Category: essay

The Sage Pointe Nine.

Previously, I wrote about the Weede family and their fusty skunk hijinx, and the story kept on expanding over time.

To recap:  In one apartment lived the matronly mother and one of her grown sons.  Across the hall lived her daughter, her husband, and their two kids.  Then one summer, the Weede family expanded their population in the Sage Pointe complex with the matron’s other son, his girlfriend, and their baby who all moved in with her.  That made a total of nine Weedes in two apartments: five people in Mamma Weede’s place, and four in the other.

With this addition came much more garbage in the dumpster.  Almost overnight, the garbage dumpster was overflowing only a couple of days after the garbage was picked up.  It was hard to say if it was only because of the three-person increase overnight in the building’s population, or not.  Some of the garbage dumped pointed to other people, so it probably was a combination of more people in the building and those other residents who were getting ready to move out (and that’s another story),

But what did point to the Weede family was the indoor pool area.  It got messier and messier with a sickening overload of beach balls, floats, and tiny plastic toys sitting at the bottom of the pool that they left, as if the pool area was theirs alone.  They wouldn’t clean up their possessions, but rather, they left their things for other residents to trip over, and they complained a lot if the pool was in repair.  La-di-da.  It even got to a point that they left their pool toys all over the common property, and one beach ball made it to the pond area:

Although their contributions to the marijuana stench in the building decreased for a while, it eventually returned.  The entire floor in the hallway was an aromatic offering that ranged from “forest‑floor funk” to “burnt tire with herbal aspirations.”  They left the elevator lingering with the aroma of greasy chicken and the tang of old tacos.  Their front doors were like portals to a different dimension, one where the ventilation systems and their filters went to die and rot.

In the end, the Weede clan became less a family and more a weather system that rolled in without warning, reshaped the landscape, and left its own peculiar sediment behind.  Their presence swelled and receded, their odors rose and fell, their toys multiplied like spores in the humid air of the indoor pool.  The areas outside their storerooms got to a point that they looked like a flea market with all the junk, furniture, and other assorted garbage left out.   And though their skunky fog ebbed for a hot minute, it always found its way back, drifting through vents and lingering in the hallways like a reminder that some households don’t just live in a building; they colonize it and make it bad for the other owners who respect neighbors.  Yet, at Sage Pointe, the Weedes were not merely neighbors.  They were an atmosphere of eccentric proportions that took over and conquered.

 

3

Threads of Defiance.

A Lesson in Obedience and Conformity.

I lived in a homeowner’s association where wet towels drying on the balcony railings became the norm early on.  It was one hot summer afternoon, as I returned from work, I looked up at my building after parking my car in the lot.  There, colorful and flapping, were Ambrose and Un’iqué’s wet towels.  They clung to the eighth-floor balcony railings, the corners flipping up delicately in the breeze.  Although the colorful terry cloth towels looked pretty on an otherwise mundane beige balcony, the rules of the homeowners’ association forbade anything hanging on those railings.

But Ambrose and Un’iqué did it anyway.  Every Monday, which was wash day, their wet towels would hang until dry.  In the heat of the summer, every time the couple headed to the neighborhood pool, you could bet their beach towels would be draped across the railings after they returned to their apartment.  Over time, the towels became more than an act of defiance; they transformed into a symbol of quiet rebellion.  Neighbors began to notice Ambrose and Un’iqué’s colorful display as a sort of unspoken statement: life, with all its messiness and imperfections, could not be entirely controlled by rules and regulations.  They did it their way.

Of course, it was against the rules, by-laws, and such, but in the interest of so-called community harmony, the board of directors looked away.  It wouldn’t be nice to point out infractions, they’d say.  In reality, they broke rules, too, and it wouldn’t be right for a director on the board to be sent a friendly violation letter.

No matter that, the buildings started to look like New York City’s nineteenth century tenements.  Remember, it wasn’t all about not offending the offenders.

