A few years ago while living in my second floor apartment I found myself in one of the most awkward predicaments of my life. On a Saturday afternoon I headed out the door to run some errands. The second I stepped outside onto the balcony I noticed that something was different. The building hadn’t been painted, the neighbors hadn’t moved out, and my balcony furniture was still there. Not being able to identify the change, I shrugged off the paranoia and decided to move on with my day. As I went to venture down the stairs I noticed exactly what had been adjusted. The wooden staircase leading up to my apartment had completely disappeared.

Now, it may sound crazy, but I found this to be a slight inconvenience. I did what anyone in the same situation would do. I went back inside my apartment, closed the door, waited ten seconds and then reopened it, hoping that I would find my stairs magically restored. As I re-emerged outside, filled with optimism, I was only disappointed. Where the staircase had once been, a big empty gap stared back at me, laughing hysterically. Personally, I didn’t think the situation was all that funny.

The only logical explanation was that I was the victim of some epic practical joke by my apartment complex. This didn’t make a whole lot of sense since I’d never seen anyone in the office display any signs of a sense of humor during past visits. This led me to consider whether or not I had been late on my rent. Perhaps this was a new passive-aggressive tactic used for money collection. While pacing the porch without a logical answer I became enraged at the property manager for not giving me some sort of prior notification that this would be happening so that I could plan my life accordingly. I was beyond frustrated. I was seeing red. I was absolutely livid. My mind began to race, and I formulated a plan for breaking my lease and fleeing to a rival apartment complex. I would slander their name across town and not return my Laundromat or mail keys on my way out.

Forcing myself to cool down and think logically, I began to weigh my options in order to decide how badly I needed to run my errands. I quickly thought up three approaches to getting down to the first floor. My first instinct was to call the fire department, but that only gave me visions of firefighters rescuing cats from trees. I refused to be the proverbial cat. I considered the possibility of jumping from the ledge and grabbing for the large tree several feet away thinking that I could then climb to the ground. Maybe it would be easier for me to tie the sheets of my bed together and repel down the side of the building. I knew that this wouldn’t work since I’m a guy and therefore only own one set of sheets. The ideas were good, but seeing as how they required some sort of physical prowess to execute, this only angered me more as I am completely lacking in that department.

I decided that a relaxing day in the apartment was going to be the best course of action. As I turned to go back inside, I noticed something sticking out from underneath my doormat. Upon closer investigation I found it to be a piece of paper, which I pulled out and unfolded only to find a memo addressed to me from the apartment complex. It was to inform me that on this particular date, my apartment stairs would be deconstructed due to rotting wood and for my safety they would be replaced within a six-hour period.

Based on the date printed on the corner of the stationary, the note had been hiding out beneath the doormat for roughly two weeks. I decided right then that when I eventually moved elsewhere I was obligated to return the mail key to make up for all the bad things I had thought about the complex. I did however keep the Laundromat key.

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