled BlackBerry alarm from 8:01 A.M. to 6:01 A.M. This way I would be the first resident to use the freshly heated water in the morning, ensuring a successful cleansing experience. What I didn’t plan for was how exhausted I would get after I finished. There was really no reason for me to be awake at such an early hour, so after a while I found myself waking up at the crack of dawn, showering, and then going right back to sleep. My entire day would get thrown off schedule. I was eating breakfast at lunch, lunch at afternoon teatime, and tea for dinner. And then, to make matters worse, the girls were beginning to catch on to my little scheme.
“My shower was lukewarm at best,” Claire whined.
“I know, mine too.”
“I think the bearded guy below us is using up all of our hot water.” No matter how many times I gave them my name, I was still just a face with lots of plush luxurious hair on it.
“Good thing the Australian hottie teaches a seven A.M. class. Let’s just wake up earlier!” Cathy said with enough enthusiasm to make me want to vomit.
I switched my newly scheduled BlackBerry alarm from 6:01 A.M. to 5:01 A.M. I was knee-deep in a hot-water battle with the girls above me, and there was no way I was going to lose, not this one. So now I was waking up while it was completely pitch-black outside. I would stumble into the shower as if I were a drunken zombie. Something that had once been such an enjoyable and refreshing part of my morning was starting to become a horrible chore. When the water hit my body, I would wince, and when I applied facial cleanser, the grimace got even worse. Nothing was pleasant to me that early in the morning. Even Marvin, who associates waking up with “food, food, food,” was not on board with my shenanigans. But I stayed strong in my fight for heated water.
The early-morning Water Battle of the Sexes lasted for about a week. In the end the girls surrendered to their Anthropologie-quilted beds. They had fought a good fight, but the stronger, or quite possibly the more pathetic, survived. Looked like Cathy and Claire would have to go back to getting their kicks from Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles on DVD.
As my Dear Girls Above Me Twitter following grew, so did my guilt and anxiety. Each day,
more and more people were discovering my “letters” to the girls, and I felt as if it was only a matter of time before they stumbled across it. How would they react to a Twitter feed dedicated to their uncensored conversations? Probably not too favorably, unless they possessed a perverse attraction to Peeping Toms, or in this case an “Attentive Charlie.” Was it possible they would happen upon it and not even realize it was them? Based on the level of discourse that typically dripped through my ceiling, I believed I had a shot.
My main focus was trying to find a way to tame my paranoia. Whenever I would hear a knock at my door, my instinct was to hide in the large cupboard in my kitchen. I moved pots and pans and even my George Foreman Grill from this area, just to give myself enough room to conceal my entire body.
“I’ve got a package here for Charlie McDowell,” the FedEx guy called out, completely exposing my identity for anyone who might have been lurking in the hallway.
“Just leave it by the door,” I said from the depths of the cupboard.
“I need a signature,” he shouted back.
What if the girls had discovered my blog and hired a gentleman disguised as a deliveryman to survey my apartment as part of a planned attack later in the week? Because of this likely possibility, I considered not opening the door, but then I remembered I was waiting on a shipment of Wild Harvest oatmeal. I needed that fucking oatmeal.
I cracked my front door open. A man dressed in black shorts and a matching FedEx shirt and hat stood before me. His outfit appeared to be authentic enough, although a knockoff didn’t seem that complicated to piece together. He handed me my package, and I could tell from its weight and size that it was indeed my oatmeal (thank you, God). As I was signing the FedEx slip I watched as his eyes peered into my apartment. Did he see anything?! How much were the girls paying him? Should I offer him double? I swiftly shut my door until there was just enough space for my arm to hang out and finish up my John Hancock. I tossed his pen to the ground, diverting his attention and giving myself enough time to reel my arm into safety. Sorry, ladies, but you gotta get up pretty early in the morning. And we know that’s not your thing.
Dear Girls Above Me Page 12