Soon, the monotony of the beige façades was punctuated by a patchwork of drying laundry.  Mrs. Delgado on the third floor hung out her hand-sewn quilts.  The Nguyen family draped their vibrant picnic blankets next to their toddler’s onesies.  Even creaky old Mr. Carmichael, once the staunchest enforcer of the by-laws, let his Hawaiian shirts flutter in the wind on hangers.  No one cared anymore.

The board of directors convened an emergency meeting to address what they called “The Towel Crisis.”  Yet, each time they discussed enforcement, someone brought up the sense of community the colorful fabrics had inspired.  The formerly frosty interactions between neighbors thawed, and people began smiling at each other as they passed through the hallways.

Ambrose and Un’iqué, seeing their small act ripple outward, became minor legends in the community.  And while the buildings may have resembled New York City’s old tenements, there was warmth and vibrancy to them that was cultivated that not even the strictest homeowner’s association rules could suppress.

The heck with rules!

 

2

Happy 250th!

Driving around town whilst taking care of errands, I waited for the red light to change.  The sun was out, the weather was pleasant, and traffic was light.  I looked to my right, and saw this interesting sight:

The New Liberty.

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the United States and how much it’s changed.  It’s no longer a young, beautiful woman personified as Liberty, but an old guy in a wheelchair.  Little promise of a good life, but one that necessitates taking on a crushing job with little promise of advancement.  Maybe I think too much.

The light changed, and I drove off, leaving Mister Liberty to his corner.

Happy 250th!

0

Rotting Fast and Faster.

A Lesson About the New World.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would buy a head of lettuce, a bunch of tomatoes, and a box of mushrooms, or other kinds of fresh food.  They would last for a week, maybe ten days before any initial spoiling would show its ugly face.  Nowadays, that head of lettuce, bunch of tomatoes, and box of mushrooms will start spoiling three or four days from when I brought them home.  It goes for much of the produce I buy now.  Sure, the “fresh by” date might still be two weeks in the future but spoil they must.

What a rotten new world we live in!

 

0

A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

0

The Mark of Mordechi.

There were always dirty spots on the hallway carpets and in the elevators when I lived at Sage Pointe.  At first glance, they looked like the usual suspects, perhaps greasy take‑out containers leaking through flimsy bags, or perhaps the aftermath of a dog with poor timing.  Whatever their origin, the stains remained year after year after year, since no one on the board of directors ever bothered to call a carpet‑cleaning company to shampoo the carpets.

One weekend, though, someone obviously made an effort.  A sharp smell of Resolve® or Shout® hung in the hallways, proof that some anonymous soul had tried to scrub away the blotches.  Whoever it was deserved a medal for attempting to keep the place somewhat presentable.

Then came the Saturday afternoon when I stood waiting for the elevator to reach my floor.  At last, the doors slid open, and there stood Maddee and her younger brother, Mordechi, dripping from the pool and armed with their usual assortment of floaties and bottles.  Just as the doors parted, I caught Maddee in mid‑swoop, giving her water bottle a final flourish and spraying the elevator carpet.  When I looked down, I saw she had left a large, wet “M” beside the other permanent stains.  She and her brother stepped out quickly, their faces tight with guilt and silence.

I greeted them anyway, asked how they were. “How you doing?” I asked.  Maddee’s cheeks flushed deep crimson, and she stammered and babbled through a jumble of half‑formed words as she tripped over her tongue.  She knew that I knew.

The next morning, more than twelve hours later, I rode the elevator again.  The wet “M” was still there.  If it had been water, it would have evaporated long before.  Whatever she’d squirted (soda? juice? suntan lotion?) had soaked in and stayed put.  It’s still there to this day.

Funny, isn’t it, how the Stankle kids, the offspring of Adonis the preacher man and his aromatic wife, aren’t always the paragons one might expect.  And the kids weren’t toddlers; at the time this happened she was about eleven, he was about nine.  Both were old enough to know better and old enough to choose differently.  After all, their father preached it every Sunday and Wednesday on stage.

