(original post-date: April 27, 2011)
I cannot imagine leaving Los Angeles.
And not because I love it, which I do.
It’s just that, the older you get, the more difficult it is to make friends.
Remember how easy it was back in childhood? All you needed was a common age, and the deal was sealed.
Are you six? Me too! Let’s go play!
Can you imagine doing that at an adult age?
Hi! Are you fifty-three? Me too! Let’s have lunch!
Ain’t gonna happen.
When my then-husband and I moved to L.A., back in May 1990, it never occurred to me that I was leaving behind some well-established friendships and that I would have to start all over again. Sure, I had a few people out here who I knew, and among them were two I knew quite well, but… that’s barely a starter set.
Looking back at several of my early L.A. friends – people I thought I’d be close to for a long time – I realize that I was going through a process, and I would have to get to the end of that process before I would find the folks who were likely to last.
I remember a co-worker at my first staff job out here. We’ll call her Sheila. I’d been at the nonprofit organization for about a year before she got a position there. Our then-friendship is such ancient history at this point that I cannot explain the “attraction,” but I do remember always feeling as if she and I were both Hayley Mills, playing some equally misbehaving girls in a prep school movie…
I grew out of Sheila before I left the place where we both worked, and a few years later, I was at another nonprofit.
There, I became friends with two women, both of whom were a bit younger than I. We’ll call them Dee and Dora. I bonded with both of them, and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Again, I felt I had embarked on some friendships that would last. But they didn’t pan out as I had expected, and in retrospect, my memory of the times I spent with each or both of them centered around a certain amount of righteousness. A desire to be correct.
Interesting.
With Sheila, I was reliving my adolescence.
With Dee and Dora, I was reliving my twenties.
I was 32 when I arrived in Los Angeles, and I was too new to that decade to know what it meant.
Where friendships were concerned, I had to back up.
I had to start over.
I had to relive a few stages of interactive behavior before I would find the comfort of my present. I had to work through a new growth so that I could reach the moment when I began to know who I was and how I needed to be treated.
That moment began in my mid-40s.
In terms of friendships, I’ve been in the comfort zone ever since.
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Monday, July 1, 2013
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part II
A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
My roommate was active in the tenants' group that formed when the building's owners were trying to convert it to a co-op. She was among those opposed to the plan, and they met often. One night, they were meeting in the living room of one of the apartments that was a few floors up and in an altogether different wing of the building.
At some point during the meeting, the living room curtains moved a bit. Mort made his entrance.
“That cat!” one person blurted out. “He is constantly coming into my apartment. I think he sprayed on my couch.”
“That cat!” another person chimed in. “He claws at my screens... He scared the hell out of me one night. I thought it was a burglar.”
“That cat!” said another. “Who does that cat belong to anyway?”
My roommate cowered for a moment or two, but ultimately copped to her knowledge – at least, she did so to one person. And when the meeting was adjourned, she returned to our apartment, and she brought with her that one person – one person who, I imagine, was among the louder complainers.
I was sitting in my room with my friend, John. We were just hanging out, chatting. Suddenly, my roommate pushed open my door and introduced me to our neighbor. Within moments, I was being read the riot act.
The complaining neighbor ticked off a list of Mort's trespassings. And when she was done, she said, “And if I ever see that cat again, I am going to call the landlord and make sure that no one in this building is allowed to have pets!” She stormed off, and my roommate didn't stick around for any debriefing.
Hmm, nice meeting you, too.
I looked at John, who was as dumbfounded as I. (John also was a big fan of Mort.) We reviewed what just happened. We reflected on the negative energy that had prevented a dialogue. We chilled for a bit.
Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the pissed-off neighbor, and I gave her a call.
After I identified myself, I embarked on my unrehearsed line of reasoning. “You see,” I began, “that's not really my cat. I found him several months ago. He had a flea collar on, but no one responded to the signs I posted. And, frankly, I don't know what to do about him. I've put screens in my window, but he just pushes them away. He seems to want to be outdoors. So, I don't know what to do. May I offer to buy screens for you? I mean, I can imagine how disconcerting it must be to have a strange cat trying to get in your living room...”
The neighbor was beginning to soften. Somehow, my disconnecting myself from Mort was the key. She turned down my offer to buy her screens, though she clearly appreciated the gesture. And before we ended our conversation, she followed through on the brainstorming that my comments had suggested. “You know,” she said, “I have a brother who lives on Long Island. They have a nice farm. Maybe the cat would be happy there. Hmm, yea. I'll look into it.”
“I'd so appreciate that,” I said. “He clearly wants to be outside. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.”
“Yea,” she said, “I'll look into it.”
Thank you and goodnight.
I never heard from her again.
+++
By late 1982, my interactions with Eric were heating up. When my roommate made it difficult for me to enjoy those developments in the apartment we shared on 108th Street, Robin gave me an out. Robin was, at that point, slowly reuniting with Doug. (They had split months before, and he had found an apartment on the East Side; now, she was slowly moving to his place – bobby pin by bobby pin). When I needed to relocate, she was ready to cop to her plans. She moved in with Doug, and I took her 110th Street place as a sublet. Kitty and Mort came with me (although Kitty, still pulling the Siamese shtick, probably would have preferred it if Mort had stayed behind.)
Though the space was a share, my room was quite large – and fabulously private. And although the beginning of my time there would be the time I lived with Eric, ultimately that apartment became the place where I would learn to bask in my privacy and make it productive. Never concerned that I had no direct access to a fire escape, I wrote a hell of a lot. It was in that apartment that I came to believe – genuinely – that I was a writer.
It also was in that apartment that Mort came to believe he had wings.
+++
It was really over with Eric one night the following May. And after I saw him in the Chelsea area, where we had our final dialogue and I knew that was the end, I walked the four miles home. I walked through a thunderstorm that night, and when it had passed, and the New York night air had dried my clothes, I got an ice cream cone. By the time I got home, I was just finishing my ice cream, and I was feeling free. As I came into the apartment, I inadvertently let Kitty out into the hallway. I only realized I had done so when I heard her cries, a half hour later, on the other side of the apartment's front door.
I had been spacing out in my euphoria... in my release.
The next morning, when I got up to go to work, Kitty was still present, but there was something missing from the picture. Mort. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had also escaped the night before, and I silently berated myself for being so caught up in my own situation.
But it quickly became clear that he was not only not in the apartment, he was not in the building, and I grew more concerned. I looked out the screenless window. I looked down from my fourth floor apartment to see if there was a sign of him on the street below. No sign.
I ran downstairs, now fully committed to being late for work. I anxiously walked the front of the building, and somehow I found him. He was still within the building's confines, nestled under a flight of wrought-iron stairs (the kind that are used for fire escapes). The stairs led from the street level to the basement level. But I could not access them. A locked gate barred me from entering.
“Mort!” I cried, seeing him lying there, looking peaceful but dazed in the farthest corner of a space so distant from my grasp.
“You,” he cried back to me, bellowing as he had the first night I met him.
I immediately tracked down Caesar, the building's superintendent, and I brought him to the situation. Caesar retrieved a long-handled industrial broom and made his way down the private stairway. Then, as Mort and I winced together, Caesar swept Mort out of the corner where he had settled to die after his fall.
I ultimately took Mort to a place on the East Side where cats (and all other pets) get better medical treatment than humans will ever experience in this country. I left him there, and throughout the week, the prognosis was grim. Mort's tail was paralyzed, but that was not the worst news. He had a tremendous number of broken bones in his pelvic area, and the damage threatened all functioning in that region of his body.
I remember one moment that week, when I was taking lunch orders from customers in my station. Joanie, our amazingly loving manager, interrupted me. “The surgeon's on the phone,” she said. “They might need to do another operation.”
I excused myself and went into the kitchen, got on the phone and agreed to whatever. I understood the hospital's need to keep calling. Every step was an expense. But what did they think? That I had a cap? A cap at which point I would say no, the cat's not worth it?
I can't imagine putting a price tag on a cat.
+++
Several days later, Mort was ready to come home. I went to the medical center, paid the bill, and was reunited with my sweet boy. Despite the cast on one of his back legs, the gash in one of his hips, and his general grogginess, he seemed fine. He was smiling.
Before we left, the woman on staff gave me instructions regarding how to administer medications and salve the still-opened hip wound. The woman also emphasized the concern they felt as to whether Mort would urinate regularly. She showed me how to check to make sure that his bladder wasn't too full. She demonstrated how to palpate the area and so discern a problem. I pretended to understand.
I then carried him out of the medical center just as I had carried him in: in my arms.
Without a cat carrier (I hadn't thought to buy one), it was a little dicey getting a cab, but finally, a driver allowed our fare. Mort sat on my lap as we rode home, and after several minutes, I felt my thigh getting warmer . And I knew why. “Oh Mort!,” I said quietly, leaning down and smiling at him. “You pee'd!”
And because my jeans had soaked up his accomplishment, the cabbie never knew.
Once again, Mort's actions created an unplanned load of laundry, but I was so happy to have him home. He was my buddy, my hunter, my survivor. We were clearly in for the long haul.
to be continued on March 8th
+++
My roommate was active in the tenants' group that formed when the building's owners were trying to convert it to a co-op. She was among those opposed to the plan, and they met often. One night, they were meeting in the living room of one of the apartments that was a few floors up and in an altogether different wing of the building.
