Serial Killer Upstairs

My Week 131: I Get “Evicted”, The Hunt for Stools

Tuesday: I make a list

So, last week, my property management company told me that my landlord was putting the condo I’ve lived in for the last 2 and a half years on the market. I was shocked, mostly by the asking price, which was $525 000 for 624 square feet. At that rate, my own house should be worth over 3.5 million dollars, but it’s not in the heart of the big city, but in a small town where people aren’t insane. I woke up last Saturday morning to approximately 40 emails in my inbox about showings that weekend. I was super-pissed off and full of anxiety because I hate it when people touch my stuff. Especially when I’m not there. In fact, I regularly have panicky episodes after our new cleaner has been here, because she moves everything and doesn’t put it back. Then I have to spend ages restoring order to my life, and re-re-arranging all my sh*t. Now, I know that this sounds like a first-world problem, but imagine if all my stuff was a goat, and someone…No, the goat analogy doesn’t really work here, but still. I had a minor panic attack on Saturday, imagining people wandering around my private space and silently judging me. And to make things worse, the photographs that went with the internet listing were taken when the previous tenants lived there, and they were total slobs. So now, people would think I lived like a hoarder. Here’s a quote from My Week 18, where I describe the experience of seeing my own condo for the first time over two years ago, just in case you think I’m exaggerating:

“The actual listing showed this pristine, empty apartment, so none of us were prepared when we opened the door and the place was crammed from top to bottom with someone else’s crap. And I mean CRAP. My dad and brother had come with me because Ken had to work, and they were both like “Oh, look at all the light” and “It’s so roomy” (it’s 624 square feet and costs more than the mortgage for my house), at which point the door to the second bedroom opened and a half-dressed woman peeked out. We were all taken aback, and the agent said something like “We have an appointment—is it OK that we look around?” She kind of nodded, then disappeared back into the room and shut the door. You couldn’t really move around to see much—they were getting ready to move out, but it was like that show Hoarders—there were little pathways between all the stuff (use your imagination), and you couldn’t get to the periphery of anything, plus the half-naked lady was in the one bedroom and we had to ask her if we could look at it. She kind of stood to one side, and there was underwear everywhere, and I was having major doubts about the whole thing. Then my brother was like, “Look—what a great balcony—it runs from the living room all the way to the bedroom!”, and then I realized that we were on the 27TH FLOOR, and there was no way I was EVER going out onto that balcony. I don’t have a fear of heights; I just have an intense fear of falling FROM THEM. But it was the only place left in town, and it was right across the street from my office, which meant no commuting, especially if I launched myself off the balcony and parasailed down to the street (which would only happen if I was, in fact, a secret agent trying to elude enemy agents).”

The pictures were from THAT tenant. And just for the record, here’s what MY condo looks like–calm and uncluttered (some of you might recognize the leather loveseat that I got for free in the big garage downstairs):

I emailed the real estate agent, who basically gave zero f*cks about my angst that people would think I lived in a metaphorical and literal sense of turmoil. Then, when I got back on Sunday night, I was even more upset because my bedroom cabinet and my bedside table had both been opened, and someone had very obviously been sitting on my bed. So even more anxiety for me, but it didn’t much matter because on Tuesday afternoon, I got an email telling me that the place was sold, and there was an eviction notice attached which gave me until the end of May to move out. I was simultaneously furious and sad. Then I had to go home and tell my roommate, S. But at least I didn’t have to move until her co-op term was over. She’s a great kid, easy to get along with, and a hard worker, which makes me think that all the people who whine about “millenials” haven’t actually met one, because any of the ones I know, S included, are just lovely, super-informed, and have no sense of entitlement whatsoever. Anyhow, we had a long discussion about my options and she made me feel a lot better in the way that only sensible young people can do. Later, I went to take my laundry out of the dryer, and I got yet another shock from all the static that having the heat on causes:

Me: Jesus! That’s the fifth time since I’ve been home that I’ve gotten shocked. This place is merciless.
S: See? That’s something you won’t miss about living here, right?
Me: Absolutely. I also won’t miss the fact that there’s only one knob to control the washer AND the dryer, and you have to switch them back and forth.
S: You should make a list of all the things you won’t miss. Then you’ll feel better.

