Busy day. Tiger Woods did his thing and we watched in a newsroom from the other side of the world. Probably the only American athlete who could command that kind of interest in such an international workplace. But people got a bigger laugh from the Gloria Allred stuff that came after. Count me among those who thought the whole Tiger thing to be a little stiff and false.

And then there was Evan Lysacek winning a gold medal in men’s skating at the Vancouver Olympics, and like Bonnie D. Ford, I thought at least as much about Frank Carroll, Lysacek’s coach. I spent some time around Carroll during the Michelle Kwan Era, 1994-2006. Frank lived in Lake Arrowhead for much of that time, when Kwan usually was based at the Ice Castle International Training Center up there in the mountains. Frank Carroll always was an island of sanity in a crazy sport and apparently still is. He never had coached a gold-medal winner before Thursday, which seems impossible, but it’s true. Linda Fratiane and Michell Kwan came close, and Timothy Goebel had a shot … but this was the first. (I still think Kwan would have won gold in 2002 if she hadn’t fired Carroll just before the Salt Lake Games and let her father, Danny, coach her.)

But those are events far away from me. What I can tell you that you don’t already know … is dealing with the caretaker here at the Teeny Apartment. And trying to get some issues resolved. In another language.

The caretaker? That would be Mr. Mohammed.

Before I forget, in this part of the world, you show due respect to a person by taking his/her given name and placing an honorific in front of it.

I have no idea what our caretaker’s family name is, but his given name is Mohammed, so he is Mr. Mohammed in our interaction. Just as I would be Mr. Paul, if he could remember who I am.

Anyway, we have some issues, and it’s a rental, so we figure they ought to be fixed for us, right?

So, my day off, I’m on the phone to Mr. Mohammed. Oh, and one more aside. While in the process of moving in, Mr. Mohammed would not be pinned down on anything. Not even what day of the week it was. It was always “call owner.” But the moment the contract went through, the owner stopped talking calls, and Mr. Mohammed gave me his cell number …

And that was two months ago.

So, we have some issues. The gnats I wrote about not long ago. A broken fan. Three electrical outlets in the bedroom that don’t work.

So, yes, my day off. I find Mr. Mohammed’s cell number and call it. “Hello, Mr. Mohammed, this is Mr. Paul. I live on the other side of the building. Can you come see my flat?”

Generic indecipherable words. I think he’s saying he will come over.

An hour later … no Mr. Mohammed. I go looking for him. he lives in a really teeny apartment on the other side of our three-story building. His door is closed. Hmm.

A half-hour later I call him again. “Hello, Mr. Mohammed. This is Mr. Paul, in the flat on the other side of the building. Can you come to look at my flat,  please?”

“Yes,” he says. So,  I sit down to wait for his imminent arrival.

I went outside, so I could see him coming. Wave him down if he even appeared on the street.

No Mr. Mohammed.

Back to his closet. This time, I let the metal knocker fall a few times on the big wooden door. “Hello,” says a voice. And peeking around the corner is Mr. Mohammed. Who is perhaps 45, and perhaps Pakistani and is wearing a sort of skirt that some south Asians wear when they’re being informal. He sees me and isn’t happy. Because he knows we can’t communicate. (Or maybe he just doesn’t like me.) He points at his door. I think maybe he’s asking me to come in while he gets ready. “Can you come to my flat,” I said. “I would like you to see some things.”

Actually, he’s pointing at a kid who comes out of the room. A slight little guy, maybe 5-foot-4 and 120 pounds,maybe 21 or 22. I haven’t seen him before. The kid speaks a lot more English than does Mr. Mohammed. And Mr. Mohammed turns him over to me, after saying, “You call?” Meaning, had I been the guy calling before that he had twice blown off? And I said, “Yes, I call.” We have established that.

So, now the kid and I are heading around the corner to the flat. Which I have tidied up for the occasion.

I show him the fan. He looks at it. And, much like a tech guy at a newsroom, he flips the power switch, since I can’t be trusted to be bright enough to have tried that. He walks up to the fan and pokes it. He gives it a spin clockwise, then counter-clockwise. No movement. It’s dead. Really. I already knew that. He now agrees.

I then go to the bedroom and say, “No power.” I plug the vacuum into an outlet … and nothing. I do this twice. I have three outlets. He spots me the third one. “No power,” he says. We are agreed.

Now the big one: The rotten wood under the sink. Where the mushrooms used to grow and where the gnats now have taken up residence. My piece de resistance is a photo on the camera screen showing two mushrooms coming out of the rotten wood. He looks at the photo. He seems impressed. “Mushrooms,” I say. “You know mushrooms?” Yes, he knows mushrooms. I think he says. “Out of the wood,” I say, confiding.

He bends down as I show him the porous and peeling wood at the base of the kitchen cabinet. He pulls out a Phillips screwdriver and seems about to pull off the front panel, when the real issue is around a corner … and he stops. He asks for a tape measure, and I have one. He measures the front panel. He makes a mental note. “I think the real problem is on the sides,” I say. He nods.

He isn’t fighting me over any of this. He says, however, it will take him some time to get the necessary materials. He is going to put in new power outlets (though I suspect some issue in the line, when all three in a room are out), a new fan, and a new front panel for the sink — and maybe something for the sides panels. Not clear.

“Tomorrow day off. Saturday at 7?” Well, no. No one will be here aSaturday at 7. How about 10 a.m.?” “No. I am not here yet. I have other job. Eight?” I’m thinking morning. He’s talking 8 p.m.

Still too early. Nobody is home yet. “I work at night.”

“How about Sunday?” I ask? No, he likes Saturday. So do I, but nobody will be here till 9.

“Nine,” he says. OK, I say. Saturday at 9. So, we apparently have a date.

Now I’m not dealing with the owner, nor with Mr. Mohammed, but with Mr.  Mohammed’s handyman, from what I can tell. Either because Mr. Mohammed doesn’t fix stuff … or because his English is so shaky he just doesn’t want to deal with me. Could be either one.

So, another day, another “guessing what we’re saying to each other” moment.

Will this stuff get fixed? I like to think so. But what I think is going on isn’t necessarily what I’ve been told.

So,  9 p.m. Saturday. The kid will be back. With materials. Or so he seems to have told me.

Need to find out his name. So he can become Mr. Somebody Else.