At some point during the meeting, the living room curtains moved a bit. Mort made his entrance.
“That cat!” one person blurted out. “He is constantly coming into my apartment. I think he sprayed on my couch.”
“That cat!” another person chimed in. “He claws at my screens... He scared the hell out of me one night. I thought it was a burglar.”
“That cat!” said another. “Who does that cat belong to anyway?”
My roommate cowered for a moment or two, but ultimately copped to her knowledge – at least, she did so to one person. And when the meeting was adjourned, she returned to our apartment, and she brought with her that one person – one person who, I imagine, was among the louder complainers.
I was sitting in my room with my friend, John. We were just hanging out, chatting. Suddenly, my roommate pushed open my door and introduced me to our neighbor. Within moments, I was being read the riot act.
The complaining neighbor ticked off a list of Mort's trespassings. And when she was done, she said, “And if I ever see that cat again, I am going to call the landlord and make sure that no one in this building is allowed to have pets!” She stormed off, and my roommate didn't stick around for any debriefing.
Hmm, nice meeting you, too.
I looked at John, who was as dumbfounded as I. (John also was a big fan of Mort.) We reviewed what just happened. We reflected on the negative energy that had prevented a dialogue. We chilled for a bit.
Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the pissed-off neighbor, and I gave her a call.
After I identified myself, I embarked on my unrehearsed line of reasoning. “You see,” I began, “that's not really my cat. I found him several months ago. He had a flea collar on, but no one responded to the signs I posted. And, frankly, I don't know what to do about him. I've put screens in my window, but he just pushes them away. He seems to want to be outdoors. So, I don't know what to do. May I offer to buy screens for you? I mean, I can imagine how disconcerting it must be to have a strange cat trying to get in your living room...”
The neighbor was beginning to soften. Somehow, my disconnecting myself from Mort was the key. She turned down my offer to buy her screens, though she clearly appreciated the gesture. And before we ended our conversation, she followed through on the brainstorming that my comments had suggested. “You know,” she said, “I have a brother who lives on Long Island. They have a nice farm. Maybe the cat would be happy there. Hmm, yea. I'll look into it.”
“I'd so appreciate that,” I said. “He clearly wants to be outside. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.”
“Yea,” she said, “I'll look into it.”
Thank you and goodnight.
I never heard from her again.
+++
By late 1982, my interactions with Eric were heating up. When my roommate made it difficult for me to enjoy those developments in the apartment we shared on 108th Street, Robin gave me an out. Robin was, at that point, slowly reuniting with Doug. (They had split months before, and he had found an apartment on the East Side; now, she was slowly moving to his place – bobby pin by bobby pin). When I needed to relocate, she was ready to cop to her plans. She moved in with Doug, and I took her 110th Street place as a sublet. Kitty and Mort came with me (although Kitty, still pulling the Siamese shtick, probably would have preferred it if Mort had stayed behind.)
Though the space was a share, my room was quite large – and fabulously private. And although the beginning of my time there would be the time I lived with Eric, ultimately that apartment became the place where I would learn to bask in my privacy and make it productive. Never concerned that I had no direct access to a fire escape, I wrote a hell of a lot. It was in that apartment that I came to believe – genuinely – that I was a writer.
It also was in that apartment that Mort came to believe he had wings.
+++
It was really over with Eric one night the following May. And after I saw him in the Chelsea area, where we had our final dialogue and I knew that was the end, I walked the four miles home. I walked through a thunderstorm that night, and when it had passed, and the New York night air had dried my clothes, I got an ice cream cone. By the time I got home, I was just finishing my ice cream, and I was feeling free. As I came into the apartment, I inadvertently let Kitty out into the hallway. I only realized I had done so when I heard her cries, a half hour later, on the other side of the apartment's front door.
I had been spacing out in my euphoria... in my release.
The next morning, when I got up to go to work, Kitty was still present, but there was something missing from the picture. Mort. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had also escaped the night before, and I silently berated myself for being so caught up in my own situation.
But it quickly became clear that he was not only not in the apartment, he was not in the building, and I grew more concerned. I looked out the screenless window. I looked down from my fourth floor apartment to see if there was a sign of him on the street below. No sign.
I ran downstairs, now fully committed to being late for work. I anxiously walked the front of the building, and somehow I found him. He was still within the building's confines, nestled under a flight of wrought-iron stairs (the kind that are used for fire escapes). The stairs led from the street level to the basement level. But I could not access them. A locked gate barred me from entering.
“Mort!” I cried, seeing him lying there, looking peaceful but dazed in the farthest corner of a space so distant from my grasp.
“You,” he cried back to me, bellowing as he had the first night I met him.
I immediately tracked down Caesar, the building's superintendent, and I brought him to the situation. Caesar retrieved a long-handled industrial broom and made his way down the private stairway. Then, as Mort and I winced together, Caesar swept Mort out of the corner where he had settled to die after his fall.
I ultimately took Mort to a place on the East Side where cats (and all other pets) get better medical treatment than humans will ever experience in this country. I left him there, and throughout the week, the prognosis was grim. Mort's tail was paralyzed, but that was not the worst news. He had a tremendous number of broken bones in his pelvic area, and the damage threatened all functioning in that region of his body.
I remember one moment that week, when I was taking lunch orders from customers in my station. Joanie, our amazingly loving manager, interrupted me. “The surgeon's on the phone,” she said. “They might need to do another operation.”
I excused myself and went into the kitchen, got on the phone and agreed to whatever. I understood the hospital's need to keep calling. Every step was an expense. But what did they think? That I had a cap? A cap at which point I would say no, the cat's not worth it?
I can't imagine putting a price tag on a cat.
+++
Several days later, Mort was ready to come home. I went to the medical center, paid the bill, and was reunited with my sweet boy. Despite the cast on one of his back legs, the gash in one of his hips, and his general grogginess, he seemed fine. He was smiling.
Before we left, the woman on staff gave me instructions regarding how to administer medications and salve the still-opened hip wound. The woman also emphasized the concern they felt as to whether Mort would urinate regularly. She showed me how to check to make sure that his bladder wasn't too full. She demonstrated how to palpate the area and so discern a problem. I pretended to understand.
I then carried him out of the medical center just as I had carried him in: in my arms.
Without a cat carrier (I hadn't thought to buy one), it was a little dicey getting a cab, but finally, a driver allowed our fare. Mort sat on my lap as we rode home, and after several minutes, I felt my thigh getting warmer . And I knew why. “Oh Mort!,” I said quietly, leaning down and smiling at him. “You pee'd!”
And because my jeans had soaked up his accomplishment, the cabbie never knew.
Once again, Mort's actions created an unplanned load of laundry, but I was so happy to have him home. He was my buddy, my hunter, my survivor. We were clearly in for the long haul.
to be continued on March 8th
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Impermanence
Lately, I’ve been feeling a lack of drive. I don’t want to write anything new. I don’t want to pull out the beads and make a necklace or bracelet. And beyond that… well, I sure as hell don’t want to clean the dust that’s gathered between the curtain folds.
I also don’t want to organize the mess inside those drawers in the desk.
…or those drawers in the kitchen.
…or that drawer in the bedside table.
I don’t want to! I just don't!
Were I thirty years younger, this situation would probably throw me into an existential crisis.
Were I thirty years younger, I’d think that I had no motivation whatsoever.
I’d view myself a loser with no future.
I’d see myself as lazy and useless.
I might even crawl into a hole for a while.
… Actually, crawling into a hole for a while doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, and maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. And maybe that’s okay. And maybe it’s okay because I know: I do have motivation. I am not a loser. … Nor am I lazy or useless.
Maybe I just need some downtime.
I am so glad I’m not in my 20’s anymore. I’ve had three decades since then to learn of my capacity to produce and create. I’ve had three decades to learn that life is a series of personal phases. I’ve learned that we should never judge ourselves by any one individual phase.
I’ve also learned that this perspective holds true for the world around us…
When my sister and her husband made the decision, in late 2008, to move from Scotland to Virginia and so to be closer to our mom, there were lures for them (or at least, for my sister) at the Virginia end. Primarily, there was the theatre community with which we had been raised. That community – The Oak Grove – was founded by an amazing couple named Fletcher and Margaret Collins. And “the Grove” – a summer theatre under the stars – had been a hub of creative and intellectual talent for decades.
When Martha and I were kids, we accompanied Mom and Dad to rehearsals and performances. One of our parents' earliest ventures as actors in the company was in Shaw’s You Never Can Tell. While watching rehearsals, Martha and I both developed instance crushes on Francis Collins, one of their fellow castmates. Then a goofy late teen with amazing musical talent, Francis – who is one of Fletch and Margaret’s sons – is now the head of the NIH.
And a decade later, the musical accompaniment at Grove cast parties was regularly provided by Robin and Linda Williams, who had recently settled into the Valley. If you listen regularly to A Prairie Home Companion, then you will have heard of them. Robin and Linda are old friends of Garrison Keillor and regularly perform with him.
So that was the Grove back in the day, and then there is the Grove now…
When Martha returned to Virginia in 2008, she’d no doubt sung the praises of the Grove to her British husband. And so, they anxiously approached the theatre’s upcoming summer season.
