I’m being unfair. At least that’s what Julie, my roommate who wears strappy sandals with t-shirts, says. Today, I’m being unfair because I said that Tony is an amateur slum landlord. She says that I’m being unfair because Tony has another full-time job and he did ask for a list of things we want fixed and everyone knows that his son’s in some sort of trouble and real slum landlords are so much more neglectful and so much less available.
I don’t know that I buy it though.
I mean, take this morning when I hear Tony’s voice in the alley outside my window and so I’m up and dressed faster than you can say Jack Black and I’ve strategically positioned myself on our front porch, book in hand, just waiting for Tony to show. Five minutes pass, ten. I’m starting to think that this was a waste, that maybe I should crawl back into bed where it’s safe and warm and comfortable, when I hear the voices again and suddenly, Tony makes his appearance. He’s not alone this time, no, but it’s not one of his usual goons either. No, this time he’s with a woman, and even from my horribly conspicuous position, I can tell that this is a woman he’s trying to impress. She rounds the corner first and sees me, poised and ready, feigning interest in a book about how to write, and she smiles at me – all Maria von Trapp-like – and says “Hello there!” like we’ve been friends since seventh grade. I nod to her but really, I’m looking for Tony – Tony with his stained t-shirt tucked into his belt and a slight paunch like maybe he used to be alright at baseball but a long, long time ago – and sure enough, Tony’s only a step or two behind her, smiling up a storm. When he sees me, his face falls, but he catches it and makes an admirable recovery.
“How’s it going?” he asks in that amateur slum landlord voice of his, but we both know the question isn’t meant to be answered. He doesn’t care how it’s going and neither do I, what we both really care about at the moment is that list that Julie and I sent him and whether or not I’m going to bring it up right now in front of his lady friend.
“Good,” I respond in a too-chipper-for-this-early-on-a-Sunday voice, then I pause dramatically. “So what’s happening with that list?”
There. It’s out there in the open, and there’s no going back, now that I’ve said it. The woman glances from Tony to me and back to Tony, trying to figure out whether this is a friendly inquiry, then decides that it is and chuckles to herself. She has short, gray-brown frizz-hair, like mouse fur that’s been brushed the wrong way, and as she cocks her head to one side, I suddenly find myself thinking of ninth-grade biology and the smell of formaldehyde. Tony shifts from one foot to the other and exhales through one nostril in a belabored attempt to hide his frustration, but we both know that it didn’t work, that I’ve thrown the first punch and it’s his turn to retaliate.
“I have it, Julie sent it to me.”
“And what about the new bathroom sink – the one you dropped off last Tuesday?” I challenge, jerking a thumb towards our apartment and the unopened box just inside.
“My next free moment is yours,” Tony answers with an exaggerated bow, rolling his eyes at the woman who’s ambled over to our front gate and is examining the peeling metal rails in an overly curious manner.
This might be comforting to hear, except that he said the same thing last week and the week before that, and we both know very well that neither his next free moment nor the one after that will be spent replacing the sink with the perennially clogged drain.
Across the way, the von Trapp woman is running fingers through her mousy hair and gazing down the street lackadaisically. I wonder what she knows about Tony’s son and if she likes to sing. Tony is saying something else now, something about Tiba, the guy who’s rented out the basement closet for the past month or two, and how he’s looking forward to telling Tiba that he has to be out of the house by the end of the month. I’m only half-listening though, because I’m thinking about the woman and what it would be like to have her as a step-mom.
“If you see him, tell him he has until next Saturday,” Tony is saying excitedly, pounding a fist into his other hand for emphasis. “No, next Friday!”
I nod, unsure of who I’m supposed to talk to and what I’m supposed to tell them, but it doesn’t matter, because he did say “if” after all.
A dented blue hatchback speeds past with windows down and music blaring, and we’re reminded that this is Sunday and that this conversation is much too work-like for a weekend. We offer half-smiles of truce, and we both know that the debate is paused until the next time we see one another – in another week or two or five – when Tony will once again ask how it’s going and I’ll once again ask about the list. Perhaps this is what is meant by a comfortable relationship.
Tony is scurrying away now, crab-like, and when he catches up to his lady friend, she gives him a quizzical look and he leans in close and says something that makes her laugh, and I make a mental note to tell Julie about this, Julie who wears strappy sandals with t-shirts and says that I’m being unfair.
