Just when you’re sitting thinking “Shit, I got nothing I feel like writing,” the doorbell rings. Landlord Nick is on the case, making sure our fire alarm is working for 2007.

He presses the test button three, four times before realizing we had wiggled the battery out of it’s harness. It’s placed directly across from a bathroom in the narrowest section of corridor. Steam is kind of like smoke, and taking a shower to the beeping sound of the alarm is unnerving.

Here’s the dialogue:

Me: You need to move the alarm.
Nick: If it goes off when it shouldn’t let me know.
Me: I’m letting you know. You should move it.
Nick: If it’s a problem, we could move it here. (Pointing to a new place.) Just let me know if it goes off.
Me: It goes off. Yes, that’s a good place. It’s a wider space with better ventilation, it’s where it should go. Why don’t you come back and move it?
Nick: Yeah, it should be OK where it is, but call me if it’s not.
Me: It’s not. Please move it.

Upon, finally, leaving (This time it was M.’s turn to get the clean-your-bathroom-with-toxic-chemicals lecture.):

Nick: OK, guys, everything seems to be OK. Let me know if there are any problems with the fire alarm. Should be OK, though. Just let me know.

Clearly, he learned landlording by reading Ienesco plays.

By the way, how come every fucking landlord I have ever had has thought to whine to me about property taxes and expenses of rental properties? Jesus, slumlord, no one made you run a building into the ground.