One hot spring day, I came home from work to find a wet shower stall. The soap dish featured a small slab of soap languidly melting in a pool of water. I figured ayi had had a shower, something I had always urged her to do, but thought nothing of it, until a few days later, when it happened again. I went to take a shower, but there was no hot water. Miffed, as I had just paid for hot water a few weeks before, I showered in cold water, then headed to the local branch of the hot water provider. The clerk was surprised to see me: hadn’t I just paid for at least two months’ worth of hot water? She assured me that the water would be available as soon as I loaded my card into the meter. The meter of course was located back in my apartment building behind a locked door that only one guard had the key for: tracking down that one guard could be a bit of a hassle, but to my surprise, when I enquired for him at the front desk, he arrived at my door within minutes, looking a bit anxious. I loaded the card into the machine, wished him a pleasant evening, and went home.
Over the course of the next few weeks, I found myself coming home on some days to a dry shower, sometimes wet. The level of shampoo dropped rapidly. Different bars of soap appeared. I didn’t think too much of it. Spring was very hot that year, I had graduate courses to do online after work, and in general, I was oblivious to anything going on around me.
One morning I got to work and discovered I had left my cellphone at home. I raced home at lunch, put the key in the lock, and was met with resistance: Ayi had the chain on the door. I rang the bell. She arrived, greatly displeased, and spoke to me through the door. Her gracious words were, “What do you want? You’re supposed to be at work!” I said, “I left my phone at home. Let me in.” She replied, “You don’t need your phone at work!” Finally, with a huge sigh and roll of her eyes, she slid the chain off the lock and let me in. This is what I saw: a line of the building ayis and janitors standing in front of the bathroom, nervously clutching little towels and bars of soap, the most defeated looking chorus line I have ever seen. None would meet my eyes. I realized in a flash what was going on. I said excuse me to the line up, then went to my bedroom to get my phone. Ayi followed me.
She shut the door behind us and whispered that the building staff had dormitories in the basement, but their shower facilities were not in working order: she was letting them take showers in my apartment. I was appalled, not for the reasons you may think: after a month, management still hadn’t fixed the issue. I was beside myself that the people who kept the building clean and running were denied the most basic of hygiene. I commented on her kind heart, truly touched by her concern. “It’s not kindness,” she scoffed. “Now they owe you big!”
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