Dude on the Balcony
On Finding a Strange Man on My Balcony One Day, Uninvited
I had the day off from work so I spent it loafing in my apartment. Then the time came around to eat, lunchtime, and I decided a sandwich would do the trick. So I put some pants on and walked a few blocks up my street to the shop where they sell sandwiches, the sandwich shop. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and that was fine.
When I walked back to my apartment building I noticed something unusual. As I approached my building, I saw a dude out on the balcony of a fourth floor apartment, talking on the phone. Dude looked like a regular dude, and whoever he was talking to on the phone was making him laugh. There was nothing wrong with this picture, other than the fact that the dude was standing on the balcony of my apartment, using my phone and I had no recollection of asking him to enter the premises while I was away so he could make a call. It would have been unlikely, considering I had no idea who the guy was. Just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, I counted the number of balconies from the first floor up to verify that the dude was in fact on my balcony. He was.
When I got to the front door of my apartment, I slowly and cautiously turned the knob to see if the door was unlocked. The doorknob turned because it was indeed unlocked. This was further evidence the guy who I saw standing on my balcony was standing on my balcony. When I had left earlier, I locked the door. I kept the door locked to prevent random citizens from letting themselves in and using the amenities, such as phone service, especially on my balcony.
Preparing for a showdown with the stranger in my apartment, I gripped my keys with a key between each finger, the way my mother taught me to hold my keys while walking through dimly lit parking lots in the dark of night. Dude on the balcony ended his phone conversation the moment he saw me. He looked concerned because there was an intruder. He stepped into the living room and gave me a friendly, nervous nod. I looked around the apartment to triple check it belonged to me. It was definitely my apartment – I recognized the furniture.
“Hello,” I said, expectantly. The man returned my greeting with a hello of his own. We were both being courteous – for now. By the look on my face, the dude could tell I wondered who he was and what he was doing there. He explained he was there to fix the blinds. Ah. A blind fixer. The blinds had not been properly closing for months now. Months earlier, I called my apartment manager and informed her of this. She told me she would send a guy out to fix them and then she never did. Until now. I had long forgotten about the blinds, unable to muster up enough interest in them to place a second call.
When the dude explained he was there to fix the blinds, I informed him the manager did not tell me to expect him. He nodded, still nervous but understanding. And then, an unexpected demand from him.
He stared at me with uncertainty and pointed out, “The door was unlocked when you came in.” I confirmed his observation, telling him when I left I had locked it. “Since the door was unlocked, anybody could walk in.” Yes, they could. “How do I know you’re the guy who actually lives here?” He knew, because I was telling him. Not good enough. “Can I see some i.d., please? Just to confirm.” I asked him to repeat the question. “Can I see some identification proving this is your apartment?” I was being carded in my living room.
In my mind I had reached a fork in the road. I could either show him my driver’s license or grab one of the dining room chairs and shoo him away like a rogue circus lion. I could clear the dining room table Jack Nicholson style and start punching holes in the wall, angrily warning him to get out of my mother-effing apartment.
I calmly took my wallet out of my back pocket and offered up my driver’s license. Either the dude was scared or stupid or maybe both, but upon studying my license, he stated, “Well, the picture matches you. But how do I know this apartment is where you live?”
“Read the address written on my driver’s license.”
Heeding my advice, he studied the driver’s license again and determined he was standing in the middle of my mailing address. “Okay, you live here,” he concluded.
“I do. You should probably go.” He went.
I called the apartment manager to tell her what a surprise it was to find someone in my apartment during the middle of the day. She shrugged off my concern, telling me, “It’s Tuesday. It’s maintenance day.”
Let my experience serve as a public service announcement. If you happen to live in an apartment building, it’s probably a good idea to call your apartment manager and find out what day is maintenance day. And know that whatever day it is, if you have a job that requires your presence somewhere other than your apartment, in all likelihood there is a dude using your phone on the balcony while you are away. He’s taking a nap in your bed, showering, watching ESPN on your television and helping himself to some chocolate pudding in the fridge. He does this every maintenance day. If you don’t want this to happen, then you should probably come up with a wooden contraption that hurls rotten eggs and hot tar at any would-be intruders the moment they enter your living quarters, just as I have.