One hot summer day, the electric company had some problems, which resulted in problems for our whole neighborhood. Not quite a blackout, a brownout occurred. If you haven’t been through one of these, it is much less fun than a blackout. Appliances buzz and hum with the strangest of noises. Noises that you know are not good. And while there is a slight current of electricity, it is not enough to make things work. If anything it just messes everything up.
This particular day the brownout lasted for what seemed like hours. With the ridiculous heat in our apartment, Phil and I decided to take the nine flights of stairs down to cool off in the shade of the big tree in front of our building. We ran into our friend and building manager who was busy on his cell phone fielding calls from upset neighbors who didn’t understand that this was out of his control. Just when I thought his day as tough, our oldest tenant got out of a cab with bags of groceries. She had no idea of what had happened, and at 94 she had a decision to make…take the stairs and get her precious cargo into her slightly working fridge on the fourth floor, or rest her bones under the tree with the rest of us until the elevator eventually got full power again. She was a bit distressed about her groceries. But climbing the stairs with heavy bags was not an option.
Phil offered to take her keys and groceries, and bring them upstairs on his own. She was having none of that. Ultimately we talked her into letting him carry the groceries while she and I slowly ascended the stairs behind him. My job of course was to steady her and hold her hand on the way up. In the heat we started our journey. She took the stairs one at a time, resting on each platform. I tried to distract her with conversation on the way. She always smelled strongly of a distinct perfume. I had noticed from encounters in the past that her uniquely strong scent could be detected long after she had left a room. I commented how pretty it was and she happily told me that her signature sent was Clinique Aromatic Elixer. Four flights of stairs and lots of small talk later, we got her settled in to her apartment.
The next day when I came home from some errands, I noticed a small gift wrapped box on my doorstep. She had bought me a fresh bottle of her signature scent. It is not a scent that I would choose for myself, but I was touched by her present. I tucked it away, and smiled.
This past December, we met in the laundry room. There she was (now at 98 years young) doing her laundry on her own, and smelling of her beloved Elixer. We chatted a bit and I was pleasantly shocked to hear she remembered me. We caught up as we folded clothes. She was very inquisitive and asked about my job, my ex-husband, holiday plans, how life was in general. Her Irish eyes sparkled when she started talking about her life here in the building. She has cherished living her for well over 30 years now and was very proud of the fact that at 98 she still can manage quite well.
Just last night I ran down to the bar to drop off some sunglasses I had found. As I exited the elevator I was met by her smell. I looked around and couldn’t find her. I delivered my goods to the bar, and returned to the lobby to catch the elevator backup to the apartment. Just as the elevator doors slid open, she came toddling off the street into the lobby. I opened the big glass security door for her and welcomed her home. She asked if I could hold the elevator while she checked her mail and I of course obliged. Up we went. Again she was full of conversation. At one point she said “I guess I’m not doing so bad for 99.” “Oh!” I gasped. “Did you have a birthday recently?” “No, no dear! It is in February. I will be 99 and I’m quite looking forward to it.” I reassured her that she was indeed, doing amazingly well. She exited the elevator before me, scent still lingering.
I guess the best way to end this story is to share another gift she gave to me…perspective. Today I got home from yet another bad day at the office. I fed the cats, took out the trash, and sorted mail. All of which were done while obsessing over the injustices I perceived myself of having gone through of late. Exhausted, I soaked in a long hot shower. I put on my plushest of winter pajamas, and then dug around under my bathroom sink for that special small box. (Yes, I have kept it all these years.) I spritzed on a bit of the Elixer she gave me. I'm pretty sure the cats immediately started sneezing, but there was something about that scent I couldn't resist on a night like tonight. While overbearing at times, it somehow just made me feel better. Much better! Perhaps that scent is the secret to her longevity.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Miriam
I had a neighbor just next door, the perfect neighbor really. I rarely saw her, never heard her, but always thought of her as I passed her doorway just the same. I knew she was old, and a recluse. There were rumors that she had no family and that she was a hoarder. Getting a glimpse of her was like getting a glimpse of Sasquatch. Now let me clarify that she looked nothing like Sasquatch. It was just such a rare thing to see her. Being so rare, she gained her own bit of lore within the building. She even had black trash bags taped to her front windows. I still don’t now if this was for privacy or if she just really hated a glare on her TV while watching her programs. Odd either way.
