I live in hell.
Sure, they’ve finally moved the dumpster onto pavement. And, for some reason, they’ve posted this sign saying that the dumpster is for tenant use only—since there seems to be an abnormally high amount of garbage in the dumpster every week (perhaps because one dumpster isn’t enough for twenty-seven apartments . . . hmmmm).
And, they’ve instated this Gestapo rule about fining people $100 if they don’t clean up after their pets (though, how they’re going to enforce that one is beyond me—they’re either going to have to have security policing the grounds 24 hours a day, or they’re going to have to DNA test the dog poop).
But let’s face it. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is still a level in hell. You can polish a turd all you want. It’s still a turd.
The virulent mold on my bathroom ceiling continues to thrive. And, though I haven’t caught any more tiny livestock, Teddy continues to sniff around the spare room as if hunting something. Occasionally, I catch him barking at the corner. Usually, I just keep the door closed and ignore that there’s another room in my apartment.
Friday, I awoke bright and early. I got my car inspected and my oil changed. I went to the library and picked up some trashy books to read. I ran by the college to play mother hen and cluck about for a bit, happy to find that in the midst of a run, they DON’T need me. Which is as it should be. Then, I went to the grocery store, something I haven’t done in over two weeks. I gleefully restocked my kitchen. I walked the brat. And then I decided to do some laundry.
The laundry room here at the glorious Tekoa Mt. Apartments is in the basement of the main building, in what used to be a dirt cellar. To get to the laundry room, you have to first maneuver your way through a tightly sprung wooden door that opens immediately onto three very steep, very uneven steps. There is no landing at the top of these steps. Nor is there a landing at the bottom. Instead, there is another door, equally as tightly sprung. It is a hollow, metal door that you have to turn the doorknob and then shove open with your shoulder—all while balancing a basket of laundry, money for the machines, and a large bottle of detergent. Extra fun. Once inside, you have to turn on the lights. I usually brace myself in case there’s a serial killer waiting for me, since it’s a dark cellar with absolutely no security. I have yet to be raped and murdered, so I consider myself lucky so far. The light isn’t a conventional switch. That would be too easy to manipulate with your hands full as you deal with the door. Instead, it is a dial, and the light is set on a timer (probably because too many disgruntled tenants left the light on all the time out of spite for the management company).
Anyway, I get my laundry started, and I start to head back to my apartment, and guess who’s outside today, enjoying the weather? Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He’s bought a motorcycle. And he calls out to me, “You’re not doing anything—come help me with this thing.” I see in his hands, he’s got this fancy new motorcycle cover. Now, why, you ask, would I help Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants with his new motorcycle cover? Well, the little old man with the pot belly looked rather pathetic standing in the parking lot battling it out with this silver vinyl cover three times his size. And I’m a glutton for punishment. And, I’m too polite to tell him to shove off. So, I set down my stuff and proceed to “help” him. Really, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants just wants to show off his motorcycle—which I have yet to see him ride, much less start up. It’s been sitting in the parking lot for three weeks. I’m sure when that glorious time comes for him to ride off into the sunset, it will consist of blog worthy hilarity. I can just imagine this leather skinned old man, who smells like a pukish mixture of stale beer and an ash tray, astride this motorcycle, squinting into the sun, his potbelly hanging over his belt, his straggly and greasy grey hair sticking out from underneath a beat up helmet, his yappy little dog precariously strapped to the back of the bike. Oh yea, it’ll be rockin’ for sure.
Anyway, I stood watching him preen over his motorcycle, and helped him get the cover into place. I even politely listened to how he got such a great deal on the cover, and how he’s going to save all this money on gas with the bike. Uh huh. He rambled incoherently about getting everything he needed to change the oil on the motorcycle, and how he had to drive down to Hartford, and then up to Lenox (which is north and west of Westfield). Uh huh. He evidently forgot to buy a fuel filter along his many travels today. However, he did remember to stop in Russell at the Russell Inn for a couple of beers. This perhaps helps to explain the smell.
Uh huh.
I smile and nod, and then tell him I’ve got to go. Now, one would think that I’ve fulfilled my quota of being nice to a crazy old people Friday. However, fate it seems had different ideas.
There’s this crazy woman who lives across the street. She’s got the skin and voice of a veteran smoker, thin bleached blonde hair styled in a shapeless cut and pinned back with bobby pins (though why, I can’t fathom). She’s always wearing baggy sweatshirts that sort of give her the shape of a beach ball. She likes to walk through the Tekoa Mt. Apartments parking lot at night. Rain, wind, sleet, snow—it doesn’t matter. She trots back and forth in our horse shoe shaped parking lot, night after night. Indeed, I usually do my best to avoid her. She likes to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk—usually about how rude people are and how I’m the only person who’s nice to her (probably because I’m too polite to tell her to shove off). And she likes to talk about how she hates her apartment. So, we’ve commiserated on our similar plights at various times when I’ve been unfortunate enough to be out walking the brat at the same time.
Anyway, tonight, there’s a knock on my door at about 9:30pm. Now, I’m not a social butterfly. I don’t have scads of suitors lining up at my door. Indeed, I was pretty embarrassed to have family staying in this disgusting pit of despair this past March—so why would I invite anyone else here? Obviously, I'm not expecting anyone. I open my door, fully expecting it to be the police coming to cart off Mr. Weed next door, or a drunk Mitsy and Ditsy here to celebrate the coming of the weekend. But no, it’s the Crazy Lady.
Teddy’s barking his head off, so I step out onto the porch and let him out to sniff around. He circles the Crazy Lady a few times and decides she’s not a real threat and goes back in. Meanwhile, she starts chatting about how she’s been looking for an apartment, and how she found this ad for a house in Southwick where some woman is looking for a roommate. Uh huh. She hands me the paper, and I politely thank her. I also tell her in no uncertain terms that it will be a cold day in hell when I get a roommate. I have a roommate—he’s got pointy feet and happy tail disease, and together we don’t play well with others. So, no roommate. Anyway, that’s the gist of our conversation, but I swear I stood out on my porch for twenty minutes before I could get rid of this woman. Evidently she’s looking for a place down in Florida. She hates how damp it is in New England. All I can do is smile and quietly think about how much less damp it will be living in a swamp down south. Uh huh. And then, as I’m holding onto the newspaper she’s given me, we finally start to exchange goodbyes, and she informs me that she’s sorry the newspaper is a little messed up. I look at it and shrug. It is a little funky, like it’s been shoved back together in the wrong order, and it’s crumpled. Then, she says, “Yea, I wasn’t thinking about it, and I threw it away. And then I thought maybe you’d be interested in that place in Southwick, so I fished it out of the trash for you.” Uh huh. THANKS. Good bye Crazy Lady. Have you met Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? You two would be perfect for each other. Maybe you could get a matching motorcycle, and the two of you could ride off into the sunset together, fishing greasy newspapers out of the trash and foisting them on unsuspecting young spinsters who are too polite to tell you both to shove off.
Yes. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is definitely a level in hell.
