Olaf Says He’s Super & He Is

As I leave the apartment, I walk down the staircase, through the hallway and out the door when I notice that an older, thin, slightly unkempt-looking white man wearing dirty clothes is sitting on my stoop. I scoot past him and skip down the outside stairs without making eye contact. Then, I notice that the man is saying something to me. It sounds like a mumble. “Huh?” I say. (Note to self: schedule hearing appointment when health insurance kicks in.) “You leev in thees BEEL-ding?” he asks in a thick Eastern European accent that is spoken softly from the back of the throat, top of the mouth and through the nose. “Yes,” I say without thinking. “Wheech apart-ta-ment?” “I’m sorry,” I say, pausing to wonder if this man really asked me what I think he just asked me. He wants to know my address? Why would he want to know that? Why would I tell him that? “Wheech apart-ta-ment?” he repeats. “ … I’m sorry, I don’t tell men that I don’t know my address.” He looks at me quizzically and says … I swear to you the man says … “I-am-super.” “What?!” “I am super. I am super.” No! Not another New York City Crazy Person! It’s not even late afternoon yet; I usually don’t begin encountering the crazies until at least 2:00pm. “I am super. I am super. I am super?” he says. First as a statement. The second time as a clause. And, the third time as a question. “Sure, man,” I decide to play along with the psychosis for a moment. “You’re super. You’re superman.” I walk away and add over my shoulder, “... but, I not telling you where I live.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. Later in the day, I am walking in the City along Broadway and I am on the phone with my roommate, Chavah. “The oddest thing happened to me today,” I start to explain. “I was walking out of our building and some old man with dirty clothes asked me which apartment I lived in. You know, be careful when you get home. He seemed harmless enough, but you never know.” “Was he Eastern European?” she asks. I wonder how she knows this. “Yes.” “That’s Olaf. He’s the superintendent for the building.” It starts to sink in. Wow, I guess he’s here working on different units and that’s why he had on the dirty clothes. That’s why he was sitting on our stoop. That’s what he meant by, ‘I am super.’ He’s the super, the superintendent. Hmph. My mind wanders off for a moment and I start to wonder if there is a Ukrainian word for superintendent. Then I wonder if the people in Ukraine speak Russian and not Ukrainian. Is Ukrainian even a language? Besides, what if Olaf is from like former Yugoslavia and not Ukraine. There are many Eastern European countries; why did I think of the Ukraine anyway? “Stolie?” Chavah’s patient voice on the other line of my cell phone. I snap back from my brief Mind-Wonder that I slip into so often, “oh yeah. So … you said he’s the super?” “Yeah, you might wanna stop by and introduce yourself if he’s still hanging around when you get back to the apartment.” “Good idea. I gotta meet the super.”