My first real encounter with her was after work one day. Coming down the hall, I noticed what seemed to be mailed prescriptions piled up on her doorstep. Knowing she never left her apartment, I decided to knock on her door and let her know her packages were there waiting for her. I feared it would be days before she ventured out, and these pills were probably pretty vital to this old crone’s health. I knocked on her door a few times before she finally responded. “Who’s there?” she shrieked from the other side. If I were 9, I would have bolted at this point. It was a bit scary even being in my 30’s. I took a deep breath and responded, “It’s your neighbor. You have a package.” With the click of a deadbolt the door finally cracked open. Two black eyes peered through the crack sizing me up. I guess I looked safe (or like a delicious snack) because she finally opened it and greeted me. She looked much like one would expect from all the whispers. Old, crooked, jet black dyed hair to her waist, white papery skin. (Incidentally, this is exactly what I imagined the witch to look like when my German nursery school teacher would read Hansel and Gretel to us.)
I handed her the packages and was surprised at how sweet she really was. She thanked me profusely and asked my name. I told her, and let her know I was just next door should she need anything. She smiled, and for a moment I could see that she was once quite beautiful. For that brief second, the spooky air about her lifted. Sadly, there were few sightings after that.
One day as I headed out, the police were at the back gate trying to get into the building. Being a civic minded person (and a sucker for a man in uniform), I did my duty and let them into the building. I got back on the elevator with them and they hit the button to my floor. They asked me if I knew Miriam and I realized that they were looking for my elusive neighbor. They explained that someone was assigned to call her daily just to make sure she was okay, and this time she had not answered. The police were then called to check in on her. I showed them to her door. After several knocks, and no response the door was kicked in. No Miriam. We were baffled as to where she could have gone off to so late at night. After some time, the police gave up and we rode the elevator back downstairs. As the doors slid open on the ground floor, there she was with her walker, in all her Hansel and Gretel glory.
“Miriam!” I said, smiling. “These nice gentlemen came to check in on you. Some one was worried!”
“What the fuck are you talking about, god damn it? I don’t need any fucking cops. Get out of here you dirty bastards! Fuck off! Can’t you see I’m fine? Just leave me alone! Rat bastards! Don't touch me!”
The stunned cops looked at me for help. “You’re on your own boys!” I said as I exited the elevator laughing. Yes, Miriam was a crotchety old bitch, but, I had seen her softer side. I was actually tickled to see this side of her too. “God bless her!” I thought. She had the spirit and fire of a wild mustang even in old age. And while her lonely last days were not what any of us would hope for ourselves, she maintained a spirit about her that I had to respect. No need to worry about Miriam! She could fend for herself.
Sadly she was moved to a home a few months ago. The black trash bags were removed from her window and from my balcony I could see into her apartment for the first time in years. Books were piled everywhere. Hopeful, I awaited my neighbor's unlikely return. Soon someone came and started cleaning. Just last week, everything went. She had finally died. I can’t say I knew her, but she sure left a hell of an impression. And another great memory about this building. Thanks Miriam! There won't be another like you.
My first real encounter with her was after work one day. Coming down the hall, I noticed what seemed to be mailed prescriptions piled up on her doorstep. Knowing she never left her apartment, I decided to knock on her door and let her know her packages were there waiting for her. I feared it would be days before she ventured out, and these pills were probably pretty vital to this old crone’s health. I knocked on her door a few times before she finally responded. “Who’s there?” she shrieked from the other side. If I were 9, I would have bolted at this point. It was a bit scary even being in my 30’s. I took a deep breath and responded, “It’s your neighbor. You have a package.” With the click of a deadbolt the door finally cracked open. Two black eyes peered through the crack sizing me up. I guess I looked safe (or like a delicious snack) because she finally opened it and greeted me. She looked much like one would expect from all the whispers. Old, crooked, jet black dyed hair to her waist, white papery skin. (Incidentally, this is exactly what I imagined the witch to look like when my German nursery school teacher would read Hansel and Gretel to us.)
I handed her the packages and was surprised at how sweet she really was. She thanked me profusely and asked my name. I told her, and let her know I was just next door should she need anything. She smiled, and for a moment I could see that she was once quite beautiful. For that brief second, the spooky air about her lifted. Sadly, there were few sightings after that.
One day as I headed out, the police were at the back gate trying to get into the building. Being a civic minded person (and a sucker for a man in uniform), I did my duty and let them into the building. I got back on the elevator with them and they hit the button to my floor. They asked me if I knew Miriam and I realized that they were looking for my elusive neighbor. They explained that someone was assigned to call her daily just to make sure she was okay, and this time she had not answered. The police were then called to check in on her. I showed them to her door. After several knocks, and no response the door was kicked in. No Miriam. We were baffled as to where she could have gone off to so late at night. After some time, the police gave up and we rode the elevator back downstairs. As the doors slid open on the ground floor, there she was with her walker, in all her Hansel and Gretel glory.
“Miriam!” I said, smiling. “These nice gentlemen came to check in on you. Some one was worried!”