A few months later, Martha shared with me her extreme disappointment.
“It’s just not the same anymore!” she said, despondent.
My capacity to relate was remarkably fresh.
“I know,” I replied, answering from my quiet apartment.
Because of what I had been through in my L.A. building – because I had experienced the ultimate in love-between-neighbors and then had been left with a more typical renter’s scenario – I could empathize with her response to the Grove.
“It was an era,” I told her, thinking of both the Grove and my building. “What we experienced? Just an era. And it’s over.”
… Were I thirty years younger, I might not have seen it for that.
Were I thirty years younger, I might have seen the change as something that was wrong with me.
Were I thirty years younger, I might have felt that I needed to fix it in some way, and I would have wasted my time trying.
… We can’t change eras. They are environmental phenomena, and they happen whether we are there or not. As to phases (such as the one I am going through now), they are absolutely personal. But, like eras, they are also absolutely temporary.
Nothing lasts forever.
Neither the good nor the bad.
Neither the productive nor the non-.
Neither the group activity nor the solitude.
Everything is temporary.
I also don’t want to organize the mess inside those drawers in the desk.
…or those drawers in the kitchen.
…or that drawer in the bedside table.
I don’t want to! I just don't!
Were I thirty years younger, this situation would probably throw me into an existential crisis.
Were I thirty years younger, I’d think that I had no motivation whatsoever.
I’d view myself a loser with no future.
I’d see myself as lazy and useless.
I might even crawl into a hole for a while.
… Actually, crawling into a hole for a while doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, and maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. And maybe that’s okay. And maybe it’s okay because I know: I do have motivation. I am not a loser. … Nor am I lazy or useless.
Maybe I just need some downtime.
I am so glad I’m not in my 20’s anymore. I’ve had three decades since then to learn of my capacity to produce and create. I’ve had three decades to learn that life is a series of personal phases. I’ve learned that we should never judge ourselves by any one individual phase.
I’ve also learned that this perspective holds true for the world around us…
When my sister and her husband made the decision, in late 2008, to move from Scotland to Virginia and so to be closer to our mom, there were lures for them (or at least, for my sister) at the Virginia end. Primarily, there was the theatre community with which we had been raised. That community – The Oak Grove – was founded by an amazing couple named Fletcher and Margaret Collins. And “the Grove” – a summer theatre under the stars – had been a hub of creative and intellectual talent for decades.
When Martha and I were kids, we accompanied Mom and Dad to rehearsals and performances. One of our parents' earliest ventures as actors in the company was in Shaw’s You Never Can Tell. While watching rehearsals, Martha and I both developed instance crushes on Francis Collins, one of their fellow castmates. Then a goofy late teen with amazing musical talent, Francis – who is one of Fletch and Margaret’s sons – is now the head of the NIH.
And a decade later, the musical accompaniment at Grove cast parties was regularly provided by Robin and Linda Williams, who had recently settled into the Valley. If you listen regularly to A Prairie Home Companion, then you will have heard of them. Robin and Linda are old friends of Garrison Keillor and regularly perform with him.
So that was the Grove back in the day, and then there is the Grove now…
When Martha returned to Virginia in 2008, she’d no doubt sung the praises of the Grove to her British husband. And so, they anxiously approached the theatre’s upcoming summer season.
A few months later, Martha shared with me her extreme disappointment.
“It’s just not the same anymore!” she said, despondent.
My capacity to relate was remarkably fresh.
“I know,” I replied, answering from my quiet apartment.
Because of what I had been through in my L.A. building – because I had experienced the ultimate in love-between-neighbors and then had been left with a more typical renter’s scenario – I could empathize with her response to the Grove.
“It was an era,” I told her, thinking of both the Grove and my building. “What we experienced? Just an era. And it’s over.”
… Were I thirty years younger, I might not have seen it for that.
Were I thirty years younger, I might have seen the change as something that was wrong with me.
Were I thirty years younger, I might have felt that I needed to fix it in some way, and I would have wasted my time trying.
… We can’t change eras. They are environmental phenomena, and they happen whether we are there or not. As to phases (such as the one I am going through now), they are absolutely personal. But, like eras, they are also absolutely temporary.
Nothing lasts forever.
Neither the good nor the bad.
Neither the productive nor the non-.
Neither the group activity nor the solitude.
Everything is temporary.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
That Ol' Jack Magic - Unconditional Love in a Faulty Structure: Part Three
A Note Before Reading: This is the final installment of a three-part essay. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
And so the beading continued. And as boutiques, galleries and museum stores began to take my memory wire bracelets on consignment, I expanded my horizons – creating earrings, necklaces, and clasp bracelets. I even gave in ultimately to the pressure of popular culture – I created a website.
It would be a while, though, before I would learn what the foray into jewelry design was about for me. And during that year (plus) of being immersed in glass beads – calmed by their colors, shapes and feel – I would learn what love and neighbors are about….
… Running downstairs and knocking on Tim’s door. I’ve got a date in ten minutes, but because I’ve just put lotion on my hands, I can’t maneuver the clasps on the bracelets I want to wear. Tim answers the door with a towel around his waist. He was just about to step into the shower – but, like the brother I never had, he answers the call. Fumbling (as guys do), he manages the clasps. He settles my nerves and wishes me “Godspeed” on my date. Were it not for the precariously draped towel, he would accompany that wish with a hug…
… Going to Debbi’s the morning after the big break-up conversation. Sitting on her couch and drinking coffee. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You didn’t drag it out.” Her tears for me, her tears for the process, allow me to cry, too…
… Calling Julie during one of those weeks in the middle. “I’m confused,” I say. “I need to talk this out.” Julie responds in a tone that goes with her cowboy curtains. “Come on down,” she says. By the time I get to her apartment, the bottle of Jack Daniels is on the table. Julie pours and listens. She asks the right questions. Her observations are so wise…
+++
September 11, 2001. I have a dental appointment, and because it’s a morning appointment, I am running late. I almost don’t notice the flashing light on my answering machine, but when I do, I decide to play it – quickly, before dashing out.
“Katie, oh God, it’s Deb – Are you up? Oh my God – I thought of you ‘cause of New York – Oh my God – the Trade Center’s been hit. And the Pentagon. Oh my God. This is major.”
Click.
But, it doesn’t click.
I have no idea what she was talking about in the message that was recorded while I was in heavy R.E.M.
I continue out the door, figuring I’ll stop by her place on my way to the dentist.
The front door to her first-floor apartment is slightly ajar. I push it open. “Deb?” I call. No response. But her TV is on. I stand there in her living room, looking at a shot of downtown Manhattan in a cloud. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. I cannot possibly process this.
I wonder where Debbi is, and for some reason, I still think I’m going to the dentist’s office. I head to the carport in the back. She and neighbor Kate are just returning from Starbuck’s.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask Deb. (I don’t want to go back to my apartment. Having seen people, I suddenly realize I need them.)
“Of course,” Deb responds. “Did you see – ?”
We go back into her apartment, and I call my dentist’s office. No problem cancelling – they’re closing up anyway. I then call my friend, Sue, with whom I am supposed to meet later regarding the book we’re working on. When I tell her I’m not coming over, that I’m not going anywhere, she’s disappointed. “Turn on your TV,” I tell her. “You’ll understand.”
Dan arrives, he and Debbi having recently made amends. It’s so good to see him, to get a Dan hug.
By mid-day, we’re all gathered around Deb’s TV. Julie had insisted on going to work at the hotel, but Tim’s there, and Sara. Kate pops in and out. We’re just looking at the screen, trying to process the event.
Suddenly, in the spirit of Elizabeth, we decide to pool our resources for a pot-luck. We all grab whatever’s appropriate from our respective refrigerators, and soon, we have a meal, complete with wine and beer. And when we need more wine and beer (and God knows, we will), we run down to the corner.
Together, we get through the day.
Later that night, I go into Deb’s kitchen to do some dishes. I need to get away from the television. As I begin soaping plates and glasses, something inside me opens up and allows me to feel. I turn off the water and quietly take myself outside, through Deb’s kitchen door. I sit on the short wall that borders the driveway, and I let myself bawl like a fucking baby.
After a few minutes, Julie comes out to see if I’m okay. “I thought you’d be out here crying,” she says, as she gives me a hug.
+++
I hope never again to experience the disorientation that was September 11th. But if I must, I hope I’m again surrounded by people I love. There is no other way to handle such a day.
But I’ve also learned from the neighbors who have become my friends that it’s not just a day like September 11th that one should have to handle alone. It’s any day. Because, on any day, your sense of balance might be thrown; your sense of the future might feel completely up for grabs; your sense of yourself might lose its context. And when that happens, it’s good to have people around you who never had to love you, but who chose to – over time.
+++
Sometimes, when I’m in my apartment, I’ll hear my neighbors chatting outside, and I’ll decide to join them. Other times when I hear them, I’ll decide to stay in. This is the privacy I always craved; the privacy I once thought was synonymous with being an unfriendly neighbor. This is respect and unconditional love. We place no requirements on our friendships. We have no expectations. We just happen to be there for each other. And the reality of that, which is bigger than all of us, enables each of us to grow in amazing ways.
