He hangs out in the hallway now, asking all the tenants who pass if everything's okay in their apartments. He's knocked on your door three times to offer to double-check your radiators to make sure they're distributing the optimum level of heat.
"I found this shower head," he told you on one of these impromptu visits. He held up a variable speed shower head, still in the plastic. "I can attach it if your shower's been weak."
You thanked him but let him now that you already have the exact same shower head in your shower.
"That must be a spare," you said.
He said it's good to have spares on hand. You don't want to find yourself one day, caught unawares, with nothing left.
"Nothing."
Like most of these recent visits, he shuffled away without saying goodbye.
Today when you come home he's going to be sitting on your stoop. You'll ask if everything's okay.
"I'm thinking of traveling," he'll say. "Seeing some things in this country. Before I'm too old."
You'll say that sounds great.
"Nothing keeping me here anymore," he'll say. "Nobody expecting me home."
You'll tell him you'll miss his being your super. "Send me a postcard. You have the address."
In a few months you'll receive a postcard from the Grand Canyon. On the back, a message from your Super: "Our problems are really small compared to the world. Also, the landlord once asked me to install a camera in your bathroom but I refused. Thanks for the talks."
Happy Divorced Superintendent Day!
