They tell me that the apartment building I live in is old, that it’s wearing out. This seems strange. To me an old building is one built at least a hundred years ago. Here in the East a few historic buildings are pre-Revolutionary, built in the mid 1700’s. Mine was constructed in 1963.
But last week I could not deny the “wearing out” label.
When I went to the kitchen Monday morning and hit the switch on my coffee pot (set the night before to instantly brew my first cup), I saw a pool of water on the floor. I called down and handymen from the building hurried up in an attempt to prevent the water from damaging the apartment below me. When they opened the cabinet door beneath the sink, water gushed out. After inspecting they told me three pipes below the kitchen sink had rusted out! They turned off the supply pipe, and departed, giving me two instructions as they closed the door: Call an outside plumber right away, and don’t use the kitchen sink.
Fortunately, in a building-wide preventative effort to counteract massive leaks from the HVAC system, plumbers had already been scheduled to work in my apartment on the following day.
For six days (all the while washing my dishes in the bathroom sink), two plumbers were omnipresent in my apartment. Cutting pipes created a smelly smoke so they opened windows, and I opened the terrace door. There was loud clanging and hammering, and the men vocally added their share.
The master plumber, Andrew, who spoke with a Slavic accent, would call out to the apprentice, Karim, to fetch this tool or a specific size washer. Time after time, Karim didn’t understand, and he’d hand Andrew the wrong tool or piece of hardware. Each time this happened, Andrew complained and harangued, raising his voice, thinking perhaps shouting louder would aid understanding.
I thought of using earplugs. But every so often Andrew would ask me a question, and even without them, I couldn’t decipher his words and would have to ask him to repeat. Then he’d shout at me in response.
At one point, when Andrew asked Karim to fetch a wrench from another room, I found myself adding to the din.
“Karim! Karim! Where are you?” Andrew yelled.
“Karim’s in the bedroom! He’s coming back with the wrench right now,” I yelled back.
As the day went on, I was tempted to help out because I now recognized the required items and could provide them faster.
The men had come early, didn’t stop for lunch, and after five hours of bedlam, I was frustrated, exhausted, and wanted them out!
Once the work on the HVAC units--but not the pipes in the kitchen--was finally completed, we had to wait for the super to come up and inspect the project. As Karim waited, he looked around at my plants and art in the living room.
Then his eyes lighted on the tall grandfather clock in one corner. With amazement in his voice, he said, “That’s a very fine clock.”
I thanked him.
“And it’s very old.” He looked star struck, “It must be twenty-five, maybe even thirty years old!”
Doing some quick math, I told him, “Thirty-four.”
It was a gift to my late husband in recognition of his employment for 25 years.
With an abrupt shift in the conversation,” Karim asked, “Do you have children?”
“Yes.”
“Boys or girls?”
“Boys. Men,” I corrected myself.
“I have three girls,” he said with a big smile. “I came from Bangladesh alone five years ago. My wife and two daughters came four years ago. My youngest was born here.”
With that, he pulled a photo of three beautiful small girls from his wallet and handed it to me. I refrained from showing him photos of my sons.
Then he turned to practical matters. “My rent for my small one-bedroom apartment in (he named a neighborhood distant from Manhattan) is $1,200 a month. I earn only $1,500. I’m not a plumber, only a helper. It’s not possible.”
I understood. He didn’t need to itemize his other expenses for me to understand.
He went on, “I have a green card. In three years I hope to become ...” He threw his shoulders back seeming to grow a few inches, and continued, “an American citizen.”
At that moment I appreciated how lucky I was to be sitting in my apartment, rusting pipes and all.
As he left, ignoring the unspoken tipping “rules,” I handed him the same amount as I gave Andrew.
As I closed the door, the clock chimed.