BREAKING OUT (PART TWO)

W. S. found an ad in the newspaper, “Third floor, one-bedroom, walk-up—middle apartment available.” “Perfect!” he yelled. “We can afford the rent. Let’s grab it.” We contacted the landlord, who said he would meet us early the next morning. And, he informed us that another couple had scheduled to look at it tomorrow afternoon. That presented a problem. W.S. had a class with a scheduled exam, and I had to go to work.

We had to be out of our potential landing pad by the end of the month, cheap apartments were hard to find, and we knew we’d lose this one if we didn’t act fast. So, W.S. said into the phone, “We’ll take it. I’ll drop off the rent on my way to class tomorrow morning.”

The outside of the building looked presentable, but the third floor walk-up stairs seemed a bit steep. With promises of beer and fried chicken, W.S. rounded up two fellow students to help us move. “Couldn’t you have found two bigger guys?” I asked. Little Stu must have weighed 100 pounds, and gangly Marty had a bad habit of falling over his own feet. After helplessly watching our mattress tumble down the stairs twice, I decided not to watch what was going on.

We had splurged on a pretty nice flea market sofa. It didn’t smell of mold or cigars. And we had purchased an overhanging lamp that needed to be screwed into the ceiling. W.S. wasn’t handy. But, “This I can do!” he happily exclaimed, screwing in the lamp, that he had plugged into the outlet on the wall. We were finally home.

After sending Stu and Marty on their way, we fell into bed exhausted; anticipating our first good night’s rest in months. Our bed was firmly braced against the wall and no airplane would be shaking our floor.

A light rain pitter-pattered against the window as I drifted off. A few minutes later, I awoke to the unmistakable sound of overly heavy breathing. “You’re snoring,” I mumbled. Whereupon the snoring turned into rhythmic snorts. I rolled over and saw that W.S. was sitting up in bed, and now we were being entertained with a cacophony of sputtering, wheezing and an occasional whistle thrown in for variety.

“It’s not me.” W.S. groaned, “I was kind of hoping that it was you.” “Well, I’m awake,”  I said. “It must be the guy next door. Let me try a little knock.” So, I tapped on the wall, and was rewarded with blessed silence—just long enough to fall back to sleep before the symphony began again.

A few hours later, after our knuckles began to ache, we decided to move the bed to the other wall. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the snoring became a distant rumble. The sprinkle outside had now developed into a major deluge with intermittent thunder and lightning. Just as I was falling asleep—one more time, W.S. poked me, “Did you leave the water running in the bathroom?” “No.” I growled, “ But if you are worried, get up and take a look.” Reluctantly, he got up and went into the bathroom. Returning to bed, he said. “It’s okay.” “Good,” I replied. “Can we go to sleep now?”

When I awakened the next morning the sun was shining. W.S. was fast asleep and no one was snoring from behind the wall. Life was good—except—except—I still heard the unmistakable  sound of running water. “How can that be?” I mused looking out of the window. “It’s not raining outside.” At that, I walked into the living room, and discovered that our hanging ceiling lamp had transformed itself, in the middle of the night, into a dangling fountain, and water was spraying in beautiful streams all over our new flea market sofa.

W.S., the unhandiest of handymen had screwed our new lamp directly into the middle of the three-apartment rain gutter. Grabbing a bucket, I yelled, “I think we just lost our deposit,” as my chagrined husband came into the room and offered me a towel.

The next night, there was no sound from the other side of the bedroom wall—no snoring, no wheezing, and no whistling. “He’s dead!” said W.S. “What do you mean, ‘He’s dead.’” I asked. “Someone must have smothered him,” W.S. replied. “I’m sure of it.”

“I think this place is trying to tell us something,” I mumbled. “Let’s move!” “Okay,” he replied, as we both drifted off to sleep not realizing that this was only a foreboding of things to come.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dead men tell no  tales.)
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

BREAKING OUT (PART ONE)

Sometimes the old homily, “There’s no place like home,” really means,” There’s got to be a better apartment than this!”

Shortly after our wedding, W.S. and I moved to the second floor of a married student-housing apartment on campus. All the allotted university funding had gone into the uninspired red brick structures, and there was no money left for landscaping---let alone grass seed. The one-bedroom place was sparsely furnished. The bedroom had a bed and the small main room had a table, a desk, two chairs and a bamboo curtain which, when opened, revealed a Lilliputian stove, refrigerator and sink. The bathroom sink, shower and toilet were also undersized, fitting the dimensions of the pretend room.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no covering on the windows, but the un-air-conditioned place was hot, so I opened a window. With that, a swirling cloud of dust blew in and comfortably settled on everything including my hair and face. W.S. figured out that if we coordinated the opening of the windows, by opening the window on the other side of the apartment, with a little luck, the dust storm might just blow through before touching down.