“What the fuck are you talking about, god damn it? I don’t need any fucking cops. Get out of here you dirty bastards! Fuck off! Can’t you see I’m fine? Just leave me alone! Rat bastards! Don't touch me!”
The stunned cops looked at me for help. “You’re on your own boys!” I said as I exited the elevator laughing. Yes, Miriam was a crotchety old bitch, but, I had seen her softer side. I was actually tickled to see this side of her too. “God bless her!” I thought. She had the spirit and fire of a wild mustang even in old age. And while her lonely last days were not what any of us would hope for ourselves, she maintained a spirit about her that I had to respect. No need to worry about Miriam! She could fend for herself.
Sadly she was moved to a home a few months ago. The black trash bags were removed from her window and from my balcony I could see into her apartment for the first time in years. Books were piled everywhere. Hopeful, I awaited my neighbor's unlikely return. Soon someone came and started cleaning. Just last week, everything went. She had finally died. I can’t say I knew her, but she sure left a hell of an impression. And another great memory about this building. Thanks Miriam! There won't be another like you.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Imperial House Bar-By Firefly Films
Here is a great video by Firefly Films about the Imperial House Restaurant's lounge. David is a great host and Rick gets some camera time too. Enjoy!
The Legend of Rick Lyon
"The Legend of Rick Lyon" contest details will be up after the new year. Stay tuned!
Flight Plan
I hate packing, arriving early to the terminal, the taking of the shoes off at the security check point, the large sweaty men who inevitably ends up sitting next to me in the plane. But looking out that window at my city below (and of any cities I end up flying over), that makes me love flying. Granted, one particular thrill for me is seeing the Imperial House outside the right hand side of the plane as we come coasting into the airport. I look and wave to my neighbors knowing full well they can’t see me in this tin can, but it is a fun ritual just the same. This is always my favorite part of flying back home. And this is where it becomes a tale from the Impy.
The Imperial tower just happens to be the southern most highrise on the flight path into our airport. The beauty of it is nobody can ever build infront of us and block our ridiculous view of the city, the Coronado Islands, or Mexico. The flight path is an invisable shield that keeps us from melding with the downtown skyline. A little corridor of noisy solitude. There is a bit of noise from the planes as they come in for landing…But nothing you don’t get accustomed too. After eight years here I know the planes by sound. I can tell you whether it is a Southwest Airliner or the Fedex plane just by the sound and time of day. I don’t know if that is cool or sad, it just happens to be a fact.
I never knew how much the noise of the planes meant to me until they stopped one day...September 11th, 2001. I had already had a sense of forboding days before it all happened. I come from a family of women who can see things coming. I knew this time it would be big, but even my premonitions could not prepare me for what I woke up to that morning. Then it happened.
The towers fell and the planes stopped. All flights were grounded. Like everyone else, I wept in the initial hours of the horror, and for many days to come. That night, Phil and I managed to pull ourselves away from the constant coverage and sat out on his ninth floor balcony that overlooked the flight path. The silence was deafening. Tears were shed some more.
The country’s mood surrged from shock and horror, to anger, to new found patriotism that at times seemed misguided. Eventualy the FAA annoucended that the groundings had been lifted and nothing seemed more patriotic to us than to grab a six pack and sit on his balcony cheering each and every flight that came in. Granted the beer was Mexican and it had limes in it, but patriotic just the same. We sat out there for hours and every plane that passed by seeemed like another victory for us. Other neighbors sat on their south facing balconies, presumably enjoying the same victories. I had always loved this view of the planes, but the noise I had once complained about was now another strange yet treasured part of living at the Imperial House.
The Imperial tower just happens to be the southern most highrise on the flight path into our airport. The beauty of it is nobody can ever build infront of us and block our ridiculous view of the city, the Coronado Islands, or Mexico. The flight path is an invisable shield that keeps us from melding with the downtown skyline. A little corridor of noisy solitude. There is a bit of noise from the planes as they come in for landing…But nothing you don’t get accustomed too. After eight years here I know the planes by sound. I can tell you whether it is a Southwest Airliner or the Fedex plane just by the sound and time of day. I don’t know if that is cool or sad, it just happens to be a fact.
I never knew how much the noise of the planes meant to me until they stopped one day...September 11th, 2001. I had already had a sense of forboding days before it all happened. I come from a family of women who can see things coming. I knew this time it would be big, but even my premonitions could not prepare me for what I woke up to that morning. Then it happened.
The towers fell and the planes stopped. All flights were grounded. Like everyone else, I wept in the initial hours of the horror, and for many days to come. That night, Phil and I managed to pull ourselves away from the constant coverage and sat out on his ninth floor balcony that overlooked the flight path. The silence was deafening. Tears were shed some more.