So here’s my list:

1) I won’t miss the extremely dark hardwood floors that show every speck of dust. I clean them ALL THE TIME and they still look dirty. And if you walk around barefoot, the next day you can see where you’ve been, like some insanely complicated dance instruction chart.

2) I won’t miss the refrigerator that makes a knocking sound, like there’s someone at the door. For the first few months, it would make the sound randomly, and I would jump up and look through my peephole, but there was never anyone there (except that one time—see number 5). The refrigerator is a dick, and I won’t miss it.

3) I won’t miss the scuffed walls that the previous tenants left behind and that my landlord refused to paint. I also won’t miss the peeling veneer on the bathroom cabinets that my landlord refused to repair. I guess the new owners get to deal with that sh*t now. Suckers. You paid over half a million dollars to live in a box, and the first thing you’ll have to do is paint and renovate.

4) I won’t miss the sweet smell of deodorizer that permeates the halls and garbage rooms. It doesn’t do anywhere near a good enough job of covering up the underlying smell of garbage, because when downtown Toronto doesn’t smell like urine, it smells like garbage. Sad truth.

5) I will ABSOLUTELY NOT miss the Serial Killer upstairs who, after an almost yearlong reprieve, chose this past week to begin building another ladybox for his next victim, if the nightlong hammering is any indication. The first time he pulled this crap, I complained to the concierge, who went up at 3 am to make him stop. The second time that I complained about the nocturnal hammering and sawing, he came down to my unit and knocked on the door to explain that he was installing a new floor (at first I wasn’t sure it was the door or the refrigerator, then I looked through the peephole and jumped out of my f*cking skin). Sure, I believe THAT—it doesn’t take three months to install a floor in a 600 square foot condo—you’re not fooling anyone. The previous last time was April 2016, when I complained to the property manager, and she sent him a noise violation notice. The hammering stopped for almost a year, then on Wednesday night, he started around 5 pm, and he was still at it at 4 in the morning. Did I complain? Not me. In fact, my roommate suggested that I encourage him to continue with his “nocturnal emissions” so that the new owners will also have the pleasure of lying awake in the middle of the night and imagining the worst.

At the end of the day though, the list doesn’t matter. I’m still angry and stressed out, because I’ve made the place my home, despite its shortcomings, for the last 2 and a half years, and now I’m in the process of contacting real estate agents about rentals. Transitions are hard for me, but I’m sure I’ll find something else that will become a new “home away from home”. And at least I still have Ken, K, Raven, Titus, and Oscar Wildefish. And who knows–maybe I’ll even luck out, and get a new serial killer upstairs.

Saturday: Buying stools is sh*tty

Yesterday, Ken and I went shopping for stools for our kitchen island. The two barstools we have are old and starting to fall apart, so I decided I wanted new ones. Well, that was easier said than done. Who would have thought that buying two f*cking stools would be that hard?

Store 1: Teppermans

They only sell their barstools in sets of three for some bizarre, nonsensical reason. Also, there are 50 people working there, and they’re too busy flirting with each other to help the customers. Well, it IS a family-owned business, so maybe encouraging their employees to procreate in the mattress section of the store fits into their business model.

Store 2: Homesense

They had the perfect stools, but they were three inches too short. I don’t know if I’m willing to sacrifice style over being able to reach the counter.

Store 3: Pier One

The place was mobbed. Despite that, a sales person immediately came to us and not only offered to show us all the barstools in their catalogue, but to sign us up for the napkin-folding workshop that was about to take place. Ken looked mildly excited (you all know how much he loves crafts) but I was on a stool mission, so no fancy napkins for us today. Then she showed us the stools and they were all like $250 EACH. For a STOOL. I think not, but it explains the excellent customer service.

Store 4: Leons

We asked the sales guy if they sold bar stools, and he said no. Then another, more Alpha Male sales guy said, “Yes we do—they’re back here.” But they all looked too short, at which point, he started mansplaining to me the difference between a “counterstool” and a “barstool”. Turns out they had ZERO “barstools”, but he was “pretty sure that a counterstool would do the trick because our counter couldn’t be THAT high.” Well, it’s a KITCHEN ISLAND NOT A COUNTER, mansplain-y guy, and we measured it, so we know what we’re talking about, but thanks for being a dick.

