Two people standing in front of my building with a mountain of plastic wrapped phone books, randomly dialing people in the building. But really, who uses phone books? Honestly, who? My dad, that is, and anyone else who hasn’t figured out the magic of yelp & google.
I let them in thinking they’ll drop them in the lobby, but no, they give me some song & dance about distributing them to each apartment. Uh, no. That’s against the CC&R – and to prove that I read the hefty tome!- leave them right there, that’s where everything goes- newspapers, bulk adverts, etc. “Can you sign a paper?” Uh, no. What paper? What’s it for? Paranoid me: identity theft. Realistic me: random bureaucracy by some circulation manager. I tell them to contact the apt. manager for anything & everything signed wise, and then I finally tire of the conversation and just go “my food is getting cold, please leave.” “I’m like: I was nice to you guys letting you in, now it’s time to go.” I usher them out, and then one guy stands in the door with his foot planted solidly preventing the door from closing. The intimidation pissing contest begins, with me repeating, “Go. Go. Go. I’ll call the cops. Go.” He
was waiting for me to leave so he could continue to have access to the building. Nice. Calling SBC.
Updated on 12/20, after the jump.
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