That evening, “Touchdown!” took on a whole new meaning. We hadn’t had time to shop for a lamp, and it was too early to go to sleep, so we sat in our two chairs looking out the window. Getting up and heading toward the refrigerator, W.S. said, “Look at that moon. Isn’t that beautiful? I love a full moon.” “It’s pretty, all right,” I answered. But it looks as if there are two of them, and they are getting closer.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not kidding,” I replied. “Come look at this!”
The approaching moons were getting closer, and suddenly our whole apartment was awash with light, as we felt a rumble, and heard the unmistakable roar of an airplane engine. That plane was heading right for us.

“Hit the deck,” W.S. yelled, as we both dove for the floor under our wobbly table waiting for the impact. But there was no crash. The nose of the plane lifted, the pictures on the wall tilted, and it roared up and away leaving the roof over our heads intact.

The next day, we learned that the property where married student housing sat was cheap, because it was directly in the landing pattern of the airport. We got shades for the windows and earplugs, but neither of those things helped when the college band began their daily blaring of horns and marching at 6 a.m. on the field next door. It was definitely time to move. Breaking our lease due to sleep deprivation and fear of flying might have worked, but the waiting list for the clueless, looking for cheap housing, allowed us to make a rapid escape. Little did we know that we would soon become nostalgic for the good old days of approaching airplanes and loud trumpets.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued-----)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

HALL WALKERS

It is now the end of  September and the weather in Tucson, Arizona is still unseasonably hot. However, I’m not sure with climate change what season means anymore. It is cool enough to take a morning walk outside, and hot enough in the afternoon to take a dip in the pool, but unless I am doing Yoga in my living room, or dancing in my kitchen, the only exercise I have left, in these pandemic days, is to walk the many halls in the building.

Yesterday, I took the elevator to the Club Section on the 5th floor, which is really the 4th floor, but people think it is the 5th floor because their apartment numbers start with the number 5. They tell me it has something to do with the slope of the land, but standing outside the building, all I can see are 4 levels—not 5.

Anyway, when stepping off the elevator on maybe-5 there is a beautiful living-dining-room area, and a mystery unmarked door.  I know it’s not the Unisex Bathroom that has a sign,”currently out of service.”  I have one of those near me too on the kind-of-3rd floor. Obviously, they don’t want any unisex people to use it, because all of these bathrooms have been “currently out of service” for 12 months. There is no mystery door on my floor.

I did ask one of the other hall walkers about the mystery door on almost-5, and she told me, “It’s locked. The thermostat is in there, and they don’t want us to adjust it, so they have it hidden.” A whole room set aside for a thermostat. How fancy!  Well, after all it is the Club Section.

Next, I walked on the 4th floor which is really the 3rd floor. I have a friend on that floor in the Club Section and her balcony is two levels up…kind of like being on 2 but after all  it’s the slope, and the numbers on that floor all start with the number 4, so it must be 4. It is a very nice floor, but there is no special room for the thermostat.

My apartment number starts with 3, so I must be on the third floor except the swimming pool is on that floor and it looks as if the pool is on 2. Also, some apartments are next to the sidewalk. That is some slope! All of this strange numbering is very confusing which is cruel because some old folks are already confused.  To make matters worse, all of the carpeting in the halls are the same except those that lead to the Assisted Living wings.  They are exactly the same except the line down the center is a golden color (like the yellow brick road) otherwise the carpets are identical.

Some apartments on all the floors face a lovely courtyard.  It is called “The Events Plaza.” Because of the virus there are no events on the Events Plaza except the occasional dog that poops on the artificial grass. The Plaza is on level 2 adjacent to the lobby where people enter from the parking lot.  There are apartments on level 2. They start with the number 2, so I know that level 2 is not 1 even though you enter from the parking lot.

One of the 4 restaurants on maybe-2 is open for dinner.  Seating is 6 feet apart from each other and since almost everyone wears hearing aids there’s a lot of “What?” in the conversations.

I have discovered that there are faithful hall walkers. One man walks relatively fast and his girlfriend chases him up and down the halls everyday. One lady is not fond of the artwork on the hall walls, and another woman claims that the pattern in the carpet makes her dizzy. I suspect she is that way without the carpet. Sometimes, I can spy a mini cocktail party in one of the nooks and crannies of a hall. People manage to have fun no matter what.

But, I still wonder what else is in that secret room on maybe-5. Is it the lady or the tiger?

Esther Blumenfeld

SO SORRY!

No one likes to apologize, because it is an admission that you have said or done something unacceptable. An apology is also an acknowledgment that you are less than perfect, just like the rest of us. There are all kinds of apologies—-those given from the heart, the half-hearted, and the dim-witted ones. “Better late than never,” does not apply for an apology given to a dead person.

Hugh Kingsmill said, “Friends are God’s apology for relations.” A good friend should accept your apology knowing that you would never intentionally say or do anything hurtful. It is always worthwhile to examine the source of the, “I’m sorry!”

I am always willing to accept someone’s apology, but I also know that my response should fit the “My bad.” For instance, when a worker doesn’t show up at your house when expected, his apology is usually a lament over his wretched truck. A tweak to the ego may be appropriate saying, “I am so disappointed, I thought you could fix anything.”

Some people apologize in a way that makes you feel that their mistake is  really your fault such as, “My dog won’t bite. Oh, he’s never done that before!” Then there is the “Schadenfreude” (sad/happy) apology. “Oh, I am so sorry that your team lost, and mine won, but after all, it’s only a game.”

