Brainstorm

So, for some weeks now, the slide latch on the inside of one of the two stalls in the men's room on the floor of the building where I work has been broken. The little knob that screwed into the tongue was prone to fall off, and then there would be nothing to keep the tongue itself from sliding right out of the latch and falling on the floor. I had myself reassembled this little mechanism many times in the past, but then came one sad day in July or August when the parts were nowhere to be found. Now one could only hope to find both stalls empty upon entering, and therefore be able to choose the one that still did latch.

Now, for the past few days, upon losing this perverse race and having to enter the unlatchable stall, the first thing I've seen upon entering said stall is a toothbrush that some unfortunate left sitting atop the toilet paper dispenser. For days, the forlorn toothbrush had not moved. I had, in fact, vaguely considered leaving a note for its owner, should he ever arrive to reclaim it, suggesting that it be boiled thoroughly before its next use, or preferably just thrown away.

Yesterday afternoon, however, upon entering the stall and still seeing it there, I had a new thought. I looked at the toothbrush. I looked at the latch. I looked at the toothbrush. I looked at the latch. I wasn't sure the handle of the toothbrush was flat enough for my purpose, but there was nothing to lose by trying. So I tried.

And by God, I latched that stall.

Rainstorm

or, It's No New Orleans, But It's Ours

I arrived home in Queens last night at about eight, leaving the cab and making my only slightly tipsy way down the way to the backyard. And that's when I heard a most disturbing sound, a good deal louder than the incessant rain itself:

Rushing water.

Like many yards in the region, there were several inches of water in ours:

( The yard this morning, after the water had receded some )

The rushing I heard was water pouring from the yard into the stairwell down to the back basement door under our deck. The water in the stairwell was already up to the middle of my shins.

Laura was out, so I made my way inside, let the delighted dog out back, brought the delighted dog back in, dried her off a bit, cleared the crap piled in front the basement door, and made my way downstairs. Sure enough there was a couple of inches of water in the basement, and the lowest tier of our storage boxes down there were getting soaked. There's also a basement apartment, and while it didn't look like the water was in Charlie's apartment yet, I got the upstairs neighbors going on the task of tracking him down by cell phone.

I called Laura, who advised me to check the drains outside—which had apparently been getting clogged with leaves earlier, though the stairwell had been fine—and promised to come right home. When I got back outside, the water in the stairwell was nearly to my knees:

( The basement door this morning, with high-water mark )

The drain in the stairwell wasn't clogged, just overwhelmed, as was the one on the patio. Laura arrived home shortly and joined me in the task of sorting the wet stuff in the basement from the dry, restacking the dry atop waterproof objects like drink coolers and old air conditioners, and hauling the wet stuff out front in contractor garbage bags. (I also hauled out a huge stack of Charlie's old dry newspapers that had gathered by his apartment door, some dating to 2003.) Among the losses were a whole lot of books, though we tried hard not to look and see which ones they were.

By the time the hauling was done and we both collapsed, the rain had slowed and most of the water in the basement had drained away. If it floods again today, our stuff is likely safe—unless we end up with a foot or more in the basement this time.

We still don't know about Charlie's apartment, though. A friend of his finally reached him by cell phone, only to be told he was working late and couldn't be bothered to leave. I hope he didn't step through his front door into a pool of water, and especially hope he didn't step into a pool of water containing any live electrical equipment. I wouldn't put it past him. He's been known to turn off the power to the entire house when trying to turn a tripped circuit breaker back on.

Drainstorm

Speaking of which, the basement disaster has made Laura and me feel better about the fact that we have to move before the middle of January. Yes, the landlord managed to sell the house for right around his megabuck target. Bully for him, you know? Twelve days on the market—the realtor only showed the place once, and even then the apparent buyer only looked at the back yard. This is not the action of someone who plans to fix up the house and continue renting it out.

So our landlord is a freshly minted millionaire, and we're moving. C'est la vie.

I know they are but what am I?

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