Store 5: The Bay

They had a stool we liked, but we couldn’t find another one. There were two people working the furniture floor, both like 90, and the one guy was “busy finalizing a sale for a customer” (we looked around and we were the only people even in the place), and the woman in housewares was taking an eternity to wrap a marble cake plate in layers of tissue paper, while she and the purchaser chatted about NOT STOOL STUFF! Then Ken was all embarrassed because I loudly said that it was ridiculous and I didn’t have any more time in my day to wait for someone to wrap and rewrap a stupid cake plate. He claims that “everyone” heard me, and that I made “everyone feel bad” but if it takes you more than 2 minutes to wrap a f*cking cake plate, then you SHOULD feel bad and you should get a job that doesn’t involve wrapping stuff, KEN.

The only good part of the day was that we went to Petsmart and I found the perfect structure for Oscar’s tank. It’s a section of a Romanesque building, and he was thrilled:

Me: Look, Oscar—it’s like the Parthenon!
Oscar: I think you mean the Temple of Athena, sweetie. Still, it has a certain “je ne sais quoi”. Not quite the Aesthetic Style, but a close approximation. Flossie, what do you think?
Raven: Better than Ninja-Fish’s old pagoda.
Oscar: Oh Flossie, you’re such a cheek!
Titus: It has that “Gladiator” sexy kind of vibe. I’m down with it.
Oscar: All agreed then. I shall name it the “Kitchen Coliseum”. Let the games begin!

Hopefully, I’ll be as thrilled with my new digs as Oscar, whose chariot races are keeping everyone occupied at the moment. I’ll keep you posted.

My Week 80: The Serial Killer Upstairs Strikes Again

Tuesday: The serial killer upstairs strikes again

So if you read my essays on a regular basis, you’ll remember that I’ve had an ongoing issue with the person who lives above me in Toronto. He likes to hammer. Not like MC Hammer, which would be fun and cool and very ‘pantsy’–he likes to hammer things in his condo. I’m convinced that he’s building a secret room in his unit to stash his victims until he bores of them. The last time he was hammering, the concierge stupidly told him that I’d complained about it, and he came to my door to “negotiate a schedule”. He claimed he was “laying a floor”, and I apologize for the copious use of quotation marks, but I had trouble believing him, since he’d been making these types of noises for a long time, and I’d complained on three separate occasions. Let me just say, for the record, that my building is pretty sound-proof; I never hear anything from the units around me, so he must be really going to town for it to even register down in my unit. Anyway, the other night, he woke me up around 4:15, hammering sporadically until 7:00 am. I’d like to emphasize that these condos are barely above 600 square feet in dimension, so how many f*cking renovations do you need to do, d**chebag? And if you’re that bored at 4 in the morning, you could watch TV, or pleasure yourself. Or pleasure yourself while you watch TV, if you have those ‘special channels’. At any rate, the next day, I called the building manager and left a message. I’m terrible at voice messages, and I left something that was very lengthy and convoluted, and in retrospect, probably sounded a little diva-ish, so I ran it by my work partner:

Me: I called the building manager and left a message.
L: What did you say?
Me: Well, I just explained the situation. But I said the guy “seemed to have a penchant for nocturnal home renovations”.
L: Oh my god, did you actually say, “a penchant for nocturnal home renovations”?
Me: I know, right? I got flustered, and it just slipped out.
L: How does THAT just slip out?
Me: My brain’s on overdrive. I’m really tired from all the f*cking hammering.
L: You should have just said THAT.

The next morning though, I got an email from Colette, the manager, telling me that she’d sent the guy a “Notice of Noise Violation Letter”. Then I got worried, because he’s going to know it was me. But Ken installed a chain lock on my condo door the last time he was here, and just because I’m Canadian doesn’t mean I have to open the door in the first place if he shows up again. I can just pretend I’m not home. And it’s been pretty quiet since then, which I hope doesn’t mean he’s laying in wait for me in the parking garage. If anything happens to me, you’ll know who to look for first.

My Week 62: I Finally Meet The Serial Killer Upstairs, I Make Faux Pas

Tuesday: I meet the Serial Killer upstairs

If you read this blog with any kind of regularity (thanks!) you’ll know that I’ve been plagued by an upstairs neighbour who likes to hammer, saw, and generally make the kind of noises that I have associated with building a cage for his kidnapping victims. These noises regularly take place in the middle of the night, causing me to call the concierge in our building on more than one occasion.