***
2011 Postscript: This essay reflects an era that’s come and gone. With the exception of Tim, all referenced neighbors have moved away (though Deb and Julie remain dear friends). Several years ago, Jack sold the building to Stanley (an angel of a landlord), and last year, Stanley sold the building to some Not-a-Person, LLC. And so my building has become typical. I am blessed, though, for having “lived here when.” Few people get such an enchanting experience of love, spirit, and spontaneity. I will always be grateful for the timing.
+++
And so the beading continued. And as boutiques, galleries and museum stores began to take my memory wire bracelets on consignment, I expanded my horizons – creating earrings, necklaces, and clasp bracelets. I even gave in ultimately to the pressure of popular culture – I created a website.
It would be a while, though, before I would learn what the foray into jewelry design was about for me. And during that year (plus) of being immersed in glass beads – calmed by their colors, shapes and feel – I would learn what love and neighbors are about….
… Running downstairs and knocking on Tim’s door. I’ve got a date in ten minutes, but because I’ve just put lotion on my hands, I can’t maneuver the clasps on the bracelets I want to wear. Tim answers the door with a towel around his waist. He was just about to step into the shower – but, like the brother I never had, he answers the call. Fumbling (as guys do), he manages the clasps. He settles my nerves and wishes me “Godspeed” on my date. Were it not for the precariously draped towel, he would accompany that wish with a hug…
… Going to Debbi’s the morning after the big break-up conversation. Sitting on her couch and drinking coffee. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You didn’t drag it out.” Her tears for me, her tears for the process, allow me to cry, too…
… Calling Julie during one of those weeks in the middle. “I’m confused,” I say. “I need to talk this out.” Julie responds in a tone that goes with her cowboy curtains. “Come on down,” she says. By the time I get to her apartment, the bottle of Jack Daniels is on the table. Julie pours and listens. She asks the right questions. Her observations are so wise…
+++
September 11, 2001. I have a dental appointment, and because it’s a morning appointment, I am running late. I almost don’t notice the flashing light on my answering machine, but when I do, I decide to play it – quickly, before dashing out.
“Katie, oh God, it’s Deb – Are you up? Oh my God – I thought of you ‘cause of New York – Oh my God – the Trade Center’s been hit. And the Pentagon. Oh my God. This is major.”
Click.
But, it doesn’t click.
I have no idea what she was talking about in the message that was recorded while I was in heavy R.E.M.
I continue out the door, figuring I’ll stop by her place on my way to the dentist.
The front door to her first-floor apartment is slightly ajar. I push it open. “Deb?” I call. No response. But her TV is on. I stand there in her living room, looking at a shot of downtown Manhattan in a cloud. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. I cannot possibly process this.
I wonder where Debbi is, and for some reason, I still think I’m going to the dentist’s office. I head to the carport in the back. She and neighbor Kate are just returning from Starbuck’s.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask Deb. (I don’t want to go back to my apartment. Having seen people, I suddenly realize I need them.)
“Of course,” Deb responds. “Did you see – ?”
We go back into her apartment, and I call my dentist’s office. No problem cancelling – they’re closing up anyway. I then call my friend, Sue, with whom I am supposed to meet later regarding the book we’re working on. When I tell her I’m not coming over, that I’m not going anywhere, she’s disappointed. “Turn on your TV,” I tell her. “You’ll understand.”
Dan arrives, he and Debbi having recently made amends. It’s so good to see him, to get a Dan hug.
By mid-day, we’re all gathered around Deb’s TV. Julie had insisted on going to work at the hotel, but Tim’s there, and Sara. Kate pops in and out. We’re just looking at the screen, trying to process the event.
Suddenly, in the spirit of Elizabeth, we decide to pool our resources for a pot-luck. We all grab whatever’s appropriate from our respective refrigerators, and soon, we have a meal, complete with wine and beer. And when we need more wine and beer (and God knows, we will), we run down to the corner.
Together, we get through the day.
Later that night, I go into Deb’s kitchen to do some dishes. I need to get away from the television. As I begin soaping plates and glasses, something inside me opens up and allows me to feel. I turn off the water and quietly take myself outside, through Deb’s kitchen door. I sit on the short wall that borders the driveway, and I let myself bawl like a fucking baby.
After a few minutes, Julie comes out to see if I’m okay. “I thought you’d be out here crying,” she says, as she gives me a hug.
+++
I hope never again to experience the disorientation that was September 11th. But if I must, I hope I’m again surrounded by people I love. There is no other way to handle such a day.
But I’ve also learned from the neighbors who have become my friends that it’s not just a day like September 11th that one should have to handle alone. It’s any day. Because, on any day, your sense of balance might be thrown; your sense of the future might feel completely up for grabs; your sense of yourself might lose its context. And when that happens, it’s good to have people around you who never had to love you, but who chose to – over time.
+++
Sometimes, when I’m in my apartment, I’ll hear my neighbors chatting outside, and I’ll decide to join them. Other times when I hear them, I’ll decide to stay in. This is the privacy I always craved; the privacy I once thought was synonymous with being an unfriendly neighbor. This is respect and unconditional love. We place no requirements on our friendships. We have no expectations. We just happen to be there for each other. And the reality of that, which is bigger than all of us, enables each of us to grow in amazing ways.
***
2011 Postscript: This essay reflects an era that’s come and gone. With the exception of Tim, all referenced neighbors have moved away (though Deb and Julie remain dear friends). Several years ago, Jack sold the building to Stanley (an angel of a landlord), and last year, Stanley sold the building to some Not-a-Person, LLC. And so my building has become typical. I am blessed, though, for having “lived here when.” Few people get such an enchanting experience of love, spirit, and spontaneity. I will always be grateful for the timing.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
That Ol' Jack Magic - Unconditional Love in a Faulty Structure: Part Two
A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second installment of a three-part essay. To begin at the beginning, go here. (Or just scroll down to last Wednesday's post.)
+++
It’s weird for me to think back now on that short dialogue I had with Tim during the pre-Elizabethan era. He had moved into the apartment below mine probably about a year after me. We knew each other’s names, and we had had a few inconsequential conversations, but we were hardly friends. One day, we were both in the stairwell at the same time. I was at the top of the stairs, about to go into my apartment. He was at the bottom of the stairs, leaving his.
“Are you alright?” he asked, in an angry tone. “Because last night, your music woke me out of a deep sleep.” (He was pissed, and he had the right to be.)
“I’m sorry,” I said.
And I let him vent a little more. I apologized again. But I didn’t give the full explanation.
Because I didn’t know Tim then, I didn’t tell him what had preceded that night of loud, let-me-forget-the-day music. I had to put my cat to sleep that day. I had to say good-bye to Kitty, the cat I adopted in New York when I was only 20 years old.
Kitty had been a remarkable presence in my life. When I adopted her at the New York SPCA, I assumed I was bringing back to my college residence a little feline who would entertain my five suitemates and me. A toy; an object for our amusement. But, the tiny black kitten that returned with me to 116th Street wasn’t entertaining. In fact, as I would learn from the vet I took her to a few days later, she was dying.
She had not been weaned properly, and – despite the fatal prognosis – I was given some instructions that might work: I was to combine baby food with appetite enhancer and force it into her mouth with a rubber syringe. My friend Aileen’s boyfriend, Phil, immediately came to the plate to help me with this task, and we were a team. In spite of our teamwork, there always was a lot of sloppy goop tucked between Kitty’s tiny whiskers. But because of the teamwork, Kitty lived. For more than 18 years.
We had gone through a lot, Kitty and I. And part of what we had gone through was what she taught me those first few weeks I knew her: that I could take care of something; that I could give that something unconditional love.
It’s weird to think now that I couldn’t share with Tim what I had gone through the previous day. I only could apologize weakly and walk into my apartment, feeling guilty for having woke him up with the music I was blaring well past midnight. Were I going through the same thing today, he would know it. He would know, long before that last trip to the vet, that my cat was dying. And, just as he has offered to drive me to the airport in the years since, he probably would offer to drive me to the vet. And I would accept. I would be able to share the experience with him. Because he is not just my neighbor; he is my friend.
+++
And it’s weird to think what my apartment might still look like if Deb hadn’t moved into the building. Deb, whose eye and sense of daring, immediately pushed the envelope in her own apartment. Deb, who set a precedent for those who might say, “This is my space.”
I didn’t know Deb very well when I sought her advice regarding the painting of my living room, but I trusted her instincts. So I let her pick out the colors, and I followed her every direction. She helped at times, too, and we giggled as we worked together – something about those fumes, something about the whole endeavor. There’s nothing like moving your entire world into the middle of a space and changing the colors around it. Debbi showed me how energizing those changes could be.
And less than a year later, she again would drive the color scheme. I pointed to Colby, my red tabby cat, and said, “That’s the palette I want for my bedroom.” She fanned through her book of paint chips, starred two colors (neither of which actually exists on Colby), and gave me quick verbal instructions as to how to do a particular faux finish. Then, she was off to Colorado for Christmas. I would spend Christmas painting my bedroom, always with her cell phone number close at hand.
