In early 1999, our building’s super Albin, who was from the Caribbean, moved back to open a guest house with his wife, who worked as a chef. He didn’t like the landlord’s choice of a replacement since he had been trying to get one of his cronies the job. Our new super was a strong, short (5 ft, 6 inches or so) elderly Serbian, around 60 years old named Steve Trifun, and his wife was a very large lady whose grasp of English was very limited. Steve’s English was hardly better and I believe he had a hard time fitting in with the tenants because we had a major problem communicating with him. They kept the building clean, much cleaner than the previous, who had pretty much given up on the job for over a year before returning to the Caribbean, and covered building problems well.
I personally had no grasp on what they thought of the demanding tenants who smiled, occasionally barked, and tried to explain to them what they needed or what apartment problems they had. I was suffering that summer from a major health crisis: I was losing my mobility, I was having trouble standing and maintaining balance, I could hardly walk, I couldn’t use my hands, and my doctor, who I believe was put out to retirement in 2009 or so after his third misdiagnosis of my health problems cost the HMO a bit of money, was dragging his heels in locating the problems. In early October 1999, he finally sent me for an MRI and the diagnosis was that I was crippled by two crushed discs in my neck. I needed a referral to see a neurosurgeon.
So, in early November 1999, waiting on that referral and hardly able to move, I flew to London for rehearsals and performance of my Cole Porter show JUBILEE, which would be broadcast by the BBC. I flew back to New York on a Monday, two weeks before Thanksgiving. The taxi driver let me out in front of my building and, carrying a suitcase and a large bag, I lurched - I really couldn’t walk by that point - to the door of my building, got inside the lobby, and because my feet weren’t working well, I fell up the four steps and sprawled there, tangled in bags and unable to rise. Out of nowhere, Steve showed up, untangled me, lifted me up and carried my two bags to the elevator as I lurched/crawled after him. Since that day, our little old super - he’s about seven years older than I - has been my hero. We’ve become great friends, and he and his wife are people I laugh and joke with, and look forward to see daily. He’s been looking out for me since this current round of bad health from last August.
Today he broke my heart: on Saturday, Mr & Mrs Trifun will move back to Serbia, and i will most likely never see or hear from them again. He told me this when he came up to see about the bathroom leak, and, I guess, to officially tell me goodbye. I haven't stopped weeping since. I am going to miss them. Enormously.
