To bring life to an otherwise lifeless day, I hopped on the Internet and spent an hour with Dorothy Parker (1893-1967). The old girl had a lot to say, and she said it well. She brightened my day with observations such as these:
"Her big heart, as is so sadly often the case, did not inhabit a big bosom."
"What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone? You can't hear an enzyme."
"The two most beautiful words in the English language are 'cheque enclosed.'"
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
"You can't teach an old dogma new tricks."
"If all the girls attending the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."
"Tell him I'm too fucking busy - or vice versa."
"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone."
"The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue."
"Now, I know the things I know, and do the things I do, and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you."
"It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard."
"A hangover is the wrath of grapes."
"Money cannot buy health, but I'd settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair."
"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."
"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."
"Brevity is the soul of lingerie."
"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."
I knew Dorothy Parker coined the phrase, "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses." I didn't realize, though, that she also came up with, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."
"Time doth flit; oh shit."
Friday, June 9, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Notes from the Home - May 30, 2017
It has been anything but a quiet week in the old-folks home. Perhaps it was quiet in other areas of the establishment, but here in the apartment nestled between Richie's on one side and Alice's on the other, the peace was disturbed on several occasions.
In recent weeks, William has been spending more time in Richie's apartment than he has for well over a year. He pays his visits during the daylight hours, for which I am most grateful. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he was there nearly every night until midnight or later. I'm not one to begrudge a pair of buddies a few beers and a pleasant conversation. But on most days, Richie and William each had a few beers by 10 am and several more than just a few by the time they got together in Richie's place for a lengthy series of night caps.
It is challenge to make sense out of anything Richie or William say, but is never difficult to hear either of them. Richie is from somewhere in New England and has the accent to prove it. Once he gets rolling, which seldom takes long, he sounds like an enraged Red Sox fan hurling insults at the umpire from the Fenway Park grandstands. Still, Richie struggles to make himself heard over William, who tries to sound like a Marine drill sergeant, only louder.
One recent afternoon, as I sat at the computer squandering another day, the voices in Richie's apartment got louder and angrier. "You took my wallet," Richie yelled.. "I didn't take your wallet," Alice shouted. A door slammed, then there was quiet. An hour later, I was on my way to dinner, Alice was coming down the hall the other way. "He accused me of taking his wallet. I didn't take his wallet. Why would I take his wallet? He said I sneaked in to his apartment and took it. I didn't sneak in to his place. The only time I go in there is when he asks me in to have a beer. A couple weeks ago, he said somebody stole his wallet. Nobody stole his wallet. We looked around and found it. He forgot where he put it. I should sue him." I did my imitation of a concerned neighbor and went to eat.
As soon as Alice moved in, she began adorning her porch and the area around it with plants. One morning many months ago, Alice knocked on my porch door. She said she had a hose, but nearest hook up for it was over by Richie's apartment. Would I mind if she ran the hose across my porch? I had no objection. Alice hooked up the hose and routed it from the hookup, across my porch to her porch. The hose remained there until the day after Richie made the wallet accusation.
This past Wednesday, as I was squandering another afternoon, there was a knock on Richie's door. "Who's there?" he asked in his surliest voice. It was Kerri, the business manager here, she wanted someone to look at his arm. He made it clear he didn't need or want anyone to look at his arm. That evening, someone else knocked on the door and told him they wanted someone to look at the arm. Richie told the person to go away.
Thursday, I heard that Richie and William got into a fight. Richie got the worst of it. I went to bed at ten o'clock that night and quickly fell asleep. At 1:15 am, I was awakened by Richie's yelling. Lest I be accused of spreading "false news", I should tell you that this might have occurred at 11:15 pm. Between my nearsightedness, macular degeneration and without my glasses on, I often lose the first "1" in 11 and 12 when I look at the lighted, digital readout on the clock radio in the dark of night.
"Come in here," is what I heard Richie yell, or maybe it was, "Don't come in here." In any case, at least two men - based on my hearing two voices - did go in. I also heard frequent beeper beeps, but I have no idea where the men were from. And when they left, they must have taken Richie with them. I haven't seen him since.
