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More crazy-ness upstairs

You would think that I'd be fresh out of stories about my crazy upstairs neighbor. Especially since, you know, she's dead.

But you would be wrong.

The bank, which bought the upstairs unit, has been renovating since November. At the time, they promised they would be done by Christmas. Though they're up there almost every day starting around 7:30 a.m., making enough of a racket to put cracks in my walls and send all my little curios flying off their shelves, almost five months later there's still no end in sight. Every time they fix one thing, another thing breaks. Carlos the genius electrician rewired the old asbestos-covered boiler, but then they couldn't get it working again, so they had to replace it. They went to fix a leak in the plumbing and discovered a million code violations and had to rip it all out and start over again. In other words, every time they open up a can, it's full of worms.

Randy is the handyman who has been doing or overseeing the bulk of the work upstairs. He's one of those olde New England types, wears the requisite rumpled and paint-stained work clothes, has a face with lots of wrinkles, gray stubble, and character, speaks in very plain, short sentences. Scowls a lot. Not incredibly friendly, but he's a nice enough guy. And he's got a great work ethic, likes to do things right. He helped me fix the sump pump when the hose came loose and started spraying water all over the basement. He doesn't leave too much construction crap all over the yard. He even put up some insulation on the basement ceiling for me after he installed an exhaust pipe on the boiler that sounded like there was a bus idling underneath my bedroom. It didn't help with the noise. But at least he tried.

As nice as Randy is, as handy and as hard-working, I recently asked him when the hell he would be out of my life once and for all.

His answer threw me for a little loop.

"Well, from the beginning, we were never able to work much past noon," Randy says.

"Oh?" I ask. "How come?"

"She wouldn't let us."

"Who's 'she'?"

"The lady that used to own the apartment."

"Paula?" I say. I'm surprised, because as far as I knew, he didn't start working upstairs until after she died. "Did you work for her before the bank bought the place?"

"Nope," he says.

"Huh? So how would she ..."

"She's still here," he says. "And she doesn't like us working in her place."

So. The reason the construction upstairs has dragged on for so long now is that my crazy (dead) upstairs neighbor is haunting the workers. That's great. That's really perfect. It's just exactly what you'd expect.

Here's my question: Do you think, considering all the madness that has ensued since I bought my little slice of the American dream, there is any chance whatsoever that the next owner of the upstairs unit will be normal? Seriously, what are the chances?

Previously:
I disparage gypsies.
At least the old real estate listing can be updated now.
The first installment of the crazy upstairs neighbor chronicles.

2 comments:

karenology said...

Amazing. She's annoying you even from beyond the grave! Got to hand it to this lady for having such a strong and unforgettable legacy after death, of sorts.

Katie said...

G,
I think there is a short story needing to be published at the completion of the condo!
k