By the end of that week, a phenomenal transformation had taken place in my bedroom. And like some 21st Century cubist Cinderella, I would – from that point forward – sleep peacefully inside something that resembles a square pumpkin.
+++
Something was happening, during that time. I was not just changing the color of my apartment. I was changing the color of my life. The unexpected support from the people with whom I shared a roof was kicking in. The comfort was allowing me to open up, to see what the universe had in store.
I had held nonprofit staff jobs for 12 years, and they were never without their share of problems and frustrations. In August 2000, after an unusually lengthy search, I accepted a Development Director position that commanded a high salary (by nonprofit standards). But a bizarre thing happened at about the same time…
I had plans one Saturday to meet my friend Maria in Santa Monica. We’d agreed to a loose agenda. We would eat brunch wherever, and then we’d walk down Main Street. Browse through the shops. My personal agenda was to treat myself to a bracelet – a memory wire bracelet, specifically. (And this was a rather odd agenda for me to entertain. With the exception of earrings, I had never been one to buy – or care much about – jewelry.)
Maria and I picked a brunch spot randomly, and after we ate, we headed south on Main Street. The first store we came upon had window displays that were seductive. Window displays that implied jewelry. We walked in. And I realized immediately that we had just walked into a bead store.
“Hmm…” I thought, scoping the room. “Maybe I’ll just make a bracelet.”
+++
It’s no secret that I have an addictive personality, and by the time I shared my creations with Julie, who was the first of the neighbors to see them, my bowl o’ bracelets already was teeming.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, in her warm and compassionate way. “You’re going outside yourself.”
Debbi had just returned from a production trip, and Julie saw her before I did. “Katie’s doing something completely different,” Julie told Deb. “And I’m not going to tell you what it is. You just have to see!”
I remember that night in late summer when I debuted my bowl o’ bracelets on Debbi’s stoop. I watched as my neighbor friends pawed over the new collection, trying them on and modeling them for each other. Julie already had bought one. Now Deb and new neighbor Sara would make their selections.
to be continued on September 7th.
+++
It’s weird for me to think back now on that short dialogue I had with Tim during the pre-Elizabethan era. He had moved into the apartment below mine probably about a year after me. We knew each other’s names, and we had had a few inconsequential conversations, but we were hardly friends. One day, we were both in the stairwell at the same time. I was at the top of the stairs, about to go into my apartment. He was at the bottom of the stairs, leaving his.
“Are you alright?” he asked, in an angry tone. “Because last night, your music woke me out of a deep sleep.” (He was pissed, and he had the right to be.)
“I’m sorry,” I said.
And I let him vent a little more. I apologized again. But I didn’t give the full explanation.
Because I didn’t know Tim then, I didn’t tell him what had preceded that night of loud, let-me-forget-the-day music. I had to put my cat to sleep that day. I had to say good-bye to Kitty, the cat I adopted in New York when I was only 20 years old.
Kitty had been a remarkable presence in my life. When I adopted her at the New York SPCA, I assumed I was bringing back to my college residence a little feline who would entertain my five suitemates and me. A toy; an object for our amusement. But, the tiny black kitten that returned with me to 116th Street wasn’t entertaining. In fact, as I would learn from the vet I took her to a few days later, she was dying.
She had not been weaned properly, and – despite the fatal prognosis – I was given some instructions that might work: I was to combine baby food with appetite enhancer and force it into her mouth with a rubber syringe. My friend Aileen’s boyfriend, Phil, immediately came to the plate to help me with this task, and we were a team. In spite of our teamwork, there always was a lot of sloppy goop tucked between Kitty’s tiny whiskers. But because of the teamwork, Kitty lived. For more than 18 years.
We had gone through a lot, Kitty and I. And part of what we had gone through was what she taught me those first few weeks I knew her: that I could take care of something; that I could give that something unconditional love.
It’s weird to think now that I couldn’t share with Tim what I had gone through the previous day. I only could apologize weakly and walk into my apartment, feeling guilty for having woke him up with the music I was blaring well past midnight. Were I going through the same thing today, he would know it. He would know, long before that last trip to the vet, that my cat was dying. And, just as he has offered to drive me to the airport in the years since, he probably would offer to drive me to the vet. And I would accept. I would be able to share the experience with him. Because he is not just my neighbor; he is my friend.
+++
And it’s weird to think what my apartment might still look like if Deb hadn’t moved into the building. Deb, whose eye and sense of daring, immediately pushed the envelope in her own apartment. Deb, who set a precedent for those who might say, “This is my space.”
I didn’t know Deb very well when I sought her advice regarding the painting of my living room, but I trusted her instincts. So I let her pick out the colors, and I followed her every direction. She helped at times, too, and we giggled as we worked together – something about those fumes, something about the whole endeavor. There’s nothing like moving your entire world into the middle of a space and changing the colors around it. Debbi showed me how energizing those changes could be.
And less than a year later, she again would drive the color scheme. I pointed to Colby, my red tabby cat, and said, “That’s the palette I want for my bedroom.” She fanned through her book of paint chips, starred two colors (neither of which actually exists on Colby), and gave me quick verbal instructions as to how to do a particular faux finish. Then, she was off to Colorado for Christmas. I would spend Christmas painting my bedroom, always with her cell phone number close at hand.
By the end of that week, a phenomenal transformation had taken place in my bedroom. And like some 21st Century cubist Cinderella, I would – from that point forward – sleep peacefully inside something that resembles a square pumpkin.
+++
Something was happening, during that time. I was not just changing the color of my apartment. I was changing the color of my life. The unexpected support from the people with whom I shared a roof was kicking in. The comfort was allowing me to open up, to see what the universe had in store.
I had held nonprofit staff jobs for 12 years, and they were never without their share of problems and frustrations. In August 2000, after an unusually lengthy search, I accepted a Development Director position that commanded a high salary (by nonprofit standards). But a bizarre thing happened at about the same time…
I had plans one Saturday to meet my friend Maria in Santa Monica. We’d agreed to a loose agenda. We would eat brunch wherever, and then we’d walk down Main Street. Browse through the shops. My personal agenda was to treat myself to a bracelet – a memory wire bracelet, specifically. (And this was a rather odd agenda for me to entertain. With the exception of earrings, I had never been one to buy – or care much about – jewelry.)
Maria and I picked a brunch spot randomly, and after we ate, we headed south on Main Street. The first store we came upon had window displays that were seductive. Window displays that implied jewelry. We walked in. And I realized immediately that we had just walked into a bead store.
“Hmm…” I thought, scoping the room. “Maybe I’ll just make a bracelet.”
+++
It’s no secret that I have an addictive personality, and by the time I shared my creations with Julie, who was the first of the neighbors to see them, my bowl o’ bracelets already was teeming.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, in her warm and compassionate way. “You’re going outside yourself.”
Debbi had just returned from a production trip, and Julie saw her before I did. “Katie’s doing something completely different,” Julie told Deb. “And I’m not going to tell you what it is. You just have to see!”
I remember that night in late summer when I debuted my bowl o’ bracelets on Debbi’s stoop. I watched as my neighbor friends pawed over the new collection, trying them on and modeling them for each other. Julie already had bought one. Now Deb and new neighbor Sara would make their selections.
to be continued on September 7th.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
That Ol’ Jack Magic – Unconditional Love in a Faulty Structure: Part One
A NOTE BEFORE READING: Today’s post and the two Wednesday posts that will follow it come from a memoir project: five Catalysts and five Constants. The project’s essays are all quite a bit longer than my usual posts, so I am going to share this one in three installments.
I should make one thing clear from the start: I don’t like Jack.
In fact, there have been times when I really have not liked Jack. And there have been times when my feelings for him have gone way beyond “really not liking.” His behavior and his firm inaction are unfathomable, and because he is nothing more than my landlord, I shouldn’t have to entertain feelings about him – ever. But, on occasion, I have had no choice.
Like that time my kitchen faucet essentially exploded at half past midnight, shooting water across the room. Thank God I had not gone to sleep yet, and thank God my neighbors weren’t sleeping too deeply. Though I didn’t know any one of them very well back then, they responded to my calls for “HELP!” Several of them bailed water out of my kitchen while another figured out how to turn off the flow to the entire building – the only way to end the potentially decapitating stream that was bursting out of the wall.
Jack’s got some messed-up pipes, I want to tell you.
And then there was that really scary time that my leg went through the deck/walkway outside my second-floor kitchen door. When I realized I couldn’t pull it out of the hole it had created, I yelled “HELP!” once again. Neighbors responded. Among them were a few who had become friends.
“Call 9-1-1!” I blurted out, realizing – for the first time in my life – that when you need 9-1-1, you know it. And although it should have been a relief to have the fire department arrive, I couldn’t help but feel even more vulnerable at that point. With five firemen surrounding me, I believed there was no way the deck would hold up. And when it collapsed, I’d still be stuck in the wood. My head cracked open on the pavement below.
But the deck didn’t give, and the firemen did get me out. They had to use an electric saw that I watched as it cut the wood just inches from my leg. By then, a crowd from the neighborhood had gathered. I was convinced after that evening that I would probably be a feature of “Show and Tell” in a few local classrooms the next morning.
Jack’s got some soft wood, I want to tell you.