On Tuesday, I invited a friend over for dinner and drinks, and since we both had errands, she agreed to come by around 5:30. I bought some groceries and arrived home around 4:30, excited to have someone to cook for—I love cooking, but sometimes I get carried away and end up eating fettucine al fredo or cauliflower casserole for the next four days. Within two minutes of putting away the groceries, though, the racket started. It sounded like the guy upstairs was either throwing furniture around his condo like he was Jason Statham in some kind of ninja battle (choose any Jason Stratham movie for this scenario because it happens in ALL of them), or his latest victim was trying to escape. It was crazy loud and very unnerving, so when my friend arrived, I went down to meet her in the lobby, and spoke to the concierge, another new young man whose English was equally as suspect as all the others.

Me: The tenant in the unit above me is making terrible noise. It sounds like he’s throwing furniture around.
Concierge: Today is not moving day.
Me: What? No, I know that. I’ve had trouble with this before. I’m just letting you know that if it hasn’t stopped making noise by 10 o’clock, I’ll be calling you to talk to him.
Concierge: OK.

So my friend and I went upstairs. At this point, the furniture-tossing had turned into the usual hammering. She was astounded at the noise, having heard me complain about it on several occasions, but maybe she thought I was exaggerating. We ate to the hammer’s rhythm, then tried to relax and have a couple of drinks, but we were both distracted, and the speculation re: the upstairs tenant’s activities got more and more silly as we had more and more drinks. I stuck to my “serial killer” premise, but she was convinced he was a vampire who was building his own coffin room where no sunlight could penetrate. She finally left around 8:45, and I went down with her. We both told the concierge how ridiculous the noise level was. “See,” I said. “Even my friend can tell you how annoying it is, and it doesn’t sound like he’s going to be done any time soon.” The concierge was very sympathetic, and assured me that he was prepared to deal with it. Little did I know that this concierge took his job very seriously, and was going to take matters into his own hands. But not in that good way, where he dangles the guy off the balcony and makes him swear to shut the f*ck up, like Jason Statham in pretty much every one of his films.

I’d just finished having a bath, and was standing there in my pajamas, taking out my contact lenses, when I thought I heard a knock at the door. Nobody EVER knocks on my door, but I thought I should take a look just to be sure. I have a peephole, which I hate using, because I read a horror novel once about a giant, possessed teddy bear, and when it knocked on the main character’s door and he looked through the peephole, IT WAS STARING INTO THE PEEPHOLE BACK AT HIM. So I approached the peephole with caution—it was kind of steamed up from my bath, but there was definitely someone standing there. I don`t have a chain, so I did the next best thing—I yelled through the door:

Me: Can I help you?
Guy: I’m your upstairs neighbour.

At this point, I just about fainted. What the f*ck was he doing at my door??!  I didn’t know what to say, so I yelled back, very innocently:

Me: Oh, hi. What’s up?
Guy: The concierge said I was making too much noise and it was bothering you. I’ve come to apologize.

And right away in my head I was like ‘Ha Ha—I was right! He’s definitely a serial killer. He doesn’t want trouble from ANYONE!’ Unlike a vampire, who would have snuck in through my balcony door in a cloud of mist, and turned me into a creature of the night for payback. But I was still really freaked out. At the same time, I’m also Canadian, and talking through the door just seemed rude. So I opened the door and we continued thusly:

Me: Yes, it’s been kind of noisy.
Guy: I’m putting in a new floor. The concierge suggested that I come and talk to you, so we could establish a schedule that would be acceptable to you.

The concierge told him to come and talk to me?! Even if he wasn’t a serial killer, what if he’d been really pissed off that I’d complained about him, and instead of apologizing, he’d come to yell at me? Now I was scared AND angry. But that’s a good combination if I’m about to battle a man who wants to put me in a box for his own sick amusement. Except for the fact that I could only see out of one eye, having been in the PROCESS of removing my contact lenses when he knocked. Well, if it came down to a fight, I could squint.

Me: Oh…well, I guess any time before 10 pm is fine, now that I know what you’re doing. Just as long as it’s not the middle of the night, it’s fine.
Guy: I don’t know what you mean. I never work in the middle of the night.

