My Landlord

The day that my parents helped me move into my 1 bedroom apartment was the day my father entrusted me with one of his heavy hammers, which he firmly instructed me to keep under my bed in case of intruders. I love my dad, but this means of protection is hardly necessary due to the sharp eyes and dog-like ears of my landlord, Mr. M who lives downstairs. No one gets by this man! Mr. M will come out of either one of two doors at the slightest noise: His door leading outside from his basement apartment or the inside apartment door, which he usually keeps slightly ajar. Mr. M knows everyone in town. Every cop, every fireman, every small business owner, everyone! I'll come home after work and he's usually outside smoking a cigarette (he's been sent there by Mrs. M). He's always happy to see me. Why wouldn't he be…I pay my rent on time, I keep my apartment immaculate, I'm quiet, I'm always friendly and greet him with a big happy smile and most importantly, we talk Mets baseball together. He's adorable…like another dad. Mr. M says "I love the Mets, the Jets, and the Nets!" He's cute. When Mr. M's 36 year old single daughter walks in the door at no matter what time of day or night, she'll say, "It's just me Pop". With the door to his first floor apartment always left a little ajar, you know he's feeling a sense of relief knowing his girls are in.