About four months after the deck incident, I was in my living room with my Mom, who was visiting from Virginia. It was a typically hot October day in L.A., so we had the air conditioner running. (A window unit that came with the apartment; something that could probably get a nice chunk of change at the Antiques Roadshow.) Suddenly, there was a funky smell. I saw smoke coming out of the wall socket into which the air conditioner was plugged. I quickly turned off the unit and called the fire department. They arrived within minutes, checked it out and told me not to use the outlet again until an electrician could make the necessary repairs. I immediately called one, and he came over that afternoon.
The electrician replaced whatever needed to be replaced, and I wrote him a check. When I sent Jack my rent the following month, I enclosed the electrician’s receipt, deducted the cost, and explained my math in a note. The next week, I received a bill from Jack for the amount I had deducted. It stated that no repairs can be made without the landlord’s prior approval.
Jack’s got some strange wiring, I want to tell you.
But there’s one other thing about Jack that I cannot deny or overlook. He brought to this building the most amazing tenants. And he brought to this tenant the most amazing friends. It’s magic. It’s bigger than all of us. And it’s definitely not something that I made happen.
+++
“I’m not a friendly neighbor,” I once confessed to my mother, some months after moving from my marriage into Jack’s building.
“That’s because you lived in New York,” she responded.
Maybe there was truth to her theory. For someone else. But I think, for me, the embracing of privacy came first. I think that the reason I chose New York – for college, and for the eleven years that would follow college – is that I craved the option of being anonymous. After growing up in a small town in Virginia, I didn’t want people to know me or to know my business. Sure, I always would have close friends, and they would know more about me than they probably cared to know, but I still guarded my privacy. And as a tenant, I cultivated it. Until…
“Hi, Katie!” Therese calls out through her first-floor living room window.
“Hi, Therese!” I respond, smiling, as I head to my car in the back lot.
(So much for Mom’s theory, I think. Therese lived in New York, too.)
But Mom’s New York theory was not disproved by Therese. It was disproved by Elizabeth, who had moved into the building several months earlier than Therese. Elizabeth, in her own inimitable style, introduced us all to each other. Elizabeth – who also had lived in New York, by the way – brought to Jack’s building her unique brand of Texan hospitality. She had an indefatigable ability to inspire us to pool our resources for a night of partying. Before we knew it, we all chipped in for a grill. And once we were fed, we gathered in her living room for party games. It became a weekend routine, and one that I welcomed. A nice way to relax and interact without going out.
I still didn’t feel particularly close to any of my individual neighbors, but I was enjoying the communion. It was good to become friendly with these people with whom I shared a roof – with whom I shared the pipes, the wood, and the wiring that were unique to Jack. We always had landlord stories to swap, that’s for sure. And Elizabeth seemed to have more of them than anyone.
Of course, where she was concerned, Jack did have a case. Whether we liked it or not, every eviction notice he ever posted on her door was issued validly. She always seemed to be behind on her rent as she pursued a career that might be worthy of her phenomenal singing voice. And I would miss that voice. I would miss hearing her hit every note perfectly, never requiring musical accompaniment.
And I would appreciate always what she had brought to the building.
The first Christmas season after she moved in, I taped a holiday card to her front door. “Dear Elizabeth,” I had written inside, “When I tell my friends about the new energy in my building, I always tell them that one person made it happen. She’s our building’s ‘Fraulein Maria.’ Because of her, there’s music in the house again. I thank you for that, and my only regret is that Jack bears no resemblance whatsoever to Christopher Plummer. Those are the breaks. Love, Katie.”
Remembering that note now, what strikes me is that when I referred to “friends,” I was thinking about the people I knew outside the building.
…But something would happen around the time Elizabeth moved. The bonds that had been created during loud parties and competitive party games would become stronger. Among a few of us, there would be more quiet, one-on-one moments. We would share problems, secrets, and dreams. We’d still have the larger gatherings on the stoop or around the grill, but something deeper than simple socializing among neighbors was emerging.
to be continued on August 31st.
I should make one thing clear from the start: I don’t like Jack.
In fact, there have been times when I really have not liked Jack. And there have been times when my feelings for him have gone way beyond “really not liking.” His behavior and his firm inaction are unfathomable, and because he is nothing more than my landlord, I shouldn’t have to entertain feelings about him – ever. But, on occasion, I have had no choice.
Like that time my kitchen faucet essentially exploded at half past midnight, shooting water across the room. Thank God I had not gone to sleep yet, and thank God my neighbors weren’t sleeping too deeply. Though I didn’t know any one of them very well back then, they responded to my calls for “HELP!” Several of them bailed water out of my kitchen while another figured out how to turn off the flow to the entire building – the only way to end the potentially decapitating stream that was bursting out of the wall.
Jack’s got some messed-up pipes, I want to tell you.
And then there was that really scary time that my leg went through the deck/walkway outside my second-floor kitchen door. When I realized I couldn’t pull it out of the hole it had created, I yelled “HELP!” once again. Neighbors responded. Among them were a few who had become friends.
“Call 9-1-1!” I blurted out, realizing – for the first time in my life – that when you need 9-1-1, you know it. And although it should have been a relief to have the fire department arrive, I couldn’t help but feel even more vulnerable at that point. With five firemen surrounding me, I believed there was no way the deck would hold up. And when it collapsed, I’d still be stuck in the wood. My head cracked open on the pavement below.
But the deck didn’t give, and the firemen did get me out. They had to use an electric saw that I watched as it cut the wood just inches from my leg. By then, a crowd from the neighborhood had gathered. I was convinced after that evening that I would probably be a feature of “Show and Tell” in a few local classrooms the next morning.
Jack’s got some soft wood, I want to tell you.
About four months after the deck incident, I was in my living room with my Mom, who was visiting from Virginia. It was a typically hot October day in L.A., so we had the air conditioner running. (A window unit that came with the apartment; something that could probably get a nice chunk of change at the Antiques Roadshow.) Suddenly, there was a funky smell. I saw smoke coming out of the wall socket into which the air conditioner was plugged. I quickly turned off the unit and called the fire department. They arrived within minutes, checked it out and told me not to use the outlet again until an electrician could make the necessary repairs. I immediately called one, and he came over that afternoon.
The electrician replaced whatever needed to be replaced, and I wrote him a check. When I sent Jack my rent the following month, I enclosed the electrician’s receipt, deducted the cost, and explained my math in a note. The next week, I received a bill from Jack for the amount I had deducted. It stated that no repairs can be made without the landlord’s prior approval.
Jack’s got some strange wiring, I want to tell you.
But there’s one other thing about Jack that I cannot deny or overlook. He brought to this building the most amazing tenants. And he brought to this tenant the most amazing friends. It’s magic. It’s bigger than all of us. And it’s definitely not something that I made happen.
+++
“I’m not a friendly neighbor,” I once confessed to my mother, some months after moving from my marriage into Jack’s building.
“That’s because you lived in New York,” she responded.
Maybe there was truth to her theory. For someone else. But I think, for me, the embracing of privacy came first. I think that the reason I chose New York – for college, and for the eleven years that would follow college – is that I craved the option of being anonymous. After growing up in a small town in Virginia, I didn’t want people to know me or to know my business. Sure, I always would have close friends, and they would know more about me than they probably cared to know, but I still guarded my privacy. And as a tenant, I cultivated it. Until…
“Hi, Katie!” Therese calls out through her first-floor living room window.
“Hi, Therese!” I respond, smiling, as I head to my car in the back lot.
(So much for Mom’s theory, I think. Therese lived in New York, too.)
But Mom’s New York theory was not disproved by Therese. It was disproved by Elizabeth, who had moved into the building several months earlier than Therese. Elizabeth, in her own inimitable style, introduced us all to each other. Elizabeth – who also had lived in New York, by the way – brought to Jack’s building her unique brand of Texan hospitality. She had an indefatigable ability to inspire us to pool our resources for a night of partying. Before we knew it, we all chipped in for a grill. And once we were fed, we gathered in her living room for party games. It became a weekend routine, and one that I welcomed. A nice way to relax and interact without going out.
I still didn’t feel particularly close to any of my individual neighbors, but I was enjoying the communion. It was good to become friendly with these people with whom I shared a roof – with whom I shared the pipes, the wood, and the wiring that were unique to Jack. We always had landlord stories to swap, that’s for sure. And Elizabeth seemed to have more of them than anyone.
Of course, where she was concerned, Jack did have a case. Whether we liked it or not, every eviction notice he ever posted on her door was issued validly. She always seemed to be behind on her rent as she pursued a career that might be worthy of her phenomenal singing voice. And I would miss that voice. I would miss hearing her hit every note perfectly, never requiring musical accompaniment.
And I would appreciate always what she had brought to the building.
The first Christmas season after she moved in, I taped a holiday card to her front door. “Dear Elizabeth,” I had written inside, “When I tell my friends about the new energy in my building, I always tell them that one person made it happen. She’s our building’s ‘Fraulein Maria.’ Because of her, there’s music in the house again. I thank you for that, and my only regret is that Jack bears no resemblance whatsoever to Christopher Plummer. Those are the breaks. Love, Katie.”
Remembering that note now, what strikes me is that when I referred to “friends,” I was thinking about the people I knew outside the building.
