“Hello, Housing Preservation and Development, Central Harlem. Farris speaking.”
“Missus Farris?”
“Yes, this is Melba Farris. Can I help you with something?” The woman’s voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I know if I keep her talking, I’ll recognize the voice.
“My stove is broke.”
I frown, hoping it isn’t a gas leak. When a stove is leaking gas, I tell the tenant to call Con-Edison immediately, but I never tell them they’ll spend weeks without a stove. There’s a tedious procedure for gas leaks. It involves Con-Edison making an inspection, cutting off the gas in the apartment, then issuing a red tag that lets a plumber know what’s to be repaired. What usually takes so long is when the gas line leaks rather than the stove.
Line leaks require more players. You have to add the Buildings Department for their approval of the plumber’s work through issuance of a blue card to Con-Edison. The blue card simply says the job is ready for a joint inspection with Con-Ed, the plumber, HPD, and the Buildings Department.
I’m hoping the defect is on the stove and not the line. Leaking stoves are easier to deal with. You shut off gas going to the stove, disconnect it, and hire an appliance contractor to replace the stove. You need a plumber to reconnect it and then you tell Con-Edison to restore the gas. Sometimes, the super shuts off the gas using the gas cock at the back of the stove and disconnects it. Then the appliance contractor replaces the stove and reopens the gas valve, which turns gas on to the stove if Con-Ed hasn’t shut down the line.
“What’s wrong with the stove, Ma’am?”
“Humph!” the tenant snorts into the phone, then laughs. “Ma’am—who you callin’ ‘Ma’am,’ Missus Farris? I ain’t that old! It’s me, Rosetta John. The last time you and the manager was here, you said I should call you if I needed anything. I need me a new stove. There’s somethin’ wrong wid the one I got.”
“Do the burners light up when you turn the knobs?”
“Yeah, they does. They ain’t nothing wrong with ‘em. It’s the oven, but you gotta come out and see it for yourself.”
I stifle a groan. I’m looking at the stack of work orders sitting on my desk that I haven’t signed yet. I still have my five managers’ monthly reports to review and discuss with them. I don’t have time to see Ms. John today, but if I don’t go, she’ll call my deputy director and bug him until he screams at me to “go see the bitch.” He’s not as polite as I am. He makes it clear what he thinks of her complaints in straightforward language.
I glance at my watch. “Give me an hour, okay, Ms. John?”
“Okay, Missus Farris.”
I arrive ninety minutes later to find Ms. John pacing in front of her door. Ms. John is a tall, thin, dark chocolate woman with very prominent teeth. I always think a good wind under her skirt would lift her into the air and she’d float away like Mary Poppins. “Good morning, Ms. John. How’re ya doing today?”
She frowns at me. “Humph! Ain’t nothing good about it. I can’t use the darn stove no more. You gotta come in and see why, Missus Farris.” She opens the door and I follow her into the kitchen. She points at the water boiling on the stove, then she turns it off. She twists the other three knobs and flames rush out. “See?” She lowers her voice to a whisper as her eyes dart around the room. “Them burners work fine.”
I sniff the air, but I don’t smell gas. “So your problem is in the oven, right?”
Ms. John nods, then whispers, “That’s right—in the oven.” She scans the empty kitchen again, then points quickly to the oven door. “He’s in here, so open the door real carefully so he don’t get out.”
I’m worried. I know Ms. John lives alone, but she does have a big, fluffy Persian gray cat named Mr. Marbles who usually greets me at the door. He didn’t do that this time. If I open the oven door, will I find him turned into a crispy critter? I reluctantly reach for the oven’s handle, getting ready to give a tug when Ms. John’s words stop me.
“He’s in there, so be quiet so you don’t let him out. I got the little devil trapped in there. It took me all morning to catch him. I ain’t running around, poking in corners looking for him no more today. I’m too tired.” She pulls out a chair and sits down to watch me open the oven door.
I try sneaking a peek through the oven’s glass door, but old cooking grease covers the small window and I can’t see through it. I squat down and pull on the door. I’m expecting to see Mr. Marbles turned into a smoky, black crunchy when I open it. Instead, I see the flame from a thick stubby white candle with an odd smell, burning in an empty oven.
“Hurry up and close that door before he gets out. The Bible says Satan wears many masks. I know what this one looks like, but if he gets out, he’ll change again. I ain’t gonna be able to catch him no more. Then he’ll be free to pester me at night like he do sometimes when I can’t sleep. You see why I needs a new stove, don’t you, Missus Farris? The devil’s in this here one, so I can’t use it.”
I close the door quickly, then I stand up slowly, thinking what to say next. I didn’t know she was like this. The last time I visited Ms. John, she didn’t act like this. She seemed normal. “You put the candle in the front so he couldn’t get out without getting burned, right?”
Ms. John grins in recognition. “How did you know?”
“I had two other tenants with similar problems this week.”
“You gave them new stoves too, right?”
“No.” I pull out my ID card and point to the fine print on the back that nobody could read without a magnifying glass. “We get special training for situations like this. You just sit there at the table while I say a few words over the stove guaranteed to make whatever is in there go away.”
I make sure all the burners are off, then I pull out my favorite pen. I like the pen because it’s longer and narrower than most pens. I have a heavy hand when I write and this pen is easy to grip. Today, I decide to take advantage of the fact that it looks like a wand too. I wave the pen over the top of the stove and say a few words in gibberish with my eyes closed. I tap the oven door with the tip of the pen, then wave it across the front of the door before I open it. Once I open the door, I blow out the candle, then touch each wall with the pen. I intone some more nonsensical words with my eyes closed. I wave the pen inside the oven and say more stuff, then close the door. I wave my pen over the entire stove before I light the oven’s pilot just to make sure it works. It does.
“You shouldn’t have any more trouble with your oven, Ms. John.”
Ms. John squints at me, then breaks into a wide grin and stands up. “I’ll be callin’ you if that ole devil come back.”
“Okay, Ms. John, you do that.” I nod solemnly. “You have a nice day, now.”
I didn’t hear another complaint from Ms. John about her stove for three years. Oh yeah, one more thing; Mr. Marbles walked me to the door.
DESMOND’S ROOF
Spring of 1997
I watch Desmond Kenny, one of my favorite supers, dying. He’s in the Intensive Care Unit at Harlem Hospital. I know he’s dying because he’s has tubes down his throat helping him breathe and wires attached to his chest monitoring his heart. He’s not conscious of his surroundings. A nurse tells me he’s in a coma when I ask how he’s doing.
He looks so different from the last time I saw him in the hospital five days ago. He was lively then as he spouted Jamaican sayings. He was mad as hell at my boss. His dark chocolate skin had good color, not the ashen gray cast of today. He talked about getting out of the hospital and getting back to work. He claimed his buildings missed his mop and pail. We joked around, then he grew serious.
“Yeah, Mon, I’m coming to see you boss if he don’t honor me work.”
“Aw, Desmond, come on and take it easy. Quit worrying about that job. I wanna see you healthy enough to get out of here.”
“You gonna ask he about me mod, right?”
“I’ll ask him again.” I look at my watch. “Desmon
d, I have to get back to the office.”
“Okay, Mon. I see you when I see you. Tell me wife to bring me derby when her comes over.”
“Sure, Des. Do you need anything else?”
“I needs me money, Mon!”
“Take it easy, Des.” I raise my hand to quiet him, then head to the door of his hospital room. “I’m working on it. I promise.”
“You working on it don’t put no money in me pocket, Mon!”
“Yeah, I know. Bye, Des, take care.”