The country’s mood surrged from shock and horror, to anger, to new found patriotism that at times seemed misguided. Eventualy the FAA annoucended that the groundings had been lifted and nothing seemed more patriotic to us than to grab a six pack and sit on his balcony cheering each and every flight that came in. Granted the beer was Mexican and it had limes in it, but patriotic just the same. We sat out there for hours and every plane that passed by seeemed like another victory for us. Other neighbors sat on their south facing balconies, presumably enjoying the same victories. I had always loved this view of the planes, but the noise I had once complained about was now another strange yet treasured part of living at the Imperial House.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Second Floor Sex-capades
Another Friday night in the bar, another cigarette break outside. I stood outside in the crisp air downing yet another Camel light. Suddenly I hear a “smack-smack” sound. Being alone on the entranceway to the bar/restaurant I was baffled. “What the hell was that?’ A few more whacks and I decide to wander out to the sidewalk to try and discover the source of this sound. I see nothing in the street and as I turn around to head back in to the bar when something catches my eye. On the second floor just above the bar, there it is! A naked woman pressed up against the sliding glass door of one of the apartments being spanked by one of my neighbors.
I am aghast and dumbfounded. Little was I to know, in the weeks and months that came to pass this would be a regular occurrence. This non-descript 40-something neighbor of mine had a fetish...It was to be watched. He continued his antics in his front window for months. The more people outside watching, the raunchier it got. I swear he held off on his escapades until there was a large enough group of hipster kids out front smoking and chatting to make it worth his while. The doorman at the time (an ex NFL player) even took to hurling rocks at his window in the middle of coitus in a feeble attempt to get this man to stop the obscene displays. It was of no use. Every week, it was a different woman and a different position in the window for all to see. Complaints were filed and management said their hands were tied. What he does in the privacy of his apartment could not be controlled.
This man creeped me out to no end, but he hit his peak one day when I was out front washing my car. A neighbor came by after her morning jog to catch up on the week’s events. As I talked to her something caught my eye. Sure enough, there he was again in his window, but this time solo and apparently enjoying the view. I never had the heart to tell my jogging neighbor what he as doing as he watched us chat. She would have been damaged for life. I did manage to take my frustrations to the local police, and as luck would have it the sergeant I talked to was a woman. She took my concerns seriously and told me what I had to do to get the situation taken care of on a legal level. I’ve got to give her credit. After our first encounter, squad cars suddenly started cruising by the building at the most appropriate of hours. Alas, no legal action was taken. He finally moved out and oddly enough my underwear stopped disappearing from the dryers on laundry night. Once in a blue moon while standing out front smoking my beloved Camels, he will still drive by in his company car and stare up to his old playground. I guess he really misses those big sliding glass windows.
I am aghast and dumbfounded. Little was I to know, in the weeks and months that came to pass this would be a regular occurrence. This non-descript 40-something neighbor of mine had a fetish...It was to be watched. He continued his antics in his front window for months. The more people outside watching, the raunchier it got. I swear he held off on his escapades until there was a large enough group of hipster kids out front smoking and chatting to make it worth his while. The doorman at the time (an ex NFL player) even took to hurling rocks at his window in the middle of coitus in a feeble attempt to get this man to stop the obscene displays. It was of no use. Every week, it was a different woman and a different position in the window for all to see. Complaints were filed and management said their hands were tied. What he does in the privacy of his apartment could not be controlled.
This man creeped me out to no end, but he hit his peak one day when I was out front washing my car. A neighbor came by after her morning jog to catch up on the week’s events. As I talked to her something caught my eye. Sure enough, there he was again in his window, but this time solo and apparently enjoying the view. I never had the heart to tell my jogging neighbor what he as doing as he watched us chat. She would have been damaged for life. I did manage to take my frustrations to the local police, and as luck would have it the sergeant I talked to was a woman. She took my concerns seriously and told me what I had to do to get the situation taken care of on a legal level. I’ve got to give her credit. After our first encounter, squad cars suddenly started cruising by the building at the most appropriate of hours. Alas, no legal action was taken. He finally moved out and oddly enough my underwear stopped disappearing from the dryers on laundry night. Once in a blue moon while standing out front smoking my beloved Camels, he will still drive by in his company car and stare up to his old playground. I guess he really misses those big sliding glass windows.
Thanks to the Impy brethren
Just a quick thanks to those who were kind enough to give me feedback on this new undertaking. Your support has been amazing! In turn, I would be honored to share your stories about this little place of ours. I'll get an email up soon where you can send your Imperial contributions. I know that my experiences here only scratch the surface. There is so much more to be shared. It's official. Tales From The Impy is underway!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
