"Hey, Warren," I say to the short, round-faced, balding black man hanging out in front of my building. "Got a second?"
In my apartment, I show him the bulging boil of white paint hanging pendulously over my sink where the water from the apartment above has almost, but not quite, eaten through the ceiling of my bathroom.
"Yeah," he says, "those people upstairs moved about two weeks ago, but Mr. Zimmer won't even let me fix the hole in my ceiling that the leak made, and I'm the super!"
YIKES! No! Not water damanage. Heavy Sigh.
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