When I was in my twenties I lived in Midtown Toronto in a quality apartment building at Yonge and St. Clair. As the demand for rental space increased it seemed that the tenants were not treated half as well as they should have been.
The Apartment building itself was kept in okay shape, but the little things that made a difference were just not there. As an example, the building management team was constantly hiring Supers and Assistant Supers who were cretins of dubious distinction.
There was a woman on the twentieth floor, Rhoda, who used to call me all the time if she had any type of problem. It was somewhat insane as I wasn’t an electrician, plumber, or carpenter. The only tool I was proficient with was the telephone. Generally, I would go up to her apartment, shmooze, turn a couple of screws (that was the one thing I learned, there were always screws to turn) and suggest she call her Father or Brother to come over and check things out.
I dated a woman, Mindy, who lived two floors below me and she was always decrying the fact that there was no security in the underground parking garage. On more than one occasion she had seen sketchy characters slinking around parked cars. Whenever she drove home and it was late she would become extremely nervous and apprehensive. There had been a number of cars broken into, including mine. Nobody was ever caught or held responsible.
Then one night everything changed. A miracle took place at the Churchill Place Apartment complex. The name of the miracle was Mike Leventhal.
Every night from ten pm till one am, Mike stood beside his car and played his saxophone. He was always trying out new songs and he loved the acoustics in the garage.
Mike became a cult hero, as people started driving into the underground with newfound confidence. He started getting mobbed when he got on the elevator by people who were appreciative that he was around. He did however refuse to sign autographs.
One night Mike wasn’t at his customary spot playing his sax and people started to panic. A group went to his apartment to find out what was going on. Soon a sign was posted on his door that read ‘’I have the flu, thanks for caring. I’ll be back playing beside my car at the beginning of the week.’’