I wrote Michael Mathes a note New Year’s Day explaining that the temperature in my bathroom was 47.5 degrees and that I could not tolerate the low temperatures in my apartment. He received the note when he came to work on Friday, January 2nd. I received a call from him that day, and he came down to the apartment and saw for himself that the bathroom was indeed cold, that the temperature in the apartment seemed cold, and told me that something needed to be done. He then said–and my heart sank–that he would forward my note on to maintenance. Maintenance, I knew, would do nothing. They had determined that the heat worked. I figured they would go no further, though I had suggested heat lamps.
On Tuesday, January 6, I determined that there was some kind of leak in or around my bathtub. It was not from my shower curtain. So I called maintenance. I knew that if I showered any longer than a couple of minutes, water would be all over the bathroom. It took them until Friday to fix this problem–a leaking pipe in the garage downstairs.
By Friday, though, depression had set in. I am sick of living in the cold. I am sick of wearing a hat indoors. I am sick of wondering from day to day how I am going to stay warm, whether I will huddle under the heating panels or stick it out at the computer with a blanket over me. I am sick of living in a place that needs constant repair, with maintenance men barging in neary every day, with or withut warning. I am sick of the noise in the hall, of hearing my next door neighbor sneeze and cough all day long. I don’t know how I will make it through the winter. Friday night I even thought of suicide as a way out. Just as quickly, though, I forced the thought out of my head.
I just got off the phone with Debbie from maintenance, who says that the heating allowance cannot be raised, that it’s the same for everyone (75, with a “two degree offset, so it’s actually 73) unless I get permission from Michael. So I will call him. The ball will be back in his court, so to speak.
The saga continues….