Alvaro is the property manager of our small, 1960-s era office building and I believe he missed his calling: he would probably be a superstar in the field of crisis management (“Deny, deny, deny!”) but as a property manager he mainly just annoys me.
I’m sure it was purely coincidental, but things started to head south soon after he assumed his current position when our old building was suddenly overrun by rats. It started with a strange odor in the hallway; my coworker Rosa,, came back from lunch one day and announced, “I smell a rat.”
Until then I thought that was just a figure of speech, but Rosa explained that rats have a distinctive, unsavory smell. Sure enough, later that day all the building tenants got an email explaining that one or two “unwelcome animal visitors” had been seen on the premises and to keep all food locked up and throw away all the trash until the situation could be resolved.
I responded to Alvaro’s email: “Unwelcome animal visitors?” I wrote. “What does that mean? Pandas? Otters?”
“Just a couple of rodents,” he responded.
“Rodents?” I replied. “So we’re infested with rats?”
“That’s awfully strong language,” he e-mailed soothingly. “One or two little critters does not an infestation make. Let’s not over-react.”
Before I could respond, I looked out my office window and saw a large van pull into the parking lot. “Rat Patrol” it said on the side, along with a picture of a rat with an “x” where its eyes should have been and its feet in the air. “We handle rat infestations.”
There were a series of other issues after the rat infestation, and Alvaro handled them all. When the men’s room urinal overflowed and flooded a couple of offices on the first floor, Alvaro was right there sopping up the mess with a roll of paper towels, a process similar to draining Lake Okeechobee with a teaspoon. “Minor leak,” he said. When the electrical system rebelled so that when my neighbors turned on their lights all of our computers would crash , Alvaro gamely brought us power strips and long extension cords. “No point in overloading the circuits,” he murmured.
Next, in the hottest, driest summer I can remember our air conditioning died. Alvaro came to investigate. “I think it feels quite comfortable in here,” he said, inhaling briskly as though he were in the Alps.
“Alvaro, “ I said testily, mopping my forehead. “Look at the thermostat.” He did: The AC was set to 69. The temperature in the office was 84.
“That’s doesn’t mean the AC is broken,” he said heartily. “It’s a hot day. I’ll come back in an hour and check again.” When he came back the temperature was 88. “Awesome!” He said. “Getting better already!”
I’m a patient man: Rascally rodents I can tolerate. Overflowing urinals I can handle. Spotty electrical service and malfunctioning air conditioners are not existential threats. But then the ancient elevator, whose operation has always been spotty at best, and always accompanied by horrific noises, began to stop between floors.
“No worries,” emailed Alvaro breezily. “It usually starts up again in 10 – 15 minutes.” My jaw dropped, but I kept reading: “I realize some clients may react strongly to this situation,” I read, a major understatement since our building is mainly occupied by mental health professionals whose clients range from slightly unhinged to bat-shit crazy; being stuck in a dark elevator for 10 or 15 minutes would send most of them right over the edge into the abyss. I continued reading: “Please tell guests, clients and service people that if the elevator stops not to panic but to just wait patiently. We should have the issue resolved in 4- 6 weeks.”
I could not resist: “So our clients may be stuck in the elevator for 4-6 weeks?” I emailed.
Alvaro’s response was instantaneous. “It will probably only be 2 – 3 weeks,” he reassured me.