I wanted to snicker at the sheer audacity of THAT lie. But I didn’t want to tempt fate, so I just quickly muttered, “Ok then, I guess we’ll just agree to disagree”, then carried on:

Me: All right then. Let’s just say anytime during the day, and all weekend if you like, since I’m not here on the weekends, and not after 10 pm.
Guy: Sure, that sounds fine. Thanks. The new floor is really well insulated, so once it’s in, you should never hear anything from my unit. Goodnight then.

I shut the door, and did what any sensible person would do—I called Ken. But he wasn’t home, so I talked to K:

Me: The serial killer from upstairs just came to my door!
K: What serial killer?
Me: Oh my god, don’t you EVER read my blog?!
K: Not usually, no.
Me: Never mind. Tell your dad to call me when he gets in. If I’m still alive….

But sure enough, the serial killer upstairs has kept to his word. He might only be replacing 3 square feet a day, judging by how long it’s taking him, but he stopped every night this week by 9. He doesn’t want ANY trouble.

Friday: I make a series of faux pas

On Friday, I was talking to a colleague and eating popcorn at the same time. I’m not very coordinated, and every time I tried to put a handful in my mouth, I would drop a few pieces on the floor. And then we would both have to chase after them and pick them up, since our agency has this crazy policy that you can’t just leave food on the floor because it attracts rodents. After a few forays under desks to find the popcorn, laughing hysterically at my lack of coordination while we did it, I finally gave up and put the bag away. A little while later, I was standing in a group of people discussing serious type issues. I looked down and realized that there was popcorn in the pashmina/scarf I had around my neck. Without thinking, I picked it out of my scarf and ate it. Then I looked up and realized that everyone was staring at me. Because I just ATE FOOD OUT OF MY CLOTHING. And to make matters worse, another piece had fallen out of my scarf and was lying on the floor in the middle of our group. I could have (and was) totally embarrassed, but luckily, I work with really nice people, and when I started to laugh at the absurdity of what I’d just done, so did they, and we all ended up with tears rolling down our faces at the sight of me using my scarf as a place to “save food for later”. But over the next 24 hours, I made several missteps that remind me how difficult I find having conversations.

1) At the doctor’s office. I had a check-up with my doctor who, when he discovered that I had just turned 50, got very excited. Not because he was happy for me, but because there are several new ‘protocols’ that have to be followed when you become a certain age.

Doctor: So here’s a requisition for a mammogram—
Me: Yuck.
Doctor: Ha ha, I know. So you just call and make an appointment—you can do this yourself and then you’ll be in their system. Also, here’s a home test for colon cancer screening–
Me: A home test? What?
Doctor: Oh yes, the instructions are inside this envelope. You just send it in—the postage is pre-paid, and once you’re in their system, they’ll send you yearly reminders. Also, the Pap test–
Me: I have to do THAT at home?! How do I do THAT??!!
Doctor: Um, no, I just meant that you’ll receive automatic reminders about when you’re due for one. There’s no home test for that. Obviously.

2) At the variety store where K works. I went to give him his lunch and she was really excited about a magnet she’d found. It was one of those magnets that will pick up anything and then not let it go without tremendous effort. But then I got worried:

Me: Take it easy with that thing. Don’t put it near your…you know.
K: What? Mom, I don’t think you understand how magnets work. My ‘you know’ is not made of metal.
Me: Well, it’s a really strong magnet. It could rip the iron out of your blood. I hear an MRI can do that, and it’s a giant magnet.
K: This magnet is used to open the locks on that cabinet. Do you really think it could do that AND rip the iron out of your blood?
Me: Well, just be careful.

3) While building a hall tree. I convinced Ken to build me a hall tree out of a couple of old doors, a table, and some cool hardware. He was installing the hooks and my dad was helping:

Dad: That wood is pretty thick. Should you drill a pilot hole first?
Ken: No, I think I can do this by hand.
Me: Yeah, Dad, Ken is a pretty forceful screwer. Wait—I…sigh.

