If you don’t remember the move from separation to singledom, let me remind you that the three-week cleanup of the Treehouse was complicated by a leaking roof. Perhaps it’s appropriate that on the way from singledom to cohabiting, the leak has returned.
Before going to Orlando to celebrate Dylan’s birthday, I called the landlord’s son to let him know the closet was leaking again. At that point, it was a small drip, avoidable by scrunching my clothes to the side and putting a bucket down. After ten days of back and forth, the roof became about as effective as swiss cheese.
The kitchen ceiling also leaks from several spots. The sound of dripping water is so loud, it wakes me at night. Of course it keeps me up, but that’s not what I mean. I’m saying I finally manage to drop off despite the wet stench of the place and the frustration of having everything I own piled into half of a tiny studio, and the sound of rain inside the house is loud enough to wake me.
The house was built in 1925; it needs a new roof, not more handyman patch jobs. That’s the minimum which needs to happen to make the place livable, and my landlord could pay for it with by selling the Escalade he drives in Miami (he lives in San Bernardino, CA) or the chunk of gold around his wrist. Meanwhile, I no longer feel safe in my own home. I’m sleeping with a bat near my bed. I know that makes no sense – what am I going to do, beat the water to death? – but it helps me get a few fitful hours of rest.
There’s no Becky. I can barely stand the conditions here myself, and I’m not about to subject her to them. We’re getting through this because we know we’ll share a home soon, and we’ll be able to discover each-other all over.
Oh, and stop charging the poor woman who just moved in below me rent. All that water flows downward, you know.