Run for cover or run to win

The building inspector came this afternoon. About ten minutes before he arrived, so did the landlord and one of his contractors.

Questions of temperature and security were properly a matter for the health inspector, the building inspector said after looking at the situation, but he got our landlord to agree to replace all sixteen necessary windows in the apartment in order to bring it up to code—if not, he would have no choice but to write our landlord up for code violation. The contractor roughed out a timeline and told us what he'd need to do and everybody went home.

adrian_turtle and I wrote and mailed that afternoon a letter to our landlord thanking him for agreeing to replace the sixteen windows on the timeline we were given to understand by the contractor. We mailed a copy to the City of Somerville as well. I don't trust handshakes.

I went to see Miriam Hopkins, Fredric March, and Gary Cooper in Ernst Lubitsch's Design for Living (1933) at the Brattle with derspatchel. It was marvelous. I didn't think you could make jokes about first base even in pre-Code films, especially to Edward Everett Horton's face. Or say the word sex and mean it. I wanted to come home and write about it.

I got out of the movie to find a set of texts from Adrian: the landlord had called her twice. Refusing to replace the windows. He was offering to fix them. It had been previously established that there was no acceptable, i.e., code-compliant fix but to replace them. He couldn't afford it, he said. Didn't we know it got cold in winter? Didn't we understand how paying for heat worked? We were being unreasonable. This was Somerville. If we didn't like it, we could go somewhere else. Either way, he wouldn't do it.

I have left a message for Inspectional Services. I am done with handshakes. I want paper and ink and I want it on record that it is not naïveté on our part to expect the apartment we are paying nearly two thousand dollars a month for to retain the temperature we set the thermostat to, not bleed it all out the windows. We may no longer have a salvageable relationship with our landlord. (He seems to regard me as the unreasonable one. I am fine with that.) We may not have an apartment when this is done, or at least not this apartment that we were beginning to make a home. That is a source of great anger for me. I had come to love it already, stupid cater-corner closet and all. But the landlord is not invested in letting it be our home, nor perhaps a home for anyone, if he really believes the cold is not his problem and the nice paint and the new floors are all we should content ourselves with—surfaces, not substance. And I will not settle for surfaces. And Adrian is calling a lawyer. And I hate all of this.