…But something would happen around the time Elizabeth moved. The bonds that had been created during loud parties and competitive party games would become stronger. Among a few of us, there would be more quiet, one-on-one moments. We would share problems, secrets, and dreams. We’d still have the larger gatherings on the stoop or around the grill, but something deeper than simple socializing among neighbors was emerging.
to be continued on August 31st.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Monday Reruns: The High Cost of Low Rent
(original post-date: March 3, 2010)
Back when I lived in New York, there were always neighbors whose rent I envied. On Broadway and 108th Street – my first post-college digs – a dynamic guy named Manny lived next door. He had an expansive corner unit that was easily half-again the size of the apartment my roommate and I shared. And because he’d been there for way more than a few years, Manny’s rent was dirt cheap – significantly lower, anyway, than what my roommate and I were forking over for an airshaft view.
Three apartments and about eight years later, I was living in Brooklyn, on the edge of Park Slope. My then-husband referred to our area as “Park Slop,” and he did have a point in designating it as such. But, we were close enough to the hub of trendiness. High-end retail venues and a variety of great restaurants were just two blocks up First Street, and beyond that were the types of brownstones that inspire one to play Lotto regularly.
When we moved to “the Slope,” we committed to a rent that would soon cross the $1,000 mark. I realize that seems incredibly low by today’s standards, but at the time, it was average, and insofar as my husband and I were the starving-artist types, average was a stretch.
As for the building’s average, that’s another issue. Within weeks, I was once again envying the next door neighbors.
Okay, I probably should clarify that. I didn’t actually envy Blanche and Maria. I envied their rent. Thanks to rent control, they paid about $175 a month. Of course, I should mention that this mother and daughter combo had a relatively small one-bedroom, whereas my husband and I had a fairly spacious two-bedroom. So, while my husband and I chose to share a bed, Blanche and Maria felt compelled to share a bed. Not an optimum situation for a two-generation family pair whose combined age exceeded 100 years. But still: a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a one-bedroom in Park Slope? Really?
Oh, how I used to envy those people who had been around for so long!
And, now… I have become that person.
I’ve lived in my Los Feliz/East Hollywood apartment for more than 15 years, and I still don’t pay as much rent as I paid in Park Slope. But the folks moving into my building? They’re paying more than that Brooklyn rent, even when you factor in the reductions my landlord has had to offer in the current economy.
Yes, I have finally become the neighbor I always envied.
But I’ve also learned that there’s a price.
When you’ve lived in a building as long as I’ve lived in this one, you find yourself saying good-bye to people who have become family. And it’s really hard to see them go.
There were glory years here, and they probably kicked in around 2001 or so. That’s when the sense of sibling-hood among four of us really solidified. It was a good feeling, going to bed at night, knowing that I shared my roof with loved ones.
But almost two years ago, Julie moved. She’s just 40 miles away, but she’s no longer under the roof…
And last weekend, Deb headed back to Colorado, where she will initially share a roof with her real siblings.
So now it’s just Tim and me. The upstairs/downstairs sibs. We were both here for several years before Julie and Deb arrived. Who knows how long either of us will stay?
I appreciate my cheap rent. I really do. Having watched the turnover around me, though, I get a little worried. I don’t want to become the old lady in the building.
But time is time.
The longer I stay, the older I get.
The longer I stay, the less likely it is that I will move.
… I tearfully bid good-bye to my younger surrogate siblings, and I wish them well as they start new journeys. I stay behind, possessing the rent I always envied. Still, though, as I did in Park Slope, I look covetously at the real estate that is just a few blocks up the hill. I play Lotto, and I dream.
Back when I lived in New York, there were always neighbors whose rent I envied. On Broadway and 108th Street – my first post-college digs – a dynamic guy named Manny lived next door. He had an expansive corner unit that was easily half-again the size of the apartment my roommate and I shared. And because he’d been there for way more than a few years, Manny’s rent was dirt cheap – significantly lower, anyway, than what my roommate and I were forking over for an airshaft view.
Three apartments and about eight years later, I was living in Brooklyn, on the edge of Park Slope. My then-husband referred to our area as “Park Slop,” and he did have a point in designating it as such. But, we were close enough to the hub of trendiness. High-end retail venues and a variety of great restaurants were just two blocks up First Street, and beyond that were the types of brownstones that inspire one to play Lotto regularly.
When we moved to “the Slope,” we committed to a rent that would soon cross the $1,000 mark. I realize that seems incredibly low by today’s standards, but at the time, it was average, and insofar as my husband and I were the starving-artist types, average was a stretch.
As for the building’s average, that’s another issue. Within weeks, I was once again envying the next door neighbors.
Okay, I probably should clarify that. I didn’t actually envy Blanche and Maria. I envied their rent. Thanks to rent control, they paid about $175 a month. Of course, I should mention that this mother and daughter combo had a relatively small one-bedroom, whereas my husband and I had a fairly spacious two-bedroom. So, while my husband and I chose to share a bed, Blanche and Maria felt compelled to share a bed. Not an optimum situation for a two-generation family pair whose combined age exceeded 100 years. But still: a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a one-bedroom in Park Slope? Really?
Oh, how I used to envy those people who had been around for so long!
And, now… I have become that person.
I’ve lived in my Los Feliz/East Hollywood apartment for more than 15 years, and I still don’t pay as much rent as I paid in Park Slope. But the folks moving into my building? They’re paying more than that Brooklyn rent, even when you factor in the reductions my landlord has had to offer in the current economy.
Yes, I have finally become the neighbor I always envied.
But I’ve also learned that there’s a price.
When you’ve lived in a building as long as I’ve lived in this one, you find yourself saying good-bye to people who have become family. And it’s really hard to see them go.
There were glory years here, and they probably kicked in around 2001 or so. That’s when the sense of sibling-hood among four of us really solidified. It was a good feeling, going to bed at night, knowing that I shared my roof with loved ones.
But almost two years ago, Julie moved. She’s just 40 miles away, but she’s no longer under the roof…
And last weekend, Deb headed back to Colorado, where she will initially share a roof with her real siblings.
So now it’s just Tim and me. The upstairs/downstairs sibs. We were both here for several years before Julie and Deb arrived. Who knows how long either of us will stay?
I appreciate my cheap rent. I really do. Having watched the turnover around me, though, I get a little worried. I don’t want to become the old lady in the building.
But time is time.
The longer I stay, the older I get.
The longer I stay, the less likely it is that I will move.
… I tearfully bid good-bye to my younger surrogate siblings, and I wish them well as they start new journeys. I stay behind, possessing the rent I always envied. Still, though, as I did in Park Slope, I look covetously at the real estate that is just a few blocks up the hill. I play Lotto, and I dream.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Monday Reruns: Laughing at OCD
(original post-date: November 18, 2009)
I appreciate that, for some people, obsessive compulsive disorder is no laughing matter. In one manifestation of OCD, an afflicted individual must constantly stop his car, get out of it, and check to make sure he didn’t just run over some formerly living thing. In another, the disordered person is compelled to wash her hands so frequently that the skin becomes raw and is rid of its capacity to stave off bad bacteria.
I feel for these people. I really do. A brain disorder can disrupt personal freedom in a big way. It can become the monster in the room that breaks deals and thwarts growth.
My manifestation of OCD, however, is downright comical, and my former husband (whom we’ll call Ben) knew how to make us both laugh at it. Once, when we were shopping at Ralphs together, I tossed a box of tampons in our cart. “Did you check the date?” he asked, with deadpan delivery.
An hour or so later, after we had returned home and put away the groceries, I went into the living room. Ben stayed behind in the kitchen to make a sandwich. We had just bought peanut butter, jelly, and bread, so how could he resist?
After a few minutes, Ben entered the living room. He was carrying the jar of peanut butter and wearing an expressionless face. He approached the couch, where I was sitting. And as he slowly opened the jar, he asked, with feigned concern, “Do you think this is okay?”
He then held out the opened jar. Written into the smooth top of the fresh peanut butter was the word, “DIE.”
Quite a card, that ex-husband o’ mine. With the tine of a fork, he could make me laugh at myself.
These days, I share OCD laughs with my neighbor and friend, Neil*. We are afflicted by similar manifestations of the disorder. Which is to say, we both tend to check things multiple times (particularly things that might catch on fire). And we share the concern that otherwise edible foods and beverages might be tainted.
One afternoon a few years ago, I was returning home, and Neil heard me approach the courtyard we share. Before I’d had a chance to head upstairs to my apartment, he flung open his door across the way. He had that deer-in-headlights look – clearly upset about something.
He then explained that his cat had just walked across his desk, and when she did so, her tail brushed against his teeth. He wondered if…
Neil didn’t need to explain. Adapting a comforting tone, I said, “I’ve got some Listerine upstairs. Do you wanna come up and have a quick gargle?”
He thought that was a good idea, and so we headed up my stairs together.
Once we were in the kitchen, I pulled a small glass out of the cabinet and filled it with about a quarter-inch of Listerine. I handed it to him. Then, like two athletes in some relay event, we crossed paths. He headed to the sink as I went in the other direction.
But my eyes widened in a big way when he reached for the cold-water knob and began, “I’ll just dilute—”
“Not THAT water!” I screamed, interrupting him.