Last night at dinner, Tony, who keeps his ear close to the ground, said Richie went home. It seems likely then that the men who came to his apartment were from a limousine service and took him to the airport. Over the past few weeks, Richie told several people he would be going home for a few weeks. And on Friday morning, the hose reappeared on my porch.
In recent weeks, William has been spending more time in Richie's apartment than he has for well over a year. He pays his visits during the daylight hours, for which I am most grateful. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he was there nearly every night until midnight or later. I'm not one to begrudge a pair of buddies a few beers and a pleasant conversation. But on most days, Richie and William each had a few beers by 10 am and several more than just a few by the time they got together in Richie's place for a lengthy series of night caps.
It is challenge to make sense out of anything Richie or William say, but is never difficult to hear either of them. Richie is from somewhere in New England and has the accent to prove it. Once he gets rolling, which seldom takes long, he sounds like an enraged Red Sox fan hurling insults at the umpire from the Fenway Park grandstands. Still, Richie struggles to make himself heard over William, who tries to sound like a Marine drill sergeant, only louder.
One recent afternoon, as I sat at the computer squandering another day, the voices in Richie's apartment got louder and angrier. "You took my wallet," Richie yelled.. "I didn't take your wallet," Alice shouted. A door slammed, then there was quiet. An hour later, I was on my way to dinner, Alice was coming down the hall the other way. "He accused me of taking his wallet. I didn't take his wallet. Why would I take his wallet? He said I sneaked in to his apartment and took it. I didn't sneak in to his place. The only time I go in there is when he asks me in to have a beer. A couple weeks ago, he said somebody stole his wallet. Nobody stole his wallet. We looked around and found it. He forgot where he put it. I should sue him." I did my imitation of a concerned neighbor and went to eat.
As soon as Alice moved in, she began adorning her porch and the area around it with plants. One morning many months ago, Alice knocked on my porch door. She said she had a hose, but nearest hook up for it was over by Richie's apartment. Would I mind if she ran the hose across my porch? I had no objection. Alice hooked up the hose and routed it from the hookup, across my porch to her porch. The hose remained there until the day after Richie made the wallet accusation.
This past Wednesday, as I was squandering another afternoon, there was a knock on Richie's door. "Who's there?" he asked in his surliest voice. It was Kerri, the business manager here, she wanted someone to look at his arm. He made it clear he didn't need or want anyone to look at his arm. That evening, someone else knocked on the door and told him they wanted someone to look at the arm. Richie told the person to go away.
Thursday, I heard that Richie and William got into a fight. Richie got the worst of it. I went to bed at ten o'clock that night and quickly fell asleep. At 1:15 am, I was awakened by Richie's yelling. Lest I be accused of spreading "false news", I should tell you that this might have occurred at 11:15 pm. Between my nearsightedness, macular degeneration and without my glasses on, I often lose the first "1" in 11 and 12 when I look at the lighted, digital readout on the clock radio in the dark of night.
"Come in here," is what I heard Richie yell, or maybe it was, "Don't come in here." In any case, at least two men - based on my hearing two voices - did go in. I also heard frequent beeper beeps, but I have no idea where the men were from. And when they left, they must have taken Richie with them. I haven't seen him since.
Last night at dinner, Tony, who keeps his ear close to the ground, said Richie went home. It seems likely then that the men who came to his apartment were from a limousine service and took him to the airport. Over the past few weeks, Richie told several people he would be going home for a few weeks. And on Friday morning, the hose reappeared on my porch.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
A Septet of Triolets
It has been almost three months since I have written a word. Hoping to create a spark large enough to get me scribbling again, I consulted The Complete Works of T. Harris (a disorganized heap of papers and a few Word documents) and found, among other things, the triolets that follow.
I wrote these seven ,and twenty or thirty others like them ,when I was a member of Suzanne Byerley's writing class at the Conneaut Community Center for the Arts and later the Kingsville Library. Suzanne introduced me to the triolet form. One week I wrote two or three that had an off-kilter animal theme, and Suzanne and the others in the class kept encouraging me to write more. Which I did.