It’s always fun to look for the little correction box in the local newspaper, where the editor expresses regret for a printed error. For instance, “We inadvertently printed the name, ‘Bootsie, the Stripper’ under the photo of Reverend Mabel, of the Sacred Memories Church.”’

It makes absolutely no sense to remain upset after a sincere apology. Why waste 60 seconds on anger when you can have 60 more seconds of happiness in your life? However, on the flip side, if your apology is not accepted by someone, who enjoys holding a grudge, I suggest you let them wallow and move on.


Realizing that an apology is a good way to have the last word, I often, just can’t help myself.
After a Presidential election, I was sitting at the Community Pool, when four neighbors entered the pool area and sat at an adjoining table. They were disgruntled and complained to each other about the results of the election. Finally, one of my neighbors, turned to me and apologized. She said, “Oh, I am so sorry!  I hope we didn’t offend you.” And, I responded,
“Not at all. My guy won!”

My favorite apology came from the Crystal Cruise Line. I received a call, and the person on the other end of the line said, “I apologize profusely. We double booked your cabin. Would you and your husband consider a penthouse cabin at the same price?” I replied, “Hang on, I will ask him.” I counted 1,2,3,4,5, picked up the phone, and said, “Yes, that will be acceptable. No harm done!”

After the cruise, I considered that instead of  taking my clothes home, I should pack the Butler.

It is very difficult, for me, when in a discussion, a person is not fact driven, but rather faith driven. In other words, “I don’t care about the facts, they are not true, because I don’t believe they are.” So, recently, in one of my classes, when discussing scientific research about climate change, the industrial revolution, the burning of fossil fuels, and the destruction of vast forest areas,  one of the participants said,  “I don’t agree with what all of these scientists are saying.”  Essentially, he was denying scientific evidence. So, uncontrollably, I blunted out—YOU ARE WRONG!  And, immediately, I was sorry. The words had just popped out of my mouth.

So, later, I apologized to him, in front of the class. But, here’s what I said:  “I’m so sorry that I said “You are wrong, because you just might be right.” Whereupon, he replied, “And I just might be wrong.”  

Bingo!

Esther Blumenfeld (“I apologize when I’m wrong.”) Donald Trump

TURN OFF THE LIGHTS

Having house guests from out of town is a great pleasure for me, and I always enjoyed entertaining the many friends who visited and stayed in our home over the years. However, when my husband and I moved to Tucson, Arizona, we were warned that we will encounter people who want a place to stay in the winter, rather than especially wanting to see us.

I scoffed at that, until I received a phone call from a woman in Atlanta, Georgia. I wasn’t sure who she was until she reminded me that we had met at a party several months before I had moved to Tucson. I remembered the party. I did not remember her. She gushed, “My husband and I are coming to Tucson for a week. We would just adore spending time with you.” At that, I replied, “How nice, and where are you staying?” I never heard from her again.

The strangest encounter with house guests was a story told to me by some friends who were hosting a fancy party in their home. Their out-of-town in-laws were invited to stay with them. They arrived the day before the party. That evening they all went to bed early, because of the many preparations ahead. The next morning, my friends entered their kitchen, and discovered that the kitchen walls had been painted an electric blue. The in-laws had painted them during the night as a nice surprise. The day of the celebration was spent repainting the kitchen walls, and the evening was spent entertaining unsuspecting party goers.

Then there is the problem of guests who won’t leave.

I never had a problem with guests who overstayed their welcome, but I am  part owner of a very large house that has had many guests over the years.  Happily, not one of them has stayed longer than was expected. Unfortunately, there is a guest staying there now, who just may overstay his welcome, and refuse to leave. A guest who is no longer welcome, and won’t leave, is technically a trespasser.  So, how should I, and my fellow owners of the house, handle the situation should it arise?

First of all, we must make sure that the trespasser knows that he is no longer welcome. It can be difficult to tell someone, whom you have previously given permission to stay in your house, that he must go somewhere else. If he won’t leave, I guess changing the WI-FI password might work. Stripping his bed while he is in it seems a bit drastic, but taking the key and changing the locks is a possibility.  Things can get tricky if the houseguest has paid any money toward household expenses, because then he may be considered a tenant. I don’t think that this will pose a problem.

Here are a few polite ways to get a guest to leave:
 
Remind him there is an end time on the invitation.
Start helping him to pack.
Throw out the hamburger wrappers and put a lock on the refrigerator.
Politely ask him how he is getting home.
If all else fails, bring out family movies of the people who were guests in the house right before he moved in.

Finally, you have to be prepared that he may be a bit upset—all a-twitter and sputtering tweets. But you have to be firm and let him know he has over stayed his welcome, by saying, “It’s not working out anymore, and we can’t afford for you to live here any longer.”

If none of these suggestions work, call Truly Nolan and ask them to bring an extra big sprayer.

Remember: “Every house guest brings you happiness. Some when they arrive, and some when they are leaving.” Confucius

Esther Blumenfeld