The Rosie Effect
Page 15
Dave accompanied me to the doorman’s office to surrender my key. Rosie’s would need to be returned later. We were greeted by the superintendent. He was, as usual, unfriendly.
‘I hope you’re not here to complain about anything, Mr Tillman. I haven’t forgotten about talking to the owners,’ he said.
‘Unnecessary. We’re leaving.’ I gave him the key.
‘What, no notice? You got to give thirty days’ notice.’
‘You indicated that I was an undesirable tenant who could be replaced tomorrow with a desirable one. It seems like a good outcome for everyone.’
‘If you don’t care about a month’s rent.’ He laughed.
‘That seems unreasonable. If you have a new tenant in the apartment, you would be receiving double rent for a month.’
‘I don’t make the rules, Mr Tillman. Take it up with the owner if you want.’
I was conscious of becoming annoyed. Today was inevitably going to involve a high level of stress, beginning with the abandonment of scheduled Monday activities. It was time to practise my empathy skills. Why was the supervisor consistently so unpleasant? The answer did not require much reflection. He was required to deal with tenants who complained about problems that he was powerless to rectify, due to his low status and the recalcitrance of the company that owned the building. He was constantly dealing with people in conflict. His low status alone put him at increased risk of coronary heart disease due to elevated cortisol. World’s worst job. I suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘I apologise for causing you trouble. Can you connect me with the owner, please?’
‘You want to speak with the owner?’
‘Correct.’
‘Good luck.’ Incredible. My simple exercise in empathy now had the superintendent on my side, offering his good wishes. He made a call.
‘I’ve got the tenant in 204 with me. He’s leaving—right now, today—you got it, no notice—and thinks he should get his deposit back.’ He laughed and handed me the phone.
Dave took it from me. ‘Let me do this.’
Dave’s voice changed. The tone was difficult to describe, but it was as if Woody Allen had been cast instead of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
‘My friend here’s got a problem with the legality of the air-conditioning system. Might be a safety risk.’
There was a pause.
‘A licensed air-conditioning inspector,’ said Dave. ‘You got self-contained units all over the building like warts on a toad. We don’t act unless we get a complaint, but then we’d be obliged to look at the whole damn building. I guess if my friend’s paying the rent for another month, he might just want to do that: make a complaint. Which could be very expensive for you. Or maybe you’d like to let him go now. With his security deposit.’
There was a longer pause. Dave’s face registered disappointment. Perhaps the ‘warts on a toad’ metaphor had confused the owner. Toads are presumed to cause warts, not to have warts. He handed me the phone.
‘You done?’ said a male voice down the line.
‘Greetings.’
‘Oh shit, it’s you. You’re leaving?’
I recognised the voice now. It was not the owner. It was the employee I frequently spoke to about problems that the owner was contractually responsible for but the superintendent considered outside his domain: the stability of temperature, the speed of the internet service, regularity of fire drills. Et cetera.
‘Correct. Actually, until now, I was unaware of the air-conditioning compliance problem. It sounds extremely serious. I recommend—’
‘Forget it. Just drop by and I’ll have a cheque waiting for you.’
‘What about the air conditioning?’
‘Forget about the air conditioning and we’ll write you a lovely reference for your next landlord. We’re going to miss you, Professor.’
In the van, Dave’s hands were shaking.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I need something to eat. I hate doing that stuff. Confrontation. I’m no good at it.’
‘You didn’t need to—’
‘Yes, I did. Not just for your rent. I need the practice. People think they can take me down.’
George was waiting for us and the beer when we arrived at the Cellar in the Sky.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Dave. ‘Don tells me he cares so much about the beer that he’s going to sleep with it.’
‘Not because I care so much about the beer. Because it’s high-quality accommodation that would otherwise be unused.’
‘In the best location in New York City. And you’re getting it for free.’
‘No rent, no complaints,’ said Dave. He was practising his tough-guy voice.
‘You know we practise upstairs?’ said George. ‘Loud. There’s bugger-all sound insulation.’
‘So it’s unrentable,’ said Dave.
Incredible. A three-bedroom apartment plus coolroom considered unrentable because of an occasional noise problem, easily counteracted with earplugs. Or George could have advertised for deaf tenants.
George shrugged. ‘I’m not allowed to rent it. I bought it so the kids could visit. You know, any time they’re in New York and want to see their father. I don’t think that’s going to be a risk for you.’
