My landlord scares the piss out of me. I've seen photos of him holding a rifle on top of Mount Vesuvius, presumably preparing to snipe Allied forces. I've heard him lash out at his transgressors in English, Italian and Growl. I've only seen him dressed in an undershirt, and he maintains a complete spherical shape, both in his body and his head. My rent is just low enough to put up with his strict rules, like keeping the foyer locked at all times (even when a delivery is coming), keeping the windows closed when he is "a-sending up the steam!" or going to bed if he thinks I'm up too late and being noisy. His house is right out my back window and, yes, I've had this frightening man shout at me: Jordan, you go sleep now, is late. I've always responded, yes sir.

I recently decided I needed a new phone line. Of course, it is my right to get one, but I did the right thing and asked permission. The landlord looked at me like I was crazy, you already have-a the phone. I told him I needed a second line for my work with the computer. I've noticed that the phrase "the computer" will usually put the fear of God into anyone over the age of 55. Oftentimes they'll hit back with an ah, I need to learn the computer. He said it was fine. I made an appointment with Bell Atlantic, and two weeks later two workmen came to the house during business hours.

They poked around the house and decided they needed to get at a box that was in the back basement. I didn't know there even was a back basement. Out the back window, you can see the landlord's locked and well protected parking space. Obscured by the car he never uses is a metal door, the very door Bell Atlantic needed to get to. I round the corner to see if I can get the landlord to open the gate so Bell Atlantic can do what they need to do. In front of her stoop, the landlord's wife is attaching chicken wire to the bottom of her gate. They're really into protection in that family.

"What's a-wrong now?" she asks. This was a dig. In the three years plus that I've lived there, I've twice locked myself out and needed to wake them in order to let me back in. Both of these incidents have happened in the last two weeks. I've been a little distracted lately, not quite myself, prone to random acts of leaving the house ten seconds after conceiving the notion of doing so, twice without my keys.

"Nothing's wrong, I just need to open the gate to let Bell Atlantic to the phone box."

"Well, my husband no home. Tell them come back later."

"I made an appointment with them two weeks ago. Can you give them the key?"

"I no have-a the key. Why you need to go in there?"

"They need to put in a wire for the phone."

"You no need to go in there. You already have-a the phone."

"Yes, but I want to get a second line."

"Why you need-a the second line?!"

"It's for my work, for my work on the computer."

Somehow I allowed her to convince me to go back into the apartment to tell the Bell Atlantic guys that they should try to put in the line without going into the backyard. I climb up the stairs and hear one commenting to the other about my Frank Zappa poster--Damn! This mutherfucker's got a poster of a dude sitting on the toilet, right in his living room!

I beam with pride at hearing this. "Hey Fellas, the landlord's wife doesn't have the key to the back."

Bell Atlantic guy number one (Steve) says very plainly, "we need access to the back, otherwise we can't do the job."

Bell Atlantic guy number two (Ron) looks at my poster of the film Trainspotting and says, "I saw this movie. There was some messed up shit. Dude swam inside a toilet. That shit messed me up."

I love this guy--he continues, "That old lady is giving you a line. She's gotta have the key. You want us to talk to her?"

I resign. "Be my guest."

We round the corner. They head toward the gate, I head toward the front of the house. I respectfully approach, "Ah . . . sorry to bug you again . . ." I notice she is on her knees, clipping the chicken wire with pliers and tying up loose bits with garbage bag twisties. "Oh, that's, that's . . . that looks very nice."

"I have-a to block all the leaves to come into the downstairs. Every day I sweep up the leaves. It's a-crazy. Every day. You gotta the phone?"

"Well, no, we still need to get into the box, and the box is in the basement and the gate is still locked."

"My husband have-a the key. Tell them to go over the fence."

I tell them to go over the fence. They tell me they are contractually obligated never to climb a fence.

"They aren't allowed to climb fences."

"They must gotta the ladder in-a the truck."

I tell them that they must gotta the ladder in the truck.

At this point the two men are checking their watches; they have other appointments. And they have no ladder in the truck. Steve asks Ron, maybe she has a ladder. Ron responds, She ain't gonna give us nothing.

We all approach. "Ah . . . they don't have a ladder in the truck--"

"You believe-a these leaves!" She looks up. She sees me in sweats and a T-shirt and two African-American men in Bell Atlantic jackets. They are probably the only two African-American men in this insular Italian and Greek community.

"Do you maybe have a step-ladder that--"

"No! They use a step-a-ladder from the truck! My husband not home!"

Then she went inside. I turn to the guys. Ron, the one who had just been delighted by the posters in my living room, is visibly upset. His buddy looks to him, tries to smile it off. He ain't smiling.

"There was no reason for her to speak to me that way. We will be unable to complete the job due to lack of access. You will not get charged. You will have to make another appointment for a time when you know you will have access to that basement."

"Christ, that's another two weeks!"

Steve gives me a number direct to the station, it may get me an appointment quicker.

I call and make an appointment for later in the week, but they have to give me the window of 8 am to 5 pm. And that's just the first half of the story.

Continued Next Week