In a condominium association like Sage Pointe, the carpets in every building told the truth long before the residents did.  Every stain, every spill, every careless squirt from a child’s bottle became part of the story we all had to live with.

Courtesy, like cleanliness, is a shared responsibility.  It’s one that begins with small choices made when no one is supposed to be watching.  And yet, as those lingering marks remind us, someone always is watching, even if it’s only God.

 

0

Not-So-Sweet Tarts, and When No One’s Minding.

A Lesson in Modesty.

In a lot of areas around the country, this weekend marks the opening of public swimming pools, so dig out your floating devices and the skimpiest swimwear you can find.  This story comes from a time when I lived in a condominium with swimming pools, a wading pool, a cedar-lined steam room, and all the inconsiderations you can imagine.

The elevator car came to a stop on the lobby floor.  The doors slid open, and I was ready to step out, until I froze mid-step.  What made me pause were the three young women standing directly in front of me, momentarily blocking my path, dressed in barely-there bikinis and entirely unbothered by their own near‑nakedness in a public hallway.

They were college‑age visitors, laughing and carefree, accompanied by one of the downstairs middle‑aged neighbors who was wrapped in a thick beach robe.  The trio of girls, I found out later, spent the weekend coming and going, and the next day I saw them again, heading down the back stairs toward the pool.  As those sweet tarts walked, their swimsuits shifted and rode up, leaving little to the imagination between the ripples of fat and even less to modesty, by cracky.

There was even a time in the dead heat of summer where it just happened that an older, senior-type crowd was having a get-together under the heat of the blazing sun.  A group of teenage girls in tiny bikinis made their way down the pool’s stairs, smirking and walking slow and seductively right in front and past the men.  The women were at another corner of the pool and appeared not to notice the bru-ha-ha.

Throughout the swimming season, the indoor pool area itself told the rest of the story.  In the corners were mounds of inflatable toys stacked so high they reached halfway up the walls.  Beach balls, float rings, plastic ducks, water pistols, and abandoned gadgets cluttered the water.  More than once, if you wanted to swim, you had to fish out stray and abandoned toys or dive to the bottom to retrieve whatever had been left behind.  Interestingly, the steam room was always left clean and uncluttered.

Yet, it was the renters and short‑term visitors who were the ones who mostly descended upon the pools and hot tub, and that’s where most of the disorder began and remained.  Sure, they enjoyed all of the amenities but had no real stake in the property, so there was little incentive to care for it.  And, truthfully, the same could be said for the owners who hosted these guests or rented out their units.  The result was the same: a shared space treated as disposable simply because it belonged to everyone and therefore, in their minds, to no one.

In the end, what unsettled me was more than the exposed full butt cheeks and almost-to-the-nipples cleavage, or the toys or even the noise, but the casual indifference that trailed behind them all.  A shared space only works when the people passing through it feel some measure of responsibility for what they touch and leave behind.  When they don’t, when visitors treat the place as a weekend playground and owners look the other way, the common areas slowly erode.  And standing there in the elevator doorway, watching another wave of guests drift toward the pool, I realized how quickly a condominium building can lose its hominess when too many people forget or just don’t bother to care for it.

 

 

0

Stench in the Shadows.

In the condominium association where I lived once upon a time, there was a strange occurrence that only a brave resident could resolve.  This is the true story.

The overstuffed garbage bags appeared twice weekly in the broom closet on the fifth floor of the condominium building.

What brought this to the attention of the residents was the overpowering stench of rotting foods in the bags.

On a Saturday morning, Miss Wanda, the bravest of the fifth-floor residents, had enough of the reek and marched to the broom closet.  Several residents followed her, for they wanted to be in on the revelation.  Wanda opened the door, and there it was: an overstuffed Hefty® bag emitting a stench that would knock a skunk off his beam.

Wanda took one of the bags and opened it up.  Everyone around her jumped back and held their noses.