The class was a wonderful experience. Suzanne was a terrific teacher, so very knowledgeable and so very encouraging. Every class began with Suzanne going through our offerings from the previous week. Her critiques were always a blend of gentle criticism for everything from silly mistakes to flagrant grammatical and spelling errors, effusive praise for all that was done well, and wise, thoughtful suggestions to make the story, poem or essay a more effective piece.
Best of all, at least in my opinion, as she went through our writings, Suzanne would often read aloud a paragraph or two of the piece she was discussing. I loved when she read something of mine; not because it made me feel oh-so-special, but because she read so well. Each time she read something of mine, I'd sit there, listen, and think, "Damn, Tom, that's good stuff, much better than you thought it was." Then I'd read it when I got home and wonder why it sounded so good in Conneaut and like crap back in Ashtabula.
Mary got me involved in the class, and I am so grateful she did. She was also my chauffeur to class once my right leg and foot no longer moved with alacrity from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Everyone in the class - Jeanne, Katie, Gitta, Nancy, Chuck, Wayne, Celia, and several more whose names I'm having trouble remembering - had class, and everyone had a ready smile. If memories of that class and all the people involved with it can't get me back to stringing words together, I don't know what will.
And now on to the poems I promised you a few hundred words ago.
I wrote these seven ,and twenty or thirty others like them ,when I was a member of Suzanne Byerley's writing class at the Conneaut Community Center for the Arts and later the Kingsville Library. Suzanne introduced me to the triolet form. One week I wrote two or three that had an off-kilter animal theme, and Suzanne and the others in the class kept encouraging me to write more. Which I did.
The class was a wonderful experience. Suzanne was a terrific teacher, so very knowledgeable and so very encouraging. Every class began with Suzanne going through our offerings from the previous week. Her critiques were always a blend of gentle criticism for everything from silly mistakes to flagrant grammatical and spelling errors, effusive praise for all that was done well, and wise, thoughtful suggestions to make the story, poem or essay a more effective piece.
Best of all, at least in my opinion, as she went through our writings, Suzanne would often read aloud a paragraph or two of the piece she was discussing. I loved when she read something of mine; not because it made me feel oh-so-special, but because she read so well. Each time she read something of mine, I'd sit there, listen, and think, "Damn, Tom, that's good stuff, much better than you thought it was." Then I'd read it when I got home and wonder why it sounded so good in Conneaut and like crap back in Ashtabula.
Mary got me involved in the class, and I am so grateful she did. She was also my chauffeur to class once my right leg and foot no longer moved with alacrity from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Everyone in the class - Jeanne, Katie, Gitta, Nancy, Chuck, Wayne, Celia, and several more whose names I'm having trouble remembering - had class, and everyone had a ready smile. If memories of that class and all the people involved with it can't get me back to stringing words together, I don't know what will.
And now on to the poems I promised you a few hundred words ago.
Camel Lot
When you go to buy a camel,
Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.
To select a stylish mammal.
When you go to buy a camel,
Check his hump and tooth enamel -
You can’t return him once he’s bought.
When you go to buy a camel,
Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.
Jackal and Hyde
Did you know the well-dressed jackal
Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?
It’s enough to make you cackle,
When you see the well-dressed jackal,
Once a muscular left tackle
Now quite flabby and six feet wide.
Did you know the well-dressed jackal
Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?
Mammoth Melody
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Thought he was a pearl of culture.
But when he sang an opera song,
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Was much more frightening than King Kong -
Why, he even scared the vulture.
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Thought he was a pearl of culture.
Notes from a Porcupine
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Never learned to write with his quills.
When writing to his Valentine,
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Cannot write, “Will you be mine?”
Instead he makes scratchy squiggles.
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Never learned to write with his quills.
Rat on the Run
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Is not as easy as it seems.
Once the kitty knows where he’s at
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Becomes a battle with the cat,
Whose head is full of tricky schemes.
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Is not as easy as it seems.
The Cleaning Croc
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Worked every day cleaning the swamp.
The turtles had wild parties while
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Stood nearby – and never did smile –
With his dust rags, broom and his mop.
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Worked every day cleaning the swamp.
The Fussy Bandicoot
The fussy little bandicoot
Wouldn’t eat his seeds and berries.
