OWNING OLD BUILDINGS IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART

 
This essay is in today’s Cleveland Plain Dealer.

An apartment-building manager in Lakewood texted: “Plaster just fell. Nobody died.”

I’m a landlord. The building — on Detroit Avenue — is 100 years old. I called the tenant and apologized.

In old buildings, plaster — a limestone-and-sandstone paste — is squished between wood lath and joists, and can lose its key over time. “Losing key” means plaster cracks, crumbles and goes plop. Old plaster is often compromised by water leaks, decades of vibrations from Detroit Avenue, and plain old gravity. Things sag, as you’ve no doubt noticed if you’re over 50.

Heads up: Should I replace every bedroom ceiling with modern drywall? Should I pass out helmets to all the tenants?

I like old buildings. Not everybody does. I live in a 99-year-old house in Cleveland Heights. A lot of people prefer newer construction. My parents did, for sure. They grew up poor in the Kinsman neighborhood, and when they moved to South Euclid in 1951, they insisted on brand-new everything. Then, in 1973, they moved to an apartment building – also brand-new — in Beachwood. My parents didn’t want raindrops (from roof leaks) or plaster falling on their heads.

When I was young, I thought people in Beachwood – or, say, Solon, Westlake or Avon — were on the wrong track, with their in-vogue housing choices. Apparently not everybody aspired to be an elitist architecture snob like me. I’ve since mellowed on the subject of housing. To each his own.

Plaster fell onto a barber’s chair on Detroit Avenue. The barber rented a street-level storefront from me. The barbershop owner, Al, told me no one was injured. “But what about next time?” he said.

Good question. I thought about giving Al a reduction on his next month’s rent. The dilemma was how much of a reduction. Al is an Iraqi refugee who has seen more than his share of falling things. He worked at a commissary for the United States military in Iraq.

The plaster in the barbershop ceiling had been slowed in its descent by first hitting modern drop-ceiling tiles – those stippled white acoustical tiles you see when you look up in a barber’s chair, or at a dentist’s office. The drop-ceiling tiles at the barbershop camouflaged the original plaster ceiling. Acoustical ceiling tiles are cheap at Home Depot. I stockpile them. I gave Al half off his rent. Settling — money and plaster; that’s part of my job.

A second-floor tenant, above the street-level storefronts, called.

More bad vibrations? He called during a Browns game. He said, “People are literally stomping above me, on the third floor. I’m having heart palpitations right now. I’m calling the police. If I die, it’s on your head. I was pressing my arms over my ears so hard it took the muscle off the bone by my upper arm.”

“Have you tried earplugs?” I said.

“I had tubes in my ears as a child. I’m not sticking anything foreign in my ears.”

“I’ll send the manager right over,” I said.

“Don’t send her. She tried to kill me.”

“When?”

“Three years ago. She tried to force me to drink a beer. I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

“Is your ceiling shaking right now?”

“It’s rattling badly.”

The Browns lost. Does the team have any extra helmets? The sky is falling.