The thing about landlords like Jerry? They don’t care about anything until it costs them.
For years, we told him the fire escape was a death trap waiting to happen.
Rusted-out bolts. A ladder that barely moved.
If a fire ever broke out, we’d be trapped.
Jerry just shrugged, “It’s on the list.”
That was his way of running things. Ignore problems.
A Lawsuit Waiting To Happen
Living in Jerry’s building meant dealing with problems.
Leaky pipes, spotty heat in the winter, the occasional cockroach in the hallway. Nothing ever got fixed unless it threatened his bottom line.
But the fire escape? That was a disaster waiting to happen.
The first time I noticed, I was helping my neighbor, Mrs. Callahan, move some boxes. She liked to use the fire escape as a shortcut to her daughter’s apartment below.
But when she stepped onto the metal landing, the whole thing let out a groan so deep I felt it in my chest.
“Jeez,” I muttered. “When was the last time this thing got inspected?”
Mrs. Callahan shrugged. “Probably before you were born, sweetheart.”
That night, I emailed Jerry. No response.
I sent another. Still nothing.
A week later, I caught him outside the building, arguing with a plumber about a half-finished repair job.
“Jerry, have you seen my emails about the fire escape?” I asked.
He waved a hand. “It’s fine.”
“It’s rusted through.”
“No one’s ever used it in an emergency,” he scoffed. “You’re worrying about nothing.”
That was the last time I asked nicely.
Ignored Warnings
It wasn’t just me.
A couple of tenants tried filing official complaints with the city, but Jerry had connections. The inspections never happened, or if they did, Jerry patched things up just enough to pass.
Then one day, my downstairs neighbor, Luis, tried using the fire escape to air out a mattress.
As soon as he stepped onto the landing, one of the bolts snapped.
I heard the metal screech from inside my apartment. By the time I ran outside, Luis was clutching the railing, his face pale.
“That thing almost gave out under me,” he panted.
We told Jerry. Again.
His response? A lazy smirk. “Just don’t use it.”
I wanted to punch him.
Instead, I started documenting everything. Photos, emails, timestamps.
If something happened, I wanted proof.
I just didn’t expect that something to happen to Jerry himself.
A One-Way Exit
The fire started on a Monday night, just after ten.
I was half-asleep when I heard the smoke alarm blaring from upstairs. For a second, I thought it was someone overcooking dinner.
Until I smelled the smoke.
Then came the shouting.
I ran to the hallway, where a few neighbors were already gathering.
Someone yelled, “Fire!” and I saw gray smoke leaking from under the door of Jerry’s office on the top floor.
Luis sprinted down the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Callahan was already halfway to the exit.
We all knew what to do.
Then I heard pounding footsteps from above.
Jerry.
I looked up just as he burst through the office door, coughing and waving away smoke. His eyes were wild as he scanned the hallway, then froze when he saw the thick, black smoke blocking the main stairwell.
His head snapped toward the fire escape door. I swear I saw a flicker of hesitation.
And then he made a run for it.
I pushed out onto the street with the other tenants, my eyes locked on the side of the building.
For the first time ever, someone actually needed that fire escape.
And it didn’t work.
I watched as Jerry yanked the release lever for the ladder.
Nothing.
He kicked it, shook it, tried to force it down.
Nothing.
The same rust and neglect he ignored for years had sealed it shut.
Someone near me let out a low chuckle.
I should have felt bad. I should have wanted to help.
Instead, I just crossed my arms and said, “Told you.”
That was the moment he realized.
He was stuck.
The Most Expensive Fix
Fire trucks screeched to a stop in front of the building, sirens blaring.
“Top floor!” someone shouted.
I watched as two firefighters rushed to set up a ladder. Others ran into the building, clearing out the last of the tenants.
Jerry was still on the fire escape, banging on the railing, shouting for help. He looked furious. Humiliated.
And the best part? Everyone was watching.
A few of the tenants had their phones out, recording.
The firefighters got to him in minutes, but the damage was done.
The next morning, the city sent out an emergency inspector. With an actual fire incident on record, Jerry couldn’t dodge them anymore.
By noon, the fines started rolling in.
Failure to maintain emergency exits. Fire code violations. Unsafe living conditions.
The number kept growing. Tens of thousands of dollars.
Then came the best part: the city ordered mandatory repairs on the entire building.
Not just the fire escape.
The wiring. The old plumbing. The foundation cracks he’d been ignoring.
Everything.
And Jerry?
He had to pay for it all.
I saw him outside a week later, talking to some contractor, his face red and tight. He looked over, saw me watching, and glared like this was my fault.
I just gave him a slow nod.
We both knew the truth.
If he had fixed the fire escape when we first told him to, this never would have happened.
Now?
He was paying for every bad decision he ever made.