It wasn't so long ago that I wrote about all the older people living in the nice two bedroom apartments in my building with slight resentment. They pay $200 for apartments I won't be able to afford once they pass on and the building owners spruce them up.

Earlier this evening, someone buzzed my apartment. This happens every now and then with delivery people or visitors lacking basic buzzer knowledge. I pressed the button and called out to Central Park West, "Helloooooo?" A staccato, unmistakable reply: "Police! Please open the door!"

I buzzed the fuzz in. Three officers. They headed upstairs to the geriatric ward. Minutes later, they stomped downstairs and I stood at the peephole and eavesdropped. A call someone had made, an elderly man who hadn't been seen in a few days, no answer at the door. It seemed all the story needed was the terrible stench of decomposition.

The NYPD began knocking on my neighbors' doors before nearly beating down mine. I unlocked it. "Hi." They smiled and didn't offer an explanation. "We're trying to reach the super, but we can't get into the basement. What do you know about him?"

Ha! What do I know?

"He lives in the basement. I don't think you can get in without a separate key. I have his cell phone number, let me get it."

I yanked the post-it that says "Not So Super" and the number off my refrigerator. I showed it to the cops, covering the "Not So Super" with my thumb. Why beat a dead horse?

"Here it is. But I have to tell you, I have never reached him at this number." I didn't add that he told me to call an electrician to change my lightbulb.

The cops sighed and thanked me.

More cops showed up, the super never did, and the man is either dead in his spacious two bedroom apartment or just keeping a low profile. Frankly, I'm disappointed a door wasn't kicked in.