It was just another sunny day in Santa Monica, and Jack Tripper was hopping down the stairs, rent check in hand, humming a tune from “Three’s Company” — because, why not live the theme song when you can?

He knocks on Mr. Furley’s door, expecting the usual “Come in, if you’re not the IRS!” Instead, the door creaks open to reveal not the polyester-clad landlord, but a group of tough-looking hombres, decked out in more gold chains than Mr. T at a jewelry convention.

“¡Hola, amigo! You got the rent, sí?” says the leader, whose mustache could win awards for both volume and style.

Jack, ever the master of the double-take, does a triple. “Well, this isn’t the Regal Beagle,” he stammers, clutching his rent check like it’s a lifeline back to normalcy.

The gang laughs, one of them sharpening a knife on a leather strap, more for effect than necessity. “No, señor, this is now the ‘Venezuelan Villa’. Mr. Furley, he lose apartment in poker game. Now, we collect rent… and maybe watch some ‘telenovelas’.”

Jack, trying to keep his cool, quips, “I guess this means no more free maintenance from Roper, huh? Do you guys fix leaky faucets or just leaky boats?”

The leader chuckles, “We specialize in leaks, Tripper, but not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Just then, Mr. Furley stumbles in, wearing a flamboyant shirt that could blind satellites, completely oblivious. “Jack! Did I forget to mention the new management? They’re sprucing up the place! Thinking of adding a salsa night!”

Jack, ever adaptable, hands over the check with a flourish. “Well, as long as we keep the misunderstandings to a minimum and the rent stays the same, I guess we’re all good. But can we at least get some arepas with the rent receipt?”

The gang nods approvingly, appreciating Jack’s quick pivot to culinary diplomacy. “You stay, you learn to dance merengue, sí?”

And thus, Jack Tripper learned that in life, as in sitcoms, sometimes you just have to dance with whatever gang moves into your apartment complex.