I live in an apartment. It’s a matter of choice. My wife said we would live here and I said, “Yes, dear.” (Note: I did not say it was my choice.) It has some drawbacks, but also some items in the plus column. When something goes wrong, the Maintenance Department is only a phone call away. They have always been fairly responsive, if not always as dependable as one could want. We have been living here for nearly twenty-five years. Recently, the apartment complex was acquired by a new company, and many of the old maintenance guys seem to be retiring or disappearing with young guys coming in to replace them. Still, the quality of service is high.
The other day my lavatory wall developed a small bulge in the paint above the bathtub/shower. I had seen this sort of thing before. When a leak gets in between the wallboard and a good Latex paint, the paint holds, but bulges outward. I watched it looking for more signs over the holiday weekend. Seemed like a small and intermittent leak with just the one bulge. Didn’t figure we needed emergency maintenance. I intended to call early on Tuesday morning. But, of course, things can slip one’s mind. I didn’t remember until later on Tuesday as I saw a new paint bulge. At that time, I was running out the door. When my wife and I got home from dinner and running errands, I went upstairs and told the neighbors they probably had a leak in their tub plumbing again (the last time was probably five years ago), and I would be calling maintenance the next morning. And I did.
Maintenance opens at 8 a.m., but they have a voice mail system. I left a message about 5 a.m. About 11, the knock on the door finally comes. A young kid who looks maybe 12-1/2 and smells strongly of menthol cigarettes comes to check on things. He then goes upstairs and checks for leaks. He comes back downstairs, “I don’t see any leaks upstairs. I removed the access panel and was running their water and shower, but nothing. Maybe it’s here. Let me check your shower. It might be water squirting upward from a leak in your shower and then coming back down through the wall.”
This was highly unlikely. Had that been the case, there would have been bulges after each shower we had taken for days.
He checks and finds nothing. “Hmmn, that’s odd. Maybe your neighbors called and already had someone in to fix the leak.”
I pointed at the second bulge, “That is from yesterday.”
“Okay, let me just go back to the office and find if anyone has worked on it recently.”
By this time in my mind, Junior had earned the nickname of Inspector Clouseau. Off he goes to the maintenance office. Maybe an hour later, I see his bright yellow car pull up in the lot. He comes into the building and immediately goes upstairs and is working up there for a while. Obviously, someone had given him a suggestion as to what might be going on.
An hour or so later, he comes back down. “It appears the leak was in the tub overflow, so it would only show up when they took baths and had the water too high. I think I have it fixed. Let’s give it a couple days, and I’ll be back to see if any more leaks show up. I’ll be back Friday morning.”
Friday morning came and went. About 1:30 p.m., there’s a knock on the door. It’s Inspector Clouseau with his hands full of equipment, “Any new leaks?”
“Nope,” I nod my head towards the lavatory.
He inspects the wall, “Looks dry. I’ll start prepping it.”
We talked a bit as he was doing the first stages of the prep work towards repairing and painting the wall. He told me about another real leak he had also been dealing with where it was bad caulking on the sides of the shower that allowed water to get in and rot the wall. Then he mentioned another where water from the shower was seeping out between the shower doors and the top of the tub.
“But most of the calls we get are for toilet leaks. But they aren’t really leaks. Had one woman where the corner of the lavatory behind the toilet was an inch deep in water. There was no leak. It’s just from the toilet tank sweating. These people keep their apartments at a hundred-and-twelve degrees, and the water that fills the tank is coming in from underground where it’s cool.”
“Indians?” I asked, figuring that was what he meant by “These people.” Like me, Inspector Clouseau is a Caucasian American. A few years ago, I read that my city was the most integrated in the state of Michigan. We do have blacks in the city, but mainly the integration is Asians. We have plenty of East Asians, but most are South Asians. In the four apartments off this corridor of the building, three are Indian families. I have also heard other similar comments from the various maintenance people over the decades I have been here.
“Yeah, they keep their apartments at a hundred-and-twelve degrees,” he repeated before reaching down to touch the side of my toilet’s tank, “Dry! I think that’s the first one I’ve seen that isn’t sweating.”
I left him to do his job and went back to doing mine. After a while, he popped out, “All finished for now. We need the mud to dry before I can paint. I’ll be back before the end of the day and check. If it’s dry, I’ll paint. Otherwise, I’ll be back Monday morning.”
It’s now Saturday morning. Inspector Clouseau did not return to check late Friday afternoon. He probably got caught up explaining to someone that there was no leak, it’s just their toilet tank sweating. I suppose I’ll see him Monday afternoon.
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