Currently integrating the level editor into poof. I've also worked based off of the suggestions given to me, and I do think it's turning out nicely.

High Maintenance. A maintenance man for an inner-city apartment complex eavesdrops on the residents and constantly gets high on the job.

1

You know, it doesn't take much to unclog your typical, run-of-the-mill, Kenmore sink. All you really need is a plastic plumber's snake. It's nothing fancy, just a coiled wire with some space between the coils at each end. You crank the handle of the auger and the wire moves down the Type L 1/2� pipe, corkscrewing through knotted hair, dumped leftovers, and clipped nails. The wire either breaks up the clog and allows everything to move down the pipe, or the object causing the blockage is caught in the wire and retrieved. It's simple.

Imagine me, sticking one of these things down Ed Verma's bathroom sink on the third floor of the Archstone apartment complex. I'm hunched over his sink and cranking the handle of my electric eel, trying to loosen what must be a cereal bowl's worth of shaved hair from his upper back. This is the second time it has happened this month, and it's only the fifteenth. These Indian guys grow body hair faster than they can get rid of it. Now imagine Ed Verma on the phone in the kitchen, screaming about his neighbors.

“Unbelievable, these people. I'll tell you what, man, I've just about fucking had it. I've fucking had it.â€?

You'd be amazed at just how much you tend to overhear fixing people's sinks. I know how often Tammy and Rich in room 416 are having sex. I know that Britta's terrier in room 616 has had a nasty case of ringworm since December. I know how much reefer Jason in room 539 is selling, and I even know how often Brad in room 310 is buying it. And I know all about Jill in room 225's beef with Krista across the hall in room 232. I hear all kinds of things. When you're stuck fishing Cynthia's hair out of the drain in room 211, or getting a fork out of the Michaelson's garbage disposal in 503, it's hard not to. Sometimes I feel like I know these people better than myself.

“It's unbelievable how some fucking people feel like they have the whole building to themselves, it really is.â€? Ed continues. He's really getting worked up over this.

Everybody in this complex has had me over to their room at least once or twice. Most folks sit quietly or move to another room as I scrape the insides of their pipes, you know, to be polite. Some people will even leave their apartment, and when this happens I know it's about to be a long day. I say this because when someone leaves, it's usually out of embarrassment. Maybe sweet old Ms. Rochester in room 112 made a mess in the bathroom and plugged the toilet. Or maybe Geoff in room 723 loaded the shower drain with too much of his long, brown hair, and cum.

Hey, you'd leave too.

A lot of the people here, though, they know me. The normal social anxiety of having a stranger walk into their home and remove their tangled nests of pubic hair from below the bathtub vanishes.

So people talk.

They talk about their work, their families, their friends, but mostly their enemies. They talk with their significant others, they talk to their kids, they talk over the phone. Some even have the social confidence to talk to me, with a fistful of yesterday's dinner that was caught in the disposal.

So imagine me, wrestling a plumbing snake out from the bathroom sink in Ed Verma's room on the third floor. He's on the phone and starts going off about his neighbors. So yeah, my ears perk up. The ladies that work in the hairdressers gossip. Teachers talk about bad students in the lounge. Construction guys listen to the radio while they work, so do the guys that work in the kitchen. Well, today, I'm listening to Ed Verma talk radio, and we've got a caller on the line.

“It's all I can fucking smell at this point. You'd figure they'd put a towel under the door or something, I mean, really.â€?

I pull what remains of my snake up from the drain and a wet mop of Ed's back hair decides to come up with it. I've been working as one of three maintenance guys here at the Archstone for four years now. Not even a full weave of damp pubic hair could faze me at this point. I shake off the snake in Ed's can. He's still on the phone.

“Yeah, I know. I know, right? I should. You're right, really you are. I should. It's unbelievable.â€?

“Ed,â€?

“Yeah,â€? I'm not sure if he's talking to me or talking to the phone.

“All cleared up,â€? I say to him. “Take care.â€?

“Jordan, have you heard about this?â€? he says, and now I'm involved, so that's great.

“No, heard about what?â€?