And he just did not give a hoot,
The fussy little bandicoot,
For meals of spiders and dried fruit,
Unless the fruit was cherries.
The fussy little bandicoot
Would not eat his seeds and berries.
Monday, March 6, 2017
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Notes from the Home - March 4, 2017
An email from Huntington Bank appeared in the inbox on Tuesday, February 21. It wasn't unexpected. In January, Huntington had merged or acquired First Merit, which is where the Ohio Public Employees Retirement System and the Social Security Administration send my money. According to the email, my accounts at First Merit had been successfully moved to Huntington. If I wished to make use of Huntington's online services, I needed to go online and set things up.
Wednesday afternoon I cozied up to the computer, opened Huntington's email, and clicked on the appropriate link for setting up online services. The first page was easy; I was asked to type my First Merit username in one box, and my Social Security number in the other. Then I was directed to click on "Continue" if I wanted to continue.
At first glance, the second page appeared as easy as the first. A box on the screen showed last the four digits of the two phone numbers First Merit had for me. I was to click on the number I wanted them to use, then they would text a number, which I could punch in to get at the stuff I needed. I clicked on digits of my current phone and waited for the promised text. The anticipated message didn't arrive. Instead, "Oops, there seems to be a problem with the telephone number you selected.," popped up on the screen. "Oops, there seems to be a problem with your piece-of-crap computer," said I. Then I looked closely at the number. "Oops, it appears I transposed the last two digits of my phone number when I gave the number to First Merit." I mixed up those two numbers several times or more when I first got the phone. I couldn't blame First Merit for what was obviously my mistake. Well, I could have if I were a politician. But I'm not.
No big deal, at the bottom of the screen there was a phone number at which help was available "24 hours a day, seven days a week." My call was promptly answered by a computer that asked for my Social Security number. "I'm sorry, that number is not in our customer file," the computer said after I put in the SS number. I called again and chose the "Press One" option. "Please say or punch in the account number of one of your accounts." I put in the number of my checking account. "I'm sorry, Huntington Bank accounts do not start with those numbers."
So, I called again and pressed "0", hoping it would get me to a real person. Ha! It bombarded me with really loud, really bad music, occasionally interrupted by a synthesized voice assuring me that my call was important and a representative would be with me in a few moments. Those few moments stretched to ten minutes, and I hung up. Three more tries Wednesday and three on Thursday resulted in lots promises that a representative would be with me in just a few minutes, but the representative never showed up.
Friday, with the end of the month fast approaching, I had no choice but to dial the number, press "0", and wait and wait and wait until the representative picked up my call. Forty-five minutes later, she did. I told her my name and that I was a First Merit customer who wanted to use Huntington's online services. She would be glad to help me, but first I had to make it clear that I wasn't Mrs. Harris. That doesn't bother me. People on the phone have been mistaking my voice for that of a woman's for ten years. My voice must have changed some as a result of the MS.
"OK, Mr. Harris, how can I help you?" Hoping to make light of my foolishness in transposing the digits of my phone number, I said, "Well, I was stupid." "You weren't stupid, Mr. Harris. Lots of people way younger than you are having difficulty with this."
If the people having trouble are way younger than I, that means she thinks I'm way older. Being mistaken for a woman when I'm talking on the phone is one thing. But being mistaken for a "way older" woman is quite another. I was crushed.
Wednesday afternoon I cozied up to the computer, opened Huntington's email, and clicked on the appropriate link for setting up online services. The first page was easy; I was asked to type my First Merit username in one box, and my Social Security number in the other. Then I was directed to click on "Continue" if I wanted to continue.
At first glance, the second page appeared as easy as the first. A box on the screen showed last the four digits of the two phone numbers First Merit had for me. I was to click on the number I wanted them to use, then they would text a number, which I could punch in to get at the stuff I needed. I clicked on digits of my current phone and waited for the promised text. The anticipated message didn't arrive. Instead, "Oops, there seems to be a problem with the telephone number you selected.," popped up on the screen. "Oops, there seems to be a problem with your piece-of-crap computer," said I. Then I looked closely at the number. "Oops, it appears I transposed the last two digits of my phone number when I gave the number to First Merit." I mixed up those two numbers several times or more when I first got the phone. I couldn't blame First Merit for what was obviously my mistake. Well, I could have if I were a politician. But I'm not.