“It smells like death,” Old Man Fontane gasped.  “Death on a plate of rotted sardines.”

“At least!” gagged Issac Brenner.  “It smells worse than my ex-wife’s armpits after a sweaty walk in the park.  I’d know that stench anywhere.  Barf!”

“Hoo-eee, Lordy!”  Mrs. Chisa Cooke walked away while holding her nose.  “Y’all enjoy.  I’m headed off to watch Julia reruns on my brand new television.”

Bravely, Miss Wanda dug into the garbage bag.  Slimy beet greens, a moldly banana, empty cartons, and paper brochures from the Poconos greeted her.  She dug around until she saw an envelope.  She reached for it with two fingers.

“Ah!  Well.”  She examined the address.  “Ah ha!  It’s from that brood across the hall from me.  I’ll talk to them.”  The neighbors nodded their heads and a few just whispered, “Ooo!” and “Yeah.”

Miss Wanda knocked on the Stankles’ door.  After talking with the grandmama, neighbors could hear the two women laughing before Miss Wanda returned to her condominium.

“So who did it?” Mrs. Chisa Cooke asked the next day in the laundry room.

“Oh, it was her youngest grandbaby, Tristane.  Do you know that ten-year-old is afraid of the dark, so he just tosses the garbage bags in the broom closet and runs back home!  His parents never check to see if the boy is doin’ his errands right.””

 

 

0

Elevator Encounter.

It was Monday evening in March several years ago, Saint Patrick’s Day in fact, when I lived at Sage Pointe and had the weirdest encounter at the elevator.  It was the kind of evening that felt like it had already overstayed its welcome with humidity, the sun nearly set below the horizon, and the atmosphere vaguely resentful overall.  The evening just didn’t feel right.  I had some business to attend to on the first floor of my condominium building.  It wasn’t anything dramatic; just a quick look-see on a neighbor’s wreath on the door.  Once that was done, I turned back toward the elevator, ready to ascend to the relative peace of my penthouse suite.

The elevator dinged open with its usual lack of enthusiasm.  Out stepped the dog walker who was a lean, overworked man with the expression of someone who’d long ago stopped pretending to enjoy his job.  He was wrangling two dogs that week: a jittery black and white shih-tzu dogs, one with a Napoleon syndrome and the other who looked like he’d seen too much in life.  They belong to the renter, “Princess,” we all called her.  Anyway, behind the dog walker emerged a disheveled woman who could only be described as a walking cautionary tale.

She was large, loud, and chaotic in every sense.  Her hair was a brittle, bottle-blonde explosion of stringy straw, unbrushed and defying gravity, as if she’d just lost a fight with the town’s stray cat in an electric storm.  Her clothes hung off her like they’d given up trying to flatter her shape, and her arms were crammed full with an assortment of objects: papers, a purse that had seen better decades, and a large bag that looked like it had been repurposed from a deflated beanbag chair.

Before I could step aside, she lunged forward, thrusting her face into mine with the urgency of someone trying to solve a crime in real time.

“146—Eight?  148?  148?” she barked, her breath a cocktail of tobacco, menthol, and desperation.

I blinked.  I had no idea what she was babbling about.  Was it a code?  A unit number?  A cry for help?

“148?” she repeated right in my face, louder this time, as if volume might unlock my comprehension.

“Umm—” I managed, instinctively leaning back, trying to create space between her and my personal bubble, which she had already detonated.

The dog walker, sensing my confusion and her unraveling, stepped in like a reluctant mediator.

“Here,” he said, gesturing down the hallway and beginning to walk, the two mutts trailing behind him like reluctant furry witnesses.  “I’ll help you get there.”

I didn’t wait for the encore.  I slipped into the elevator, pressed the button for my floor, and let the doors close on whatever that was.  The ride up felt like a small victory.  Quiet, controlled, and blessedly devoid of oddball mystery women and their numerical riddles.

 

 

0

Website Built with WordPress.com.

Up ↑