When I first moved in, I was so relieved to have four walls and a key that I convinced myself the apartment’s “quirks” were charming. Broken drawers. A toilet that only pretended to flush. Scalding water that could peel skin. Holes in the ceiling big enough for a family of mice to register a forwarding address. No window screens. Drafts so strong the whole place felt like it was breathing. You could see the curtains ripple in the breeze.
Annoyances, sure — but after living in my car, I wasn’t about to get picky.
Once I made my first rent payment, I finally let myself complain. I sent my landlord a neat little list of everything that needed fixing. Nothing outrageous — just basic things an apartment should do, like function.
A week later, he replied with a masterpiece of customer service: “Maintenance man tomorrow.”
Perfect. I had my list ready like a kid waiting for Santa.
Right on time, there was a knock. I opened the door to a man with a tool bag and absolutely no English — only Mandarin. This was going to be fun.
I handed him the list. He shook his head and gave me his phone, pointing to a translation app. Great. We were about to repair my apartment through Google Translate and blind optimism.
I typed the first issue: the toilet doesn’t flush. He walked into the bathroom, pressed the handle, watched the water swirl uselessly, and then looked at me like I was the one who didn’t understand toilets. Yes, the handle moved. No, the contents did not.
Lost in translation doesn’t even begin to cover it.
No matter how many times I typed the problem, he just smiled and said, “It ok.”
Sure. If “ok” means “nothing goes down.”
I moved on. The kitchen drawer that wouldn’t close. He read the translation, fiddled with it, and — miracle of miracles — fixed it. It slid shut perfectly. He bowed, proud of himself.
Five minutes after he left, I opened the drawer again.
It broke immediately.
Fantastic. Time to consult my real maintenance man: Google.
I walked through the apartment, took inventory of the chaos, grabbed my tools and a roll of duct tape, and got to work.
I patched the ceiling holes with duct tape X’s like I was marking crime scenes. The mice still scurried above me, and the cats sat on top of the fridge like tiny, judgmental security guards waiting for a suspect to appear.
The drafts? Unfixable. The missing window screens? Honestly, in this neighborhood, leaving a window open would’ve been an open invitation — and not the kind that ends well.
So I did what I could. I repaired what I could. I duct‑taped what I couldn’t. I became the superintendent of an apartment I didn’t own.
I was paying a fortune in rent and still doing my own repairs. But I guess that’s what passes for “maintenance” around here — a landlord who sends a man with a translator app and calls it a day.
And honestly? It fits the theme of my entire WTF year: Pay full price, fix it yourself, and pretend it’s progress.
Holding it together with duct tape and spite,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 