Page 1 of The Ruckup
1
Mafia Who?
Maddie
“NO, MRS. DORSEY.” I grip my head in my hand—thumb at one temple, fingers at the other—and squeeze hard, trying to fight off the tension headache rapidly building behind my eyes. “You can’t put a skylight in your bathroom.”
“But it needs natural light. There’s no window in that room, so it’s pitch black without the overhead on.” The newest tenant at Sweet Side Apartments continues trying to plead her case. “I could trip and break my neck. And since my ungrateful son can’t be bothered to come visit me, you won’t know I’m dead until my juices start to drip on Betty while she showers.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the fuck? I get that a person usually starts thinking about their own mortality as they get older, but this goes well beyond that. “I think you need to cut back on the hours you spend watching murder documentaries.”
Maybe I should just ask Hillard, the property’s maintenance man, to cut the line to her cable. Give Mrs. Dorsey a few days to reset her brain before we ‘discover’ the issue and fix it.
“Also, how do you understand that Betty would be victimized by your…” I try to think of a word besidesjuices, because I’m already going to have nightmares about this conversation. “Demise, but it hasn’t clicked that Sue’s upstairs bathroom would be on the other end of your skylight?”
It's not rocket science. Mrs. Dorsey’s apartment is on the third of four floors. She calls me at least once a week to complain about how loud Sue walks. How has she not mathed out the fact that a hole in her ceiling wouldn’t look at the sky?
It would look at Sue’s naked crotch.
When they offered me this job, I was shocked and, honestly, a little confused. My resume features nothing but a half-finished associates degree and five years’ experience as a private nanny. Not for a single second did I think they’d call me for an interview, let alone hire me as the property manager for Sweet Side’s biggest fifty-five and up community.
Now I’m starting to see why my job history could be considered relevant.
“Fuck Sue. She’s a bitch anyway. I’ll drill all the way through her ceiling too.” Mrs. Dorsey spits the threat and accusation through the line. “If I’m lucky, she’ll get in the way and end up with a hole in her head.”
I sigh, letting my hand drop to the top drawer of my desk. Yanking it open, I pull out the economy-size bottle of ibuprofen. No amount of squeezing is going to stop the throb building inside my skull.
This is a job for pharmaceuticals.
“We’ve talked about this, Mrs. Dorsey.” I pin the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can wrench the lid off the bottle of pills. “I understand you and Sue have had issues, but you’ve got to stop coming up with ways to accidentally kill her on purpose.”
“I wasn’t going to kill her.” I can hear Mrs. Dorsey’s smirk in her words. “That would be up to the construction workers putting in my skylight.”
I throw three gel caps between my lips and tip back a mouthful of the Mountain Dew Zero on my desk, lifting my eyes to the ceiling as I swallow them down and say a prayer for patience. “As I’ve said, you can’t put a skylight in your bathroom. Not only is the sky not accessible through your ceiling since Sue’s bathroom is in the way, but you signed a lease agreeing not to make any structural changes to yourrentedapartment.” I stress the word rented since she seems to keep forgetting the place doesn’t belong to her.
Mrs. Dorsey scoffs. “Then how in the hell am I supposed to keep from breaking my neck in the dark?”
I don’t know how to answer that without sounding condescending, so I’m not even going to try. “My first suggestion would be by turning the lights on.” I drink down a little more of my guilty pleasure soda, hoping the added caffeine will knock out any pain the pills don’t. “My second recommendation would be to get a night light.”
Mrs. Dorsey makes a weird harumphing sound. “Fine.”
I think we’re finally done with this conversation, but then she keeps going.
“Don’t blame me when Betty comes to tell you I’m leaking on her forehead.”
My head falls to the desk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I leave my forehead pressed to the slightly soft surface of my leather desk pad for a few minutes after Mrs. Dorsey hangs up, trying to wrap my brain around how in the heck someone could end up like that.
Probably too many years spent catering to an ungrateful husband who expected her to do everything but mow the lawn. While also expecting her to work a full-time job. Because that’s what his mother did.
I know that’s how my abuela ended up the spicy, zero-fucks given inspiration she is.
Too bad I didn’t get inspired sooner. Then maybe I wouldn’t be where I am now.
With a groan, I lift my head from the desk, feeling cautiously optimistic when it’s not pounding. My positivity is short-lived, because within seconds, the entry door to my office dings, signaling my tenth visitor of the day.
And I know I’m not lucky enough for it to be a delivery man.
