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Horror Stories: Leaky Gas and Sucky Locks in Logan Apartment

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Catastrophe averted, a lousy situation nonetheless leaves our protagonist, Mollie, chowing on cold turkey on a Saturday night:

I recently moved into a one bedroom apartment in the beautiful Logan Square neighborhood. I lucked out in that I found a place in reasonable price only a stone's throw away from the boulevard and even closer to the blue the line. I live next door. It all seemed just a bit too good to be true, but I didn't let the naysayer in me get hold. Only a few weeks in and a few silver fish encounters later I was able to call this place home. As an appetizer for the big event I came home one evening to find the front door to my apartment unable to fulfill its role- lock. It kept flipping around and around and around. Of course this had to occur on the second shift when landlords were conveniently nestled in their beds far away from any kind of maintenance problem. I left a semi-frantic message on James answering machine, the captain of this ramshackle ship and decided I needed to work with with I had. I decided to take all the heavy furniture in the house and pile it against the door in hopes of making a very large booby trap. I took my couch,love seat, kitchen chairs and even a pile of people magazines and stacked them against the door. The odds of someone breaking in were little, but my anxiety was great. Thankfully my landlord, James, came to the rescue the next morning with tools in hand. My lock was fixed and I could carry on using my furniture for what it was meant for.

Months went by and the silver fish and I continued on. That was until the eve of my very own birthday gathering. I had smelled hints of gas throughout the day, but didn't take much notice of it for it had become the Fabreze of my home, both faint and ineffective. I went about my business and dolled myself up for the evening to come. I left my apartment and made my way to the bar. Thankfully it was just down the street from where I lived. Minutes into going into the bar I noticed a handful of missed called from James the Landlord (as entered into my phone). I called him back only to be faced with the news that there was a reported gas leak coming from the apartment complex, and neighbors claimed that it was coming from my home. I quietly shrieked, thought quickly of loosing my kitschy collectables and hurried home.

When I got there some neighbors were camped outside and said they smelled something strong that appeared to be coming from 1W. That was me. That was my home. The gas in inspectors were there. I was a little disappointed with their uniforms as I was secretly excited to be confronted with a brigade of men disguised in hazmat suits and heavy tubing. I got none of that. Instead I let two short-statured men in blue collared uniforms into my tiny home only to hear that yes, there was a gas leak. I frantically asked, in a hands-covering-mouth-muffled voice, if I should be in the apartment and they pointed to the window and simply said "Ya need da ventilate." They grumbled and mumbled and threw out terms the common man wouldn't know and I was given the ok to return to my birthday party. So yes, the gas leak was benign and barely worthy of recognition, but I was left without a working oven for a week and on a poor man's salary that is a lot of wasted produce and poultry, because who wants to eat a cold turkey sandwhich on a Saturday night? —Mollie