Tess Gunty '15 | May 10, 2016
I stood in my Brooklyn bedroom and stared at my radiator. From it spouted a steaming stream thick as a drinking fountain’s. After 30 minutes, a desperate series of phone calls, four unavailable plumbers, three sacrificial towels, one mop and two large salad bowls, the flooding finally stopped. My superintendent arrived, panting in an enormous hat. He observed the situation, which I had somewhat controlled — dry floor, no flood — and said, “I shut off the heat. I thought you had an urgent problem.”
I’d implored him for weeks to mend my radiator; steam hissed from it hourly, my room an involuntary sauna. Prior to the flooding, the super and I had scheduled two appointments and he missed both, so I thought it was fair to request reimbursement for the dry cleaning that my carpet — now soaked — would require.