The front of our brownstone is turning me towards communism. And as Vivian will tell you, I am NOT a team player. The place is a mess, with trash bins not maintained (I bought two extra last year to cope with overflow) and the landlord giving not a damn. The tenants at basement level, the poor souls who have to gaze out at the trash area, smoke. A lot. Outside, too, where they keep this ashtray. They can't be all bad because through their gauze curtains that speak more of an ancient suburbia than Brooklyn, one can see potted plants and a wallful of books. The books are why I don't hate them. Potted indoor plants creep me out but I get the idea and am sympathetic. And he's a cop, though he seems 18 years old. It's very strange to live on top of a cop, and once I found his uniform going round and round in the drier.
So I'm this close to putting up a notice in the lint-covered laundry room exhorting, People, puh-lease, let's work together! Let's sweep the halls and vacuum the floors. Let's cook each other casseroles and watch each other's cats. I know the landlord should take care of us, I know the Super should, but they don't. Hello? Are y'all blind??? Our standards have dropped! If this were Bushwick we'd all be mopping away. But because it's Cobble Hill we expect to be looked after and get stubborn when we're not?
A stompie you ask? South African for cigarette butt. Also the nickname for a short person. One day I might tell the long story of the Table Mountain dassies addicted to stompies...
What does he DO with our rent???