No big deal, at the bottom of the screen there was a phone number at which help was available "24 hours a day, seven days a week." My call was promptly answered by a computer that asked for my Social Security number. "I'm sorry, that number is not in our customer file," the computer said after I put in the SS number. I called again and chose the "Press One" option. "Please say or punch in the account number of one of your accounts." I put in the number of my checking account. "I'm sorry, Huntington Bank accounts do not start with those numbers."
So, I called again and pressed "0", hoping it would get me to a real person. Ha! It bombarded me with really loud, really bad music, occasionally interrupted by a synthesized voice assuring me that my call was important and a representative would be with me in a few moments. Those few moments stretched to ten minutes, and I hung up. Three more tries Wednesday and three on Thursday resulted in lots promises that a representative would be with me in just a few minutes, but the representative never showed up.
Friday, with the end of the month fast approaching, I had no choice but to dial the number, press "0", and wait and wait and wait until the representative picked up my call. Forty-five minutes later, she did. I told her my name and that I was a First Merit customer who wanted to use Huntington's online services. She would be glad to help me, but first I had to make it clear that I wasn't Mrs. Harris. That doesn't bother me. People on the phone have been mistaking my voice for that of a woman's for ten years. My voice must have changed some as a result of the MS.
"OK, Mr. Harris, how can I help you?" Hoping to make light of my foolishness in transposing the digits of my phone number, I said, "Well, I was stupid." "You weren't stupid, Mr. Harris. Lots of people way younger than you are having difficulty with this."
If the people having trouble are way younger than I, that means she thinks I'm way older. Being mistaken for a woman when I'm talking on the phone is one thing. But being mistaken for a "way older" woman is quite another. I was crushed.
* * *
The dogwood tree outside my window is ready to spring into spring.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Ranting and Raving, and for Good Reason
Here I am at the Covenant Woods Retirement Community in Columbus, Georgia, where life is good so long as you don't mind lying in bed and listening to the neighbor listen to some guy rant until eleven o'clock or midnight or the until the wee hours of the morning. Now, to be fair, this doesn't happen every night, just three or four nights a week.
The problem began after Leila moved out of Covenant Woods, and my current neighbor moved into the apartment next door. A week or two after she moved in, I asked my new neighbor if she could turn down the TV, or whatever it was she had on nearly every night. "That's my son," she said. "You'll have to talk to him." "Not my job," I told her.
I did, however, call the Covenant Woods' number on those nights when the neighbor's son felt his right to play the TV or CD or other device trumped my right to a reasonably quiet trip to Dreamland. The Covenant Woods' security person would either get on the intercom or go to the neighbor's door and ask them to turn it down. I know the Covenant Woods' security people did this because I could hear the conversations. For instance, one night the Covenant Woods' security called the neighbor on the intercom, asked her to turn it down, and the neighbor said to her son, "He said, turn it down." I have no desire to eavesdrop, but my list of medical problems does not include any mention of a hearing deficiency. Sometimes I wish it did.
All my whining eventually got a reaction from the Covenant Woods' management. Roger, the general manager, told me he sent a letter to my neighbor informing her that her son was not allowed in the building after 6 pm. The son, who had been driving a banged-up Kia, began using his mother's car. Again, I don't snoop around in other people's business, but my neighbor's assigned handicapped parking spot is right outside my window. So, each morning, sonny boy would guide his mother's car into the assigned space, and by early evening, the car was gone. My nights were much more pleasant, and falling asleep was so easy.
However, two weeks later on a Friday night, I looked out the window rather than watch political ads during a Jeopardy commercial break. There, right in front of the window, was my neighbor's car. That night, I was given the pleasure of listening to whatever the neighbor's kid was listening to, the same old crap. He was back that Saturday night. I called and complained. The person working security either ignored my call or came down, walked by the neighbor's door, couldn't hear anything, and went on by. Alas, I don't sleep in the hall.
