ONE: DOG PISS IN THE ELEVATOR

There is dog piss in the elevator again this morning and I'm sure it's Mrs. Timpkin's terrier from apartment 705.

Is see her later and ask if she knows anything about it. She gets all huffy and changes the subject pointing out to me that the grass hasn't been cut for two weeks and is becoming an embarrassment whenever she has company. I politely remind her that outdoor maintenance is not my responsibility. No Christmas tip from her this year. The bitch.

I wipe up some of the piss with a paper towel and put it in a zip lock baggie in the freezer. I've got Denise searching the Internet for someplace that does DNA tests that can match it to her dog. I just need to get a fur sample.

I asked Mr. Flint, from the company that manages the building, if they could put in a surveillance camera. He tells me he'll check with legal but he's pretty sure there's a law against it. More likely they're too fucking cheap to spend the money.

Denise says I should stand up to him. That's easy for her to say. She doesn't have to deal with the bureaucracy every day.

Anyway, I come back to the elevator with a pail of hot water and pine smelling disinfectant to give the floor a good mopping. I have my key in the control panel to keep the elevator down on the basement floor when someone presses the call button and makes the bell ring. They wait about five seconds and then hold their finger on the button. I pull out the key and the door snaps shut before I can get out and I have to ride all the way up to the ninth floor.

I'm not surprised it's the Thompson girl from 917. Dody or Fody. Some weird name like that. When the door opens she's standing there with a cigarette in her mouth.

The car lurches when the door closes. I make a note to myself to call the elevator people and have them look at it.

Dody or Fody or what ever her name is has her usual black lipstick and masses of eyeliner that makes her look like a raccoon. Her hair is died so black it's purple in the elevator's fluorescent lights.

She ignores me.

"It's a non smoking building," I say in my pretend friendly voice.

"Does it look like it's lit?" she snaps thrusting it at me like she wants to stab me in the eye with it. Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.

"No school today?" I ask, trying for casual chitchat to break the ice.



"Cause it's Saturday. Duuh!"

We settle into peaceful co-existence until we hit the ground floor.

"Smells like piss in here," she says as the door opens.

She stops in the foyer and lights her cigarette taking a couple of deep puffs and exhaling before pushing open the glass doors and stepping out into the street.

About ten minutes later Mr. Flint comes in for his weekly inspection. I'm vacuuming the carpet by the front door. He gives an exaggerated sniff as if trying to locate the source of some nasty flatulent emission.

"You need to stop people from smoking in the building," he tells me taking out his pen and notebook.

"If we had a surveillance camera we could catch them," I say in my friendly team player voice. I think I've got him with that one.

"The grass needs cutting," he says in a voice that implies that it's my fault. His lips move as he writes himself a note.



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