My Week 58: Hammering Serial Killers

Tuesday: Hammer Time

When I first moved into my condo last February, I almost immediately had an issue with the noise level. No, I don’t mean that I could hear someone’s TV, or their children running around, or fun party music. I mean, I had an issue with the upstairs neighbour hammering. Not “hammering”, like a metaphor for something else—actual f*cking hammering. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if the construction efforts were happening while I was at work, or making dinner. No, this hammering was taking place at 2 o’clock in the morning. The night I moved in was peaceful enough; in fact, it exceeded my expectations regarding what living in tiny, stacked houses would be like. Then came the second night. Around 11 pm, it sounded like someone was bouncing a very heavy basketball on the floor above my living room. Bouncing it once, then letting it continue on its own, as in BOUNCE, Bounce, bouncebouncebounce, if you can understand what I mean. This went on for about an hour. After an hour, I started banging on the vents—I couldn’t bang on the ceiling because it’s sprayed with that popcorn stucco, which is very sharp and will fall into your eyes if disturbed. However, because the building is SUPPOSED to be soundproof, it had little effect. Then, shortly after midnight, the hammering began. Hammering all over the place at first, then becoming localized above my bedroom. What the hell was this guy doing? Installing a floor in the middle of the night? It was insane. It would stop for brief intervals, but every time I started to doze off, the noise would begin again with renewed vigour. It was like the way the CIA tortures terrorists by playing Death Metal music non-stop. Then it occurred to me—what if it WAS a government agency, trying to determine my stamina? After all, I had just taken a government job and had sworn an oath of secrecy, as well as an oath to the Queen. Could CSIS be upstairs? By this time though, I would have given something really important, like my favourite shoes or my last bottle of wine for the Death Metal to begin. Anything but the damned hammering. Finally, at around 5 am, the noise stopped. Of course, I had to get up at 6:30, so I went in for my first official day of work feeling like a sleep-deprived prisoner.

When I went to bed that night, I wasn’t too worried, figuring that it had to be a one-off—I mean, who in their right mind spends all night, every night renovating their condo? Each unit is only around 600 square feet, so there couldn’t possibly be a single thing left to hammer. And that’s when the sawing started. Sawing. With an actual saw. Right above my bedroom. I stood in the walk-in closet, and it sounded like the person was trying to cut a hole through the floor. Then I suddenly had a terrible thought—what if my upstairs neighbour was a serial killer who was building a false wall in his condo in order to conceal the presence of his latest kidnapped victim? This may sound farfetched in retrospect, but I had just seen an episode of a crime show where a very-innocent looking record producer had done JUST THAT in his recording studio—the investigators had cleverly discovered the hidden room by looking at blueprints. The sawing finally stopped around 3 am, while I cowered in bed, praying that someone wouldn’t rappel into my closet with murderous intentions and wondering how I could get my hands on a floorplan. I was now completely fed up, so after work, I decided to talk to the night concierge. I explained what was happening but her English wasn’t very good:

Me: The person in the unit above mine is hammering in the middle of the night. It’s keeping me awake. What should I do?
 Concierge: Ammering? What is this to mean?
Me: (hammers on counter with fist) HAMMERING. Like this.
Concierge: Someone is ammering in your unit?
Me: No, in the unit upstairs! At 2 o’clock in the morning. I can’t sleep.
Concierge: Why would someone be ammering at the middle of the morning? It’s not sense.
Me: Yes, this is all pretty nonsensical. What should I do if it keeps happening?
Concierge: You call me and I go to upstairs and see what is the problem.

This sounded very promising, despite it also sounding fairly incomprehensible. Sure enough, not long after midnight, the hammering resumed. I immediately called down to the front desk, reminded the concierge about our earlier conversation, and gave her the unit number where the noise was originating from. She promised to go up and see what was going on. Unbelievably, about ten minutes later, the noise stopped completely. Blessed silence. It was like that all night, and I had my first good sleep since coming to Toronto. Over the next several weeks, there were still a lot of bizarre sounds coming from Jeffrey Dahammer upstairs, but they always stopped before 11 pm—the concierge must have reminded him about the noise bylaws. By late spring/early summer, the upstairs unit was completely silent. Then last Monday, I happened to be talking to my aunt. She asked, “Have you had any more issues with the person upstairs?”

“No,” I said. “That all seems to be in the past now.” Could I have been any more cavalier to tempt fate in such a brazen way? I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right—finally, at 1:45 am, I’d had enough. I called down to the night concierge (a different one this time, but with equally poor English skills) and explained that someone had been hammering on the floor of the unit above mine for the last two hours. “OK, no problem—I go talk to them,” he said. I had my doubts, but the noise stopped shortly after. Here’s to hoping that the renovations—or ‘victim cage’—are finally complete, knock on wood. But I have to admit, I’m burning with curiosity—what the hell is really going on up there? I’ll probably never know—and maybe it’s better that I don’t.