The son was back again the following night, along with the noise from whatever it is he listens to. Hoping to get some sleep, I raised my voice and yelled, "Please turn that down." That didn't work, even after several attempts. I kept trying, he kept ignoring me, even when I shouted, very politely, mind you, "Turn that goddamned thing off, you inconsiderate idiot." Finally, about one in the morning, he left in his mother's car. I know he left because when he put the headlights on, they lit up my room for a few seconds. Sunday was a little better. My yelling that evening must have done some good. About eleven o'clock, as he was getting ready to leave, I heard the son tell his mother, "I don't give a fuck about him." Then the neighbor's sliding door slid open and slid shut and the headlights lit my room.
Early the next evening - Monday - I could hear the usual stuff from the next room. It was only 6:45, but I thought a little spying was in order. I headed up front, glanced in the activity room and saw my neighbor in there playing bingo. I kept going and went to the lobby, where Theresa was working at the desk. I asked if the Covenant Woods' management had relented and allowed the neighbor's son to be in the building at night. "No," she said. I told her he had been here over the weekend. She checked the security tapes, which, of course, showed sonny boy leaving at the times I said he had left.
The upshot of all that was a week or two of peacefully falling asleep. I was even told by Covenant Woods' management that they had a restraining order to keep the neighbor's son out of the building at all times.
It didn't keep him out for long. The current routine is, he comes back, I complain, Roger or someone speaks with his mother, he's gone for a few days, he comes back, I complain, Roger or someone speaks with his mother, he's gone for a day or two, he comes back . . . ad infinitum.
Sunday night, the son was next door doing what he always does. I called the desk at 10:16, according to the phone's log of dialed calls, and asked Warren, the security person that night, to have the neighbor turn it down. Five minutes later, there was knock on the neighbor's door, the TV or whatever immediately went silent, someone opened the door and Warren asked them to keep it down. Two minutes later, the audio portion of the evening resumed.
I turned to the only weapon at my disposal: vocal chords. It took ten minutes, but I finally was able to shout the son into submission. At 10:40, according to my phone's log, Warren called back to say he'd received five calls from people who heard me yelling. "He turned the damn thing back on as soon as you left," I said. "I was down there a minute ago, and it was quiet." Yes, it was, but it wasn't five minutes earlier. "I'm going to have to write this up," he said.
I don't know if he did write it up. No one from Covenant Woods' management spoke to me about it. Perhaps Roger spoke to my neighbor - all was quiet Monday night. Not so last night, Tuesday, however. Perhaps the son is watching me. At least it seemed that way. Almost as soon as I sat down on the bed to take off my shoes, the recorded voice I am unfortunately so familiar with made its way through the wall.
Rather than calling the desk, asking the security person to ask the neighbor to turn it down, and be frustrated when nothing happened, I raised my voice and told the neighbor - more likely her son - to turn it down. He doesn't listen well, and I did my best to keep my voice under control so as not to disturb others. It took fifteen minutes, but the son finally turned the darn thing down and went to the other side of his mother's apartment to listen to it.
It is a strange feeling, trying my best not to disturb others while I'm trying to get a person who is not supposed to be in the building to stop disturbing me. But that's life at Covenant Woods, where life is good, so they say,
The problem began after Leila moved out of Covenant Woods, and my current neighbor moved into the apartment next door. A week or two after she moved in, I asked my new neighbor if she could turn down the TV, or whatever it was she had on nearly every night. "That's my son," she said. "You'll have to talk to him." "Not my job," I told her.
I did, however, call the Covenant Woods' number on those nights when the neighbor's son felt his right to play the TV or CD or other device trumped my right to a reasonably quiet trip to Dreamland. The Covenant Woods' security person would either get on the intercom or go to the neighbor's door and ask them to turn it down. I know the Covenant Woods' security people did this because I could hear the conversations. For instance, one night the Covenant Woods' security called the neighbor on the intercom, asked her to turn it down, and the neighbor said to her son, "He said, turn it down." I have no desire to eavesdrop, but my list of medical problems does not include any mention of a hearing deficiency. Sometimes I wish it did.
