A Story About Jon, My Maintenance Guy Who Just Died

The maintenance guy for my apartment died a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’m supposed to be sad.

You’re allowed to grieve over losing a family member, a friend, or someone you worked closely with. Jonathan was just this guy I knew, and I didn't even really know him.

The extent of our relationship was mostly, “Hey Jon, how’s it going?” followed by, “Hey Jolie, I’ll be working in the hallway — watch for the wet paint.”

Whenever I walked by, he always stopped what he was doing to wave, and he would always say hi to my dog, too.

Somehow he wasn't afraid of Luca, even after the neighbor’s dog bit his hand when he was fixing a leak in her apartment. For a few days, I saw his hand covered in bandages whenever he’d wave. He had been such a warm welcome for me since I first moved in: new home, new life.

It’s not that I miss having a maintenance guy: they’ve hired his replacement. There’s a clogged drain in my bathroom, but I haven't called the new guy to fix it. I don't know what I’m waiting for.

I remember how it snowed the day after I found out he died. Something about it seemed fitting: I could see my footsteps in the snow where he would have shoveled. It was as if I could see him not here.

And it’s not that the entirety of who he was was being a maintenance guy. He was a son, a brother, and I’m sure lots of other things. It’s just that this is the only story I can tell about him. 

And not to make him out like he was this perfect guy. It’s just that when people pass away, it doesn’t feel right to talk about all that other stuff. It’s like they get permission to be imperfect.

I remember the moment I found out he passed. I opened the front door to go do laundry when I saw the note from the landlord. I stood frozen in the doorway, just trying to make sense of it. I backed into the apartment with my dirty clothes. So much was flooding back; I needed to sit down.

The first thought I had was, No way, no way. Then my mind went to, When was the last I’d seen or heard from him? 

I had baked him cookies and gave him a card with $20 for the holidays. He texted me how grateful and excited he was about the cookies. Two days later, he realized he’d enjoyed them so much that he forgot to open the card. He said he'd do something nice for someone else with the money. 

“That’s what it’s all about though, isn’t it,” he said. “Happy New Year.” 

Sitting there in that moment, I was so glad I made those cookies, because I remember I was busy and almost didn’t. 

He was a sweet guy. I remember how quickly I learned that I should only text him for help with something —  a clogged drain, a broken light switch – when I was ready for him to fix it right then and there. Somehow, he was always only ten minutes away. 

I remember last Fall when I finally admitted I needed his help getting the AC unit down from my oversized window. He was glad to help and said he had a much better plan for how to install it next summer. The summer that won’t come next.

Right before he died, he and LJ, the other maintenance worker, finished a total remodel of the apartment across the hall. They put weeks of effort into it; it looked beautiful. Since then, new tenants have moved in. I’m sure they don't know, and I guess they don't need to: they didn't lose anything.

The next time I saw LJ after Jon passed, I tried to say something, I didn't know what, but it came out all stammered. We both stared off and were quiet for a moment, neither of us knowing quite what to say. LJ said he couldn’t believe it, and how he did his grieving over the weekend. I didn't know grief could just take a weekend.

He was working on the stairway the following week and ran an extension cord through my doorway so he could use one of the outlets. At the end of each day, he would collect the cord and lay it in a circle on my welcome mat, always so neat and organized.

I wonder if Jon taught him that.

LJ said he’d let me know if he heard anything about a service. Neither of us heard anything. I’m not sure where he was buried and I don't know if he even was buried at all. There’s not much online about him. It’s scary to think that your whole life can be erased. Can we all really disappear that quickly? 

Another note on my door said a tree will be planted this Spring: a Jonathan Tree.  Apparently, that’s one that grows apples. I wonder if it’ll be the new maintenance guy who plants it. I wonder if he’ll feel pressure to live up to something. I wonder if he’ll care.

I remember last Spring, the pride Jon took in making sure all the landscaping was mulched and well kept. You could tell his work meant something to him. Something about it made me feel at home, like I was in the right place.

He’d be sweating bullets edging the lawn, so I kept these mini water bottles in my fridge to give him on those days when he was working for hours in the sun. There’s still one water bottle left in my fridge. I can’t figure out what to do with it. 

Maybe I’ll save it to water his tree.

Rest in peace, Jon.

Thank you.