With no further ado, we both doubled over laughing.
Neil’s concern for what his cat’s tail might have left on his teeth was trumped in that moment by my fear of unfiltered L.A. water.
Crazy advises crazy. Nuts is there to provide solace to nuts. Our fears are absurd, and we both know it. But they’re our fears. Our often humorous fears. We own them, and we’re there for each other.
We’re there to laugh together at the people we just can’t help but be.
+++
*not his real name
I appreciate that, for some people, obsessive compulsive disorder is no laughing matter. In one manifestation of OCD, an afflicted individual must constantly stop his car, get out of it, and check to make sure he didn’t just run over some formerly living thing. In another, the disordered person is compelled to wash her hands so frequently that the skin becomes raw and is rid of its capacity to stave off bad bacteria.
I feel for these people. I really do. A brain disorder can disrupt personal freedom in a big way. It can become the monster in the room that breaks deals and thwarts growth.
My manifestation of OCD, however, is downright comical, and my former husband (whom we’ll call Ben) knew how to make us both laugh at it. Once, when we were shopping at Ralphs together, I tossed a box of tampons in our cart. “Did you check the date?” he asked, with deadpan delivery.
An hour or so later, after we had returned home and put away the groceries, I went into the living room. Ben stayed behind in the kitchen to make a sandwich. We had just bought peanut butter, jelly, and bread, so how could he resist?
After a few minutes, Ben entered the living room. He was carrying the jar of peanut butter and wearing an expressionless face. He approached the couch, where I was sitting. And as he slowly opened the jar, he asked, with feigned concern, “Do you think this is okay?”
He then held out the opened jar. Written into the smooth top of the fresh peanut butter was the word, “DIE.”
Quite a card, that ex-husband o’ mine. With the tine of a fork, he could make me laugh at myself.
These days, I share OCD laughs with my neighbor and friend, Neil*. We are afflicted by similar manifestations of the disorder. Which is to say, we both tend to check things multiple times (particularly things that might catch on fire). And we share the concern that otherwise edible foods and beverages might be tainted.
One afternoon a few years ago, I was returning home, and Neil heard me approach the courtyard we share. Before I’d had a chance to head upstairs to my apartment, he flung open his door across the way. He had that deer-in-headlights look – clearly upset about something.
He then explained that his cat had just walked across his desk, and when she did so, her tail brushed against his teeth. He wondered if…
Neil didn’t need to explain. Adapting a comforting tone, I said, “I’ve got some Listerine upstairs. Do you wanna come up and have a quick gargle?”
He thought that was a good idea, and so we headed up my stairs together.
Once we were in the kitchen, I pulled a small glass out of the cabinet and filled it with about a quarter-inch of Listerine. I handed it to him. Then, like two athletes in some relay event, we crossed paths. He headed to the sink as I went in the other direction.
But my eyes widened in a big way when he reached for the cold-water knob and began, “I’ll just dilute—”
“Not THAT water!” I screamed, interrupting him.
With no further ado, we both doubled over laughing.
Neil’s concern for what his cat’s tail might have left on his teeth was trumped in that moment by my fear of unfiltered L.A. water.
Crazy advises crazy. Nuts is there to provide solace to nuts. Our fears are absurd, and we both know it. But they’re our fears. Our often humorous fears. We own them, and we’re there for each other.
We’re there to laugh together at the people we just can’t help but be.
+++
*not his real name
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The High Cost of Low Rent
Back when I lived in New York, there were always neighbors whose rent I envied. On Broadway and 108th Street – my first post-college digs – a dynamic guy named Manny lived next door. He had an expansive corner unit that was easily half-again the size of the apartment my roommate and I shared. And because he’d been there for way more than a few years, Manny’s rent was dirt cheap – significantly lower, anyway, than what my roommate and I were forking over for an airshaft view.
Three apartments and about eight years later, I was living in Brooklyn, on the edge of Park Slope. My then-husband referred to our area as “Park Slop,” and he did have a point in designating it as such. But, we were close enough to the hub of trendiness. High-end retail venues and a variety of great restaurants were just two blocks up First Street, and beyond that were the types of brownstones that inspire one to play Lotto regularly.
When we moved to “the Slope,” we committed to a rent that would soon cross the $1,000 mark. I realize that seems incredibly low by today’s standards, but at the time, it was average, and insofar as my husband and I were the starving-artist types, average was a stretch.
As for the building’s average, that’s another issue. Within weeks, I was once again envying the next door neighbors.
Okay, I probably should clarify that. I didn’t actually envy Blanche and Maria. I envied their rent. Thanks to rent control, they paid about $175 a month. Of course, I should mention that this mother and daughter combo had a relatively small one-bedroom, whereas my husband and I had a fairly spacious two-bedroom. So, while my husband and I chose to share a bed, Blanche and Maria felt compelled to share a bed. Not an optimum situation for a two-generation family pair whose combined age exceeded 100 years. But still: a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a one-bedroom in Park Slope? Really?
Oh, how I used to envy those people who had been around for so long!
And, now… I have become that person.
I’ve lived in my Los Feliz/East Hollywood apartment for more than 15 years, and I still don’t pay as much rent as I paid in Park Slope. But the folks moving into my building? They’re paying more than that Brooklyn rent, even when you factor in the reductions my landlord has had to offer in the current economy.
Yes, I have finally become the neighbor I always envied.
But I’ve also learned that there’s a price.
When you’ve lived in a building as long as I’ve lived in this one, you find yourself saying good-bye to people who have become family. And it’s really hard to see them go.
There were glory years here, and they probably kicked in around 2001 or so. That’s when the sense of sibling-hood among four of us really solidified. It was a good feeling, going to bed at night, knowing that I shared my roof with loved ones.
But almost two years ago, Julie moved. She’s just 40 miles away, but she’s no longer under the roof…
And last weekend, Deb headed back to Colorado, where she will initially share a roof with her real siblings.
So now it’s just Tim and me. The upstairs/downstairs sibs. We were both here for several years before Julie and Deb arrived. Who knows how long either of us will stay?
I appreciate my cheap rent. I really do. Having watched the turnover around me, though, I get a little worried. I don’t want to become the old lady in the building.
But time is time.
The longer I stay, the older I get.
The longer I stay, the less likely it is that I will move.
… I tearfully bid good-bye to my younger surrogate siblings, and I wish them well as they start new journeys. I stay behind, possessing the rent I always envied.
Still, though, as I did in Park Slope, I look covetously at the real estate that is just a few blocks up the hill. I play Lotto, and I dream.
Three apartments and about eight years later, I was living in Brooklyn, on the edge of Park Slope. My then-husband referred to our area as “Park Slop,” and he did have a point in designating it as such. But, we were close enough to the hub of trendiness. High-end retail venues and a variety of great restaurants were just two blocks up First Street, and beyond that were the types of brownstones that inspire one to play Lotto regularly.
When we moved to “the Slope,” we committed to a rent that would soon cross the $1,000 mark. I realize that seems incredibly low by today’s standards, but at the time, it was average, and insofar as my husband and I were the starving-artist types, average was a stretch.
As for the building’s average, that’s another issue. Within weeks, I was once again envying the next door neighbors.
Okay, I probably should clarify that. I didn’t actually envy Blanche and Maria. I envied their rent. Thanks to rent control, they paid about $175 a month. Of course, I should mention that this mother and daughter combo had a relatively small one-bedroom, whereas my husband and I had a fairly spacious two-bedroom. So, while my husband and I chose to share a bed, Blanche and Maria felt compelled to share a bed. Not an optimum situation for a two-generation family pair whose combined age exceeded 100 years. But still: a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a one-bedroom in Park Slope? Really?
Oh, how I used to envy those people who had been around for so long!
And, now… I have become that person.
I’ve lived in my Los Feliz/East Hollywood apartment for more than 15 years, and I still don’t pay as much rent as I paid in Park Slope. But the folks moving into my building? They’re paying more than that Brooklyn rent, even when you factor in the reductions my landlord has had to offer in the current economy.
Yes, I have finally become the neighbor I always envied.
But I’ve also learned that there’s a price.
When you’ve lived in a building as long as I’ve lived in this one, you find yourself saying good-bye to people who have become family. And it’s really hard to see them go.
There were glory years here, and they probably kicked in around 2001 or so. That’s when the sense of sibling-hood among four of us really solidified. It was a good feeling, going to bed at night, knowing that I shared my roof with loved ones.
But almost two years ago, Julie moved. She’s just 40 miles away, but she’s no longer under the roof…
And last weekend, Deb headed back to Colorado, where she will initially share a roof with her real siblings.
So now it’s just Tim and me. The upstairs/downstairs sibs. We were both here for several years before Julie and Deb arrived. Who knows how long either of us will stay?
I appreciate my cheap rent. I really do. Having watched the turnover around me, though, I get a little worried. I don’t want to become the old lady in the building.
But time is time.
The longer I stay, the older I get.
The longer I stay, the less likely it is that I will move.
… I tearfully bid good-bye to my younger surrogate siblings, and I wish them well as they start new journeys. I stay behind, possessing the rent I always envied.
Still, though, as I did in Park Slope, I look covetously at the real estate that is just a few blocks up the hill. I play Lotto, and I dream.
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