“The people in the room across,â€? he says, pointing out the door. “Are smoking pot.â€?

“They're smoking pot?â€? I say, trying to act completely unaware.

“They're smoking pot. And you know what? I've had it. I'm up to here with this shit.â€?

Like I said, Ed is an Indian guy. 'Up to here' isn't all that high up, as far as I'm concerned.

“Do you know it's them?â€? I say to him. Still going with the unaware act here.

“Yes, it's them, Jordan. It's them. I'm about to go down to the leasing office and file a complaint.â€? He goes, pacing around the living room now.

So then I say to him, “I suppose I can go check it out for you, I mean. I can go talk to them.â€?

You know, to 'talk'.

“Really? Would you do that for me, Jordan? That'd be great if you could.â€? He says to me, really thanking me, all serious.

Yeah, 'talk'.

“It's no problem. My pleasure, even.â€?

So I take the six steps over to the room across from Ed's place. Room 322. With Ed still watching, I knock on the door, looking both ways down the hall. Like crossing the street.

I know who lives here, but Ed doesn't know that.

“Oh, hang on a sec.â€? The familiar voice behind the door hacks up. I can practically hear him wafting the smoke out of the air from here.

Ben opens the door, and a thick wall of skunk air blows right through me. I hurry my ass inside his room, slipping through the door and shutting it behind me quickly.

“Dude, you asshole. Cover your door. Ed can smell you smoking, he's going to complain.â€? I say to Ben, hissing at him like my mother would.

The placid features of his face tense right up as soon as he hears me say it. The lit joint clinging to his lips falls to the carpet. I snatch it up and drag on the sorry roach before tamping it out.

So now that he's all worried and paranoid he says to me, “Oh, shit. He said he was going to complain?â€?

Ben hurries by me and picks up a blue towel on the ground, stuffing it under the door.

So I go to him, “Well, it's too late for that shit now, man. It smells like Jamaica out in that hall. You need to be more careful. I can't have you getting busted, alright?â€?

“Alright, bud,â€? he says to me, laughing. “Don't sweat. Don't sweat.â€?

Ben has been practicing that mantra for years now, or at least as long as I've known him. And since I've known him, he's been one of my real good friends, you know? So he worries me.

I remember when I met Ben, he had sent in a service request and it was my first or second week on the job. It was the middle of August, so you know, it was dead hot. I mean scorching. Ben's air conditioner had busted.

So I get to his place, all nervous because it's my first day, and it's just trashed. It was trashed, but in a certain way, you know? A black felt Bob Marley poster hanging above the TV, those fuckin' wood beads, dangling in front of his bedroom door. A few pizza box tepees were squatting on the living room floor. And you couldn't walk for five feet without being in arm's reach of a tinfoil ashtray. So you gotta figure by now, I get the idea. The dude was a stoner, and I was in his incredibly unnatural habitat.

So he greets me and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I wasn't there for handjobs and congratulations, so I got to work on his AC unit right skippy. So I'm doing my thing, checking the compressor, the condenser, you know. The thing is sitting on his windowsill, obviously, and I'm leaning on with it. I turn around to grab at my tool kit and I started to feel like I was losing my balance backwards.

Kind of like the 50 pound, 230 volt air conditioning unit I was just leaning on had slipped off of the goddamn windowsill.

In fact, now that I think about it, that's exactly what it felt like.

Ben lives on the third floor, so yeah, it fell a ways. The archaic air cooling device hit the pavement sounding like a car had wrecked outside. Pieces went flying in every direction, and I swear to god, he'll deny it, but it's true. A woman screamed. Swear on my life.

And then he goes, “Don't sweat it, man.â€? all relaxed, not seeing the pun at all. “Don't sweat.â€?

That killed me.

My best friend, the dealer.

“I'll be over later, I'm picking up.â€? I say.

“How much?â€?

“Twenty.â€? I say to him, opening his windows.

“Cutting down?â€?

“No, smartening up.â€? I say to him, doing some last minute wafting around with my arms. “Remember, be more careful. I'll be around later.â€?

My dealer, the asshat.

He's going to get me fired, I swear.