So Wednesday afternoon I smelled natural gas in my home office.
Some of you will recall what happened a couple of years ago when I smelled gas in our Queens apartment but didn't call the gas company until after I'd gone to work. This time was not like that. Our landlord had had a guy in working on installing some new laundry equpiment in the basement, so I headed downstairs. The smell was much stronger in the basement.
I called Peoples Gas, and Ella and I hung out in the back yard to wait. With the basement door propped open, you could smell the gas from the top of the steps heading down the concrete stairwell. The gas men arrived and found not one but three leaks in the new lines. One was due to a fitting connected to the new dryer that was the wrong size.
I left a message with the landlord while the gas company was repairing the problems. He called me back later. I saved his voice mail. Sounding laconic, he says, "I guess that's what happens when you pay top dollar for the best."
Right, it's funny. As funny as the time the guys were in the basement removing old radiator pipes from our floorboards and I happened to see a stream of sparks shooting out of an elbow joint jutting from our floor. All I can say is thank goodness I was home. If not, I could have come home to a dead dog, or worse. Christ. The landlords were shits in New York too, but at least they didn't pretend not to be.
