My super, Phil, and I have a very love/hate relationship. I love to pester him with seemingly absurd rental requests, and he hates to respond to them in a timely manner. Consequently, after two weeks of living in virtual darkness because one of my ceiling bulbs is out and Phil has yet to replace it, I get a little less loving. And oddly enough, Phil becomes a lot more amenable to my requests.
On this particular Monday, when I finally cornered him beside our apartment dumpster, I expressed my distate for his slow-as-molasses work ethic. He countered with, “Can’t your boyfriend do that for you?” I quickly chimed back, “I don’t have a boyfriend. Well not if you don’t count the sanitation engineer.”
To which Phil said, “Well what can I do for you?” Within minutes he had climbed the three flights to my apartment and replaced a long dead bulb. Then when he had resolved the matter, he paused and said, “Don’t lose faith, sweetheart, there’s someone out there for you. I just know it.”
When I expressed doubt that I could find a man who was both right for me and capable of changing a ceiling bulb, Phil quasi-volunteered himself. “I’m tall. But I’m also psychotic so you should probably continue the manhunt.” Did I mention Phil and my mother are the same age?
I guess Phil could read my dismay because he then changed the subject. “Do you like Solange Knowles?” And while I have kind of always had a thing for the younger Knowles whose most notable accomplishment is teen pregnancy, I was shocked that a 50+ Hispanic man from the Bronx shared my affection.
But a minute later my super and I were watching the latest Solange Knowles video and gushing over her killer suits and rocking dance moves:
And when the music video concluded, Phil said, “Just remember, you’re a good statistic. You’re the type they use in fancy pants college brochures.” Then he went to unclog a toilet, or something equally unappealing.