So I was told to go see Mickey. Apparently Mickey is the head super for all the apartments under the same ownership on my block. He leads a crew of guys that make all the repairs on the buildings and keep up on general maintenance. Well, he is also lord of the keys. I was given his number and told to call, so I did. A man answered, his accent told me he’s a Russian immigrant. No, I just lied, his accent was so damn thick, I couldn’t tell what the hell he was. I just know I said “what,” and “I’m sorry, can you repeat that” about 8 times. Eventually, I gave up and just said “ok,” and “Mmmm, Hmmm” to every thought he was trying to convey.
What I did get out of the conversation was: meet at 235, or was it 239... shit it might have been L35. Oh well, I decided just to go to the general area and see what happens. Sure enough, first person I saw that looked like they might have an accent I proudly call Mickey. Nope, not Mickey. But, he too had an accent and was able to point me to the building in which Mickey had his office, well dungeon really.
I got to the stoop of the building and headed down the stairs into the basement—I told you it was a dungeon. It was where all the crew would get there daily orders and make repairs to necessary equipment. It was Mickey’s very own laire. As I descended into the depths, I came upon two doors. Not knowing which to choose, I went with my gut, (and the one that I heard a familiar loud accent coming from). I knocked twice, but surely Mickey couldn’t hear anything over the thickness in is own voice so I decided to peek my head in. I slowly opened the door to a room that looked like a mechanic’s shop; lots of tools and even more grease. I took in everything with a look of "good god" plastered on my face.
As I scanned the room I came upon a man yelling into a walkie talkie. I’m sure he considered it talking because he didn’t look mad, but the decibel levels were definitely at the yelling threshold. Now mind you, my head is in the office but my body is still out the door. I don’t know if Mickey has rules, and I certainly don’t want to break them on day one. We make eye contact and he stares at me while continuing to yell. Now any other human being would continue to talk, but would at least motion me to come in or put up a hand to say wait…not Mickey. Mickey is playing with my head; he decided less is more and makes no motion at all. So I stay put. Head-in, ass-out not wanting to invade his space, yet not wanting to cower out. I was in Mickey purgatory and he was loving every minute. When he got off the walkie talkie he said “Yawwww???” What the fuck is “Yawwww???” He couldn’t say how can I help you? I guess he knew the depths of his accent and figured the least amount of words to decipher would be best. I took this as a sign to enter.
As my ass entered into the room that my head had been blessed to be in 5 minutes earlier, I rounded a corner and saw the one sacred thing this man had in his office—a poster of Al Pacino in The Godfather. Clearly, when Mickey grew up he wanted to be Michael Corleone. I mean look at the similarities Michael-Mickey, Crime Boss- Crew Boss. I was asked to sit down; I just wanted the keys. Suddenly I felt I was being interrogated by the father of a girl before prom. I was on my best behavior: good posture, well spoken, and a slight smile—not too big, I don’t want Mickey thinking I’m “funny” or anything like that.
Eventually, after a long stare down he asked to see my ID so he could release the keys. He then proceeded to give me a break down of things that need to be taken care of. I was able to understand a good 1/3 of what he said so 66% of the time Mickey’s going to think I’m a failure when it comes to doing what he asked me to do. Oh well, he released the keys and that’s what counts. In truth Mickey turned out to be a nice guys—just rough on the edges.
Yawwwwww!!!!
