The Roof Inspection Found Green Benches Above Our Dry Flowerpots

I didn't remove the camera.

I moved it six inches so its mount sat fully inside my assigned work space. Then I photographed the mount, the doorway, and the narrow view it recorded.

"Growing equipment," I wrote back. "It records only my interior. Please identify the rule you believe it violates."

Byron sent no rule.

He sent another fine.

This one charged $600 for an August second violation. Four fines. Four dates. A total of $1,600 on my cooperative account, due the following week.

I found the August second camera file before breakfast.

The green hose appeared at eleven twelve. Byron followed it into the supply room. This time, he carried a white watering wand with a cracked red handle.

I had never owned a watering wand.

At nine, Nora Pike, our treasurer, knocked on my apartment door.

"I owe you an explanation," she said.

I let her in.

She had approved posting the fines because Byron said I had admitted using the common line. The other directors had received the same story.

"He said you were asking for time to pay."

"Did you see an admission?"

"No."

She held my plumber's report on her lap.

"I should have asked."

Meera came across the hall. She asked Nora for the board vote that had created the drought reserve fee.

"It was temporary," Nora said. "For emergency water storage and dry-weather costs."

"What storage did we buy?"

Nora looked down.

"I haven't seen a receipt."

"What costs?"

"I'd like to know that myself."

Nora had authority to inspect common areas. She called another director and arranged a roof inspection that afternoon. Meera joined them to note drainage and access conditions. I came to identify the hose if we found it.

Nobody forced a lock. Nora used the board's key.

Warm air met us at the roof door. Pittsburgh spread below the parapet: church towers, steep streets, brick houses stepping down toward the river.

Six green benches stood across the roof.

They held rows of young plants in black pots. Shade cloth hung from a frame tied to old railings. Plastic trays sat beneath the benches, thick with standing water.

Mrs. Bell's rose downstairs had three brown leaves.

Up here, every leaf shone.

The green hose rose through the service stairwell and lay coiled beneath a bench. Beside it sat the watering wand with the cracked red handle.

"Photograph it where it is," Meera said.

She kept us clear of a low patch where water had pooled near a drain. She noted that she hadn't assessed the roof's weight capacity. That would need a proper inspection.

Nora found shipping sleeves tucked beneath a table. Their return labels named Byron and our building address. A notebook listed plant cuttings, prices, and pickup dates.

"He's selling these?" I asked.

"The board didn't approve any nursery," Nora said.

She photographed the open notebook without moving it.

Byron arrived while we were still there.

He looked first at the hose, then at me.

"This is a building improvement project."

Nora asked for the approval date.

"We discussed it."

"Which meeting?"

He spread his hands.

"Are we really doing this in front of him?"

"Yes," she said.

I had never heard her use such a small, clean word with him.

He turned to Meera.

"You're helping someone who steals from your neighbors."

"Which meter?" she asked.

For once, he didn't answer.

Nora sent a report to the full board that evening. She requested an outside accountant and a hold on all collection efforts against me. I sent preservation notices asking the board to keep meeting minutes, fee records, key logs, and messages about my fines.

Mrs. Bell came down while I was closing the workroom.

"Was there really a garden up there?"

"A nursery. Several benches."

She rubbed the handle of her soup pot.

"I paid that charge out of my grocery money."

I couldn't promise she would get it back. I showed her where Nora had requested the account review instead.

"Can I have a copy?" she asked.

I printed one. She folded it into the pocket of her cardigan. For the first time since the meeting, I saw a neighbor leave my basement carrying a record instead of a rumor.

I also copied the camera files again.

At six the next morning, the nursery lights went dark while I was checking a tray of lion's mane. The fan stopped with a long, tired whine.

I found a padlock on the shared electrical cabinet.

A paper taped beneath it said BASEMENT COMMERCIAL SERVICE SUSPENDED PENDING PAYMENT. Byron had signed it.

My phone had just enough signal near the glass blocks to reach a lawyer.

"How soon will you lose the crop?" she asked.

Behind me, the humidity alarm began to ring.