All my whining eventually got a reaction from the Covenant Woods' management. Roger, the general manager, told me he sent a letter to my neighbor informing her that her son was not allowed in the building after 6 pm. The son, who had been driving a banged-up Kia, began using his mother's car. Again, I don't snoop around in other people's business, but my neighbor's assigned handicapped parking spot is right outside my window. So, each morning, sonny boy would guide his mother's car into the assigned space, and by early evening, the car was gone. My nights were much more pleasant, and falling asleep was so easy.
However, two weeks later on a Friday night, I looked out the window rather than watch political ads during a Jeopardy commercial break. There, right in front of the window, was my neighbor's car. That night, I was given the pleasure of listening to whatever the neighbor's kid was listening to, the same old crap. He was back that Saturday night. I called and complained. The person working security either ignored my call or came down, walked by the neighbor's door, couldn't hear anything, and went on by. Alas, I don't sleep in the hall.
The son was back again the following night, along with the noise from whatever it is he listens to. Hoping to get some sleep, I raised my voice and yelled, "Please turn that down." That didn't work, even after several attempts. I kept trying, he kept ignoring me, even when I shouted, very politely, mind you, "Turn that goddamned thing off, you inconsiderate idiot." Finally, about one in the morning, he left in his mother's car. I know he left because when he put the headlights on, they lit up my room for a few seconds. Sunday was a little better. My yelling that evening must have done some good. About eleven o'clock, as he was getting ready to leave, I heard the son tell his mother, "I don't give a fuck about him." Then the neighbor's sliding door slid open and slid shut and the headlights lit my room.
Early the next evening - Monday - I could hear the usual stuff from the next room. It was only 6:45, but I thought a little spying was in order. I headed up front, glanced in the activity room and saw my neighbor in there playing bingo. I kept going and went to the lobby, where Theresa was working at the desk. I asked if the Covenant Woods' management had relented and allowed the neighbor's son to be in the building at night. "No," she said. I told her he had been here over the weekend. She checked the security tapes, which, of course, showed sonny boy leaving at the times I said he had left.
The upshot of all that was a week or two of peacefully falling asleep. I was even told by Covenant Woods' management that they had a restraining order to keep the neighbor's son out of the building at all times.
It didn't keep him out for long. The current routine is, he comes back, I complain, Roger or someone speaks with his mother, he's gone for a few days, he comes back, I complain, Roger or someone speaks with his mother, he's gone for a day or two, he comes back . . . ad infinitum.
Sunday night, the son was next door doing what he always does. I called the desk at 10:16, according to the phone's log of dialed calls, and asked Warren, the security person that night, to have the neighbor turn it down. Five minutes later, there was knock on the neighbor's door, the TV or whatever immediately went silent, someone opened the door and Warren asked them to keep it down. Two minutes later, the audio portion of the evening resumed.
I turned to the only weapon at my disposal: vocal chords. It took ten minutes, but I finally was able to shout the son into submission. At 10:40, according to my phone's log, Warren called back to say he'd received five calls from people who heard me yelling. "He turned the damn thing back on as soon as you left," I said. "I was down there a minute ago, and it was quiet." Yes, it was, but it wasn't five minutes earlier. "I'm going to have to write this up," he said.
I don't know if he did write it up. No one from Covenant Woods' management spoke to me about it. Perhaps Roger spoke to my neighbor - all was quiet Monday night. Not so last night, Tuesday, however. Perhaps the son is watching me. At least it seemed that way. Almost as soon as I sat down on the bed to take off my shoes, the recorded voice I am unfortunately so familiar with made its way through the wall.
Rather than calling the desk, asking the security person to ask the neighbor to turn it down, and be frustrated when nothing happened, I raised my voice and told the neighbor - more likely her son - to turn it down. He doesn't listen well, and I did my best to keep my voice under control so as not to disturb others. It took fifteen minutes, but the son finally turned the darn thing down and went to the other side of his mother's apartment to listen to it.
It is a strange feeling, trying my best not to disturb others while I'm trying to get a person who is not supposed to be in the building to stop disturbing me. But that's life at Covenant Woods, where life is good, so they say,
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