I live in a condo populated mainly by people older than I am—by maybe a decade. They totter around, walking their dogs and holding canes. They love conversing with each other. Sometimes, I’ll glance out the window and see them chatting in the middle of the parking lot, and, fearing that I might be caught up talking to them, I’ll wait till they’re done. That can be a while, and they are aggressive conversationalists.
Sometimes, one of them will be holding a clipboard, and then there’s a lot of pointing around here and there. They do a lot of gardening, and they talk a lot about it. The grounds are gorgeous; the courtyard behind my set of units is a freaking French garden.
Sometimes I run into a bald guy across the street, named Dick, who wears shorts in most weather. We’ll have a short conversation establishing that everyone is OK, and then he’ll pause, looking me in the eye, and obviously waiting for me to extend the conversation. I just can’t do it. He’s never said anything substantive, so I don’t know what subject to propose.
An interesting coincidence: when Kate was an infant, we needed a nanny as we were both working then more or less full time. (Nancy more, me less, but we were both taking the ferry to Seattle, which takes up a lot of time and involves complicated logistics.) We interviewed a number of people to be Kate’s nanny. One was a tallish, thin, blonde woman named Robin. She was alarming; she actually picked Baby Kate up, rocked her, and whispered, “So much to learn. So much to teach.” Later Nancy said that she wanted to demand, “Step away from the baby.”
Robin is Dick’s wife! She doesn’t recognize me, which is a really good thing. That would be beyond embarrassing. Even more embarrassing is that for some reason one morning Robin was in their garage in nothing more than her bra and panties one day. Eek. Umm, this is inappropriate, but she’s pretty attractive!
Anyway, I feel miserable about this, but I just don’t want to talk to them. When I look out the window, Dick is often in the area between condos, engaged in conversation. I can go away for a few minutes, come back, and he’s still there. I don’t need that. It’s the great unknown: I have no idea what they’re talking about, and I don’t want to risk it. They could all be fascists, but, given the demographics of western Washington, I’m probably safe on that point. Their bumpers are innocent of political stickers.
Like all old men except me on Bainbridge Island, Dick has a white beard and mustache. Some of them wear jaunty hats, but that type mainly drives Mercedes convertibles. I figure that they aren’t very nice. In truth, my oldsters mean well, and they don’t drive prestige vehicles.
The guy two doors down comes from New Jersey—Jon. We had some conflict early on because he was always outside working on this or that and shouting at Jeri on the other side of the courtyard who was also shouting, though in her case it came out as a constant soft murmuring.
One day, Jon was outside merely six feet away from me as I sat in my reclining chair next to the window; he was talking to a younger guy and pointing to my gutters. We had words; I said I thought that I ought to have the peaceful enjoyment of my leasehold, and he averred that as an owner of one of the condo units, he could do whatever he wanted. (I’m only a renter.) I said something about common courtesy, he imitated me crying, going “Boo hoo, George, give yourself a pity party!” and that was that.
Remarkably, he stopped by sometime later and said that he wanted to be a good neighbor, and when would it be convenient for me that he be outside working. I softened and said anytime, as long as it wasn’t so loud. We’ve gotten along a lot better. In the south, we’d have been permanent enemies. I forget what the occasion was, but sometime later, I hugged him about some issue or another. That guy is 83 and has lived in New Jersey most of his life. His son and his family live in a house in a development across the street. They seem to be a very happy family, and in truth I’m envious.
I have to be fair. The oldsters are constantly greeting me. They’re friendly; I’m an extreme introvert. And as I’ve said, I don’t know what I’d talk to them about. They are also, perhaps more expectedly, very cautious and afraid of emergencies—out here, that means earthquake.
They’ve made a very real effort to get all of us to stockpile supplies, take steps to keep a real network of the community, and keep warned about contingencies. We all have signs saying “OK” or “Help” to post outside our doors. I’m not sure where that comes from except a knowledge that we are all old and frail and at the mercy of just about everything.
Not long ago, I was walking under the now-destroyed viaduct over the Seattle waterfront. (I’ve quizzed my memory and have no idea why I was there in early evening.) I saw three tough looking kids walking toward me. They didn’t look dangerous except to the extent that young males look threatening in a general way. I realized that with my replaced knee and replaced hip, I couldn’t outrun them, and with my arthritic wrists I was completely at their mercy. Fortunately, I meant nothing at all to them, and they passed by me, talking, not even glancing at me. The incident made me realize though how vulnerable I was. I guess that’s what my oldsters are thinking.
I have always suspected my brother-in-law of being a horrible sonuvabitch, and my shrink suggested that I go on a site that gathers reports of criminal activity. I did, excited as hell, and was disappointed but not surprised to find only a speeding ticket. An odd but titillating feature of this site was that it showed sex offenders in your area, with pictures. As my brother-in-law lives in northern Oregon, these fellows meant nothing to me except for how ill-kempt, skinny, and desperate they looked.
I don’t know why I did this, but I searched my own neighborhood, and by golly a guy in my complex is one. Apparently he sexually assaulted some 12-15 year old girl in a southern state a little over 20 years ago. Wow. He doesn’t look like the Oregon-sited ones, though he does, like all old white men, have white facial hair. He’s gentle, kindly, and he’s prone to owning a certain kind of little dog (I’m omitting details for obvious reasons.)
Recently in mishandling, then juggling, then falling with his dog’s food bowl, he broke a hip, and he’s been somewhat stumbly since then. He has a sister in the area, and she showed up for a while to help him. He’s a nice guy. I’m curious about and would love to talk to him about his criminal activity, but I know he doesn’t want to think about it. His history is an incongruous and maybe affirming matter: all kinds live here.
They have a garage sale once a year. I don’t participate; I don’t have anything over here to contribute. But as with every other event, Jon and his wife provide snacks and coffee. He is a relentless extrovert.
The woman next door isn’t an oldster, but she is an introvert like me. We never speak. She apparently is a nurse and has two kids, a brown-haired boy and a tall blonde-haired girl. The boy seldom shows up, but the girl seems to be living here this summer; the girl occupies the upstairs bedroom facing the parking lot, and I can tell that her blinds have been moved up or down, so she’s there. It’s a mystery. Both mother and daughter have cars, but both are seldom here. Where’s her car?
One night last summer, her brother was here, and he was absolutely having sex. The blinds were up, and I could see the naked back of a girl, sitting upright, her arms in the air, her body moving up and down. If that wasn’t sex, I don’t know what is. She had dark hair, so he definitely wasn’t doing his sister, anyway. That family is an utter mystery.
The woman on the other side of me appears to be in her 70’s, and I can’t tell when she’s there or not. Except, and, finally, here is the point of this post (haven’t you been wondering?) once in a while, I’ll hear the thumping of a rock and roll bass through the wall.
At first I didn’t believe it. Huh? What’s going on?
And then it hit me: these people are all only a few years older than I am. We share the same early culture; they are the original rockers. Of course they listen to that music. I do too. Holy! I didn’t think it would come to this. Imagine an old lady listening to this:
Because she totally is. In the end, what a delightful bunch of people
This is my condo complex: sadly, the next residence is the grave.
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