“Why did you call those fire inspectors?” I demanded. “Couldn’t you have told me if I was breaking an ordinance?”
The more my voice rose, the more he chuckled.
Not long afterward a fat, tobacco chewing sloven entered the shop and stood looking around carefully, swaying on the balls of his feet. I thought he might be a tout, lost on his way to a bookie.
“Where does this wire go?” he finally asked.
“Go?” I said. “Who cares?”
“Don’t get snotty with me, buddy,” he said. “I’m going to close you up. I’m the city electrical inspector and we’ve got a complaint that your wiring is a hazard to the building.”
He continued to stand in the middle of the floor, his hands locked behind his back, swaying back and forth like the old Jews on High Holidays in the Synagogue.
When he had gone, I called my landlord and cried, “Listen, you are killing me with inspection. Wish me bad luck and bankruptcy and leave me alone!”
Of course I had to get an electrical contractor, whose workmen tore the shop to pieces, removed perfectly good wiring, and replaced it.
A week later a tall man in a Brooks Brothers suit and carrying an attaché case came to collect the bill for $375.00. His smugness was so overwhelming that I turned and walked away from him. As I moved along, inspecting my bookshelves, he followed closely behind. I could see myself walking down Rush Street, going to dinner, going home, with this persistent, immaculate young man silently in attendance. Suddenly, turning, I stepped squarely on his polished shoes.