‘How often do you practise?’ I asked.
George laughed. ‘About once a year. But maybe the beer will inspire me.’
‘I hope you’re not here to complain about anything, Mr Tillman. I haven’t forgotten about talking to the owners,’ he said.
‘Unnecessary. We’re leaving.’ I gave him the key.
‘What, no notice? You got to give thirty days’ notice.’
‘You indicated that I was an undesirable tenant who could be replaced tomorrow with a desirable one. It seems like a good outcome for everyone.’
‘If you don’t care about a month’s rent.’ He laughed.
‘That seems unreasonable. If you have a new tenant in the apartment, you would be receiving double rent for a month.’
‘I don’t make the rules, Mr Tillman. Take it up with the owner if you want.’
I was conscious of becoming annoyed. Today was inevitably going to involve a high level of stress, beginning with the abandonment of scheduled Monday activities. It was time to practise my empathy skills. Why was the supervisor consistently so unpleasant? The answer did not require much reflection. He was required to deal with tenants who complained about problems that he was powerless to rectify, due to his low status and the recalcitrance of the company that owned the building. He was constantly dealing with people in conflict. His low status alone put him at increased risk of coronary heart disease due to elevated cortisol. World’s worst job. I suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘I apologise for causing you trouble. Can you connect me with the owner, please?’
‘You want to speak with the owner?’
‘Correct.’
‘Good luck.’ Incredible. My simple exercise in empathy now had the superintendent on my side, offering his good wishes. He made a call.
‘I’ve got the tenant in 204 with me. He’s leaving—right now, today—you got it, no notice—and thinks he should get his deposit back.’ He laughed and handed me the phone.
Dave took it from me. ‘Let me do this.’
Dave’s voice changed. The tone was difficult to describe, but it was as if Woody Allen had been cast instead of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
‘My friend here’s got a problem with the legality of the air-conditioning system. Might be a safety risk.’
There was a pause.
‘A licensed air-conditioning inspector,’ said Dave. ‘You got self-contained units all over the building like warts on a toad. We don’t act unless we get a complaint, but then we’d be obliged to look at the whole damn building. I guess if my friend’s paying the rent for another month, he might just want to do that: make a complaint. Which could be very expensive for you. Or maybe you’d like to let him go now. With his security deposit.’
There was a longer pause. Dave’s face registered disappointment. Perhaps the ‘warts on a toad’ metaphor had confused the owner. Toads are presumed to cause warts, not to have warts. He handed me the phone.
‘You done?’ said a male voice down the line.
‘Greetings.’
‘Oh shit, it’s you. You’re leaving?’
I recognised the voice now. It was not the owner. It was the employee I frequently spoke to about problems that the owner was contractually responsible for but the superintendent considered outside his domain: the stability of temperature, the speed of the internet service, regularity of fire drills. Et cetera.
‘Correct. Actually, until now, I was unaware of the air-conditioning compliance problem. It sounds extremely serious. I recommend—’
‘Forget it. Just drop by and I’ll have a cheque waiting for you.’
‘What about the air conditioning?’
‘Forget about the air conditioning and we’ll write you a lovely reference for your next landlord. We’re going to miss you, Professor.’
In the van, Dave’s hands were shaking.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I need something to eat. I hate doing that stuff. Confrontation. I’m no good at it.’
‘You didn’t need to—’
‘Yes, I did. Not just for your rent. I need the practice. People think they can take me down.’
George was waiting for us and the beer when we arrived at the Cellar in the Sky.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Dave. ‘Don tells me he cares so much about the beer that he’s going to sleep with it.’
‘Not because I care so much about the beer. Because it’s high-quality accommodation that would otherwise be unused.’
‘In the best location in New York City. And you’re getting it for free.’
‘No rent, no complaints,’ said Dave. He was practising his tough-guy voice.
‘You know we practise upstairs?’ said George. ‘Loud. There’s bugger-all sound insulation.’
‘So it’s unrentable,’ said Dave.
Incredible. A three-bedroom apartment plus coolroom considered unrentable because of an occasional noise problem, easily counteracted with earplugs. Or George could have advertised for deaf tenants.
George shrugged. ‘I’m not allowed to rent it. I bought it so the kids could visit. You know, any time they’re in New York and want to see their father. I don’t think that’s going to be a risk for you.’
‘How often do you practise?’ I asked.
George laughed. ‘About once a year. But maybe the beer will inspire me.’
