"Maaaaahlene!!"
I have a few friends who do a decent impersonation of my landlady. However, none of them have met her. They only know how she sounds second-hand from stories of our skirmishes. I have fewer stories now, but I used to have lots.
It was October 2002 and I needed a place to live. I was looking in Brooklyn, where I had lived for 9 years, and had endured the prerequisite sequence of troublesome NYC apartment dramas. Failed roommates. Crazy landlords. Needing storage units. Living in storage units. Julie answered the door and without spending time on niceties, and lead me up the stairs as she took laboring breaths, and pausing at the landings. She let out strong "WOOOH!!" at the top of the stairs which took me off guard with its volume. The lights were out in the apartment and I could not tell what Julie looked like aside from being a big-statured black lady in a nightgown with closely shorn hair who was now wielding a flashlight to show me the the corners of the two rooms. It was clean enough, had windows, and I could afford it on my own. That's all i needed to know. I got the feeling that my new landlady was just as relieved to be done with the chore of searching as me. In the cool darkness of the evening, we shook hands on the deal, and this would mark the beginning of a new domestic epoch for both of us.
I was delighted to find myself on the third floor of a brownstone, on a street lined with flagstone and tiger lilies and overshadowed by great leafy canopies. Neighboring homes existed in various states of decay, which endowed them with a wise grandeur. Some of the houses, such as the one I now called home, had accrued additions to the top floor, which meant the short eyebrow windows traditionally found at the top floor had been replaced by a whole unit. Since these homes are conjoined, one can easily travel from one house to another, roof to roof. I asked Julie if I was permitted to go up to the roof. The ladder was right outside my door. She replied, with great finality, "NO!"
I paid my rent each month by bringing Julie cash in an envelope down to her garden-level apartment. She would count the money, and then declare boldly, "OK!!" And that was that.
About a month after moving in, I was boiling some potatoes, and as I steamed my face over the roiling water, the hood of the stove fell out off the wall, clocking me on my head. I called Julie next day, and I could hear her breathing hard as she climbed the three flights of stairs, her heavy footfalls approaching. She saw the fallen stove hood and then fixed her eyes on me. "WHAT WERE YOU DOING TO IT?? in a booming voice that I would later learn is just her normal inside voice.
"I was steaming my face over my potatoes."
"STEAMING YOUR FACE OVER POTATOES! WHY WERE YOU DOING THAT?"
"I was boiling potatoes and it fell on my head."
Julie said she would have someone up the next day, and mumbled as she descended the stairs, "steaming her face in her potatoes..." Julie was not happy about having to fix stuff.... and was no fan of the stairs.
A week later, my toilet became badly clogged. I tried plunging it, to know avail. I had to call Julie. Julie heaved herself up the stairs stopping at the top to breathe heavily and let out loud wooshing exclamations about the un-believability of the stairs, and peering at them incriminatingly. "YOUR TOILET IS CLOGGED???" "Yes", I say, meekly. "WELL WHAT WERE YOU PUTTING IN IT???? She caught her breath and looked at me with big eyes awaiting a response. I replied, "What do you put in your toilet?"
"WHAT!?! She boomed.
I had to call a plumber and Julie wanted me to pay the bill. I felt that the problem was the old plumbing and not my deposits into the toilet, but before I could make my case, Julie silenced me with a knowing look that said, "shut up, and give me my money". So I gave her the money.
Six months after I moved in, I found a mewing grey kitten on the street and brought it home. It was the night of the second round of debates between Obama and Mitch Romney. I was going through a breakup, and the addition of kitten energy was a timely temptation, so I took a chance that Julie would grant permission to keep it. I called Julie the next day from work. "Can I have a cat?" I asked. "NO!!" She boomed with a short descriptor of her reasons which left zero room for argument, and my one attempt at protest was met with a click of the phone. However, before dejection could set in, the phone rang, and it was Julie saying, "YOU CAN KEEP THE CAT."
I named the kitten "Romeo" because of his way holding my head between his front paws and nuzzling, which were a lot like a make-out session with fur instead of saliva. Romeo seemed anxious when left alone for too long, and I was spending less and less time home. I found myself at a dinner party a few weeks later where a woman showed me a video of her foster kitten batting about a rattling ball. She was trying to find it a home for the kitten which she called "Crowley". He was all black, except for white patches where a humans pubic hair normally is located. Three white triangles, that were either an improbable mimicry, or a rogue genetic marker making its way down the wrong taxonomical branch. I told her I would take the kitten.
About a month later, Julie called me at work to say a worker had to come into my apartment to look at my outlets. I said, "no problem," thinking nothing of the presence of a second cat, which to my thinking, was not much different from one cat. The phone rang a few hours later, and it was Julie's name on my phone.
"MAH-LEEENE!? YOU asked.... for permission.... for A CAT. Why..... are there TWO CATS..... in your apartment?"
I panicked. "Its not mine. Its belongs to my sick friend. She is in the hospital."
There was a long pause on the other line. "That cat better better be gone soon."
Nothing more was said about Crowley for some time, and I was too busy with work to think much more of it. Plus, Romeo and Crowley had formed a brotherhood that I felt prepared to defend in some sort of way, when the time came. I ran into Julie while getting my mail from the bank of metal boxes by her garden level door.
"Did you get rid of that black cat?" she asked.
I panicked again. "My friend in the hospital..." I shook my head and assumed an aggrieved expression.
Julie's eyes became big with rage. "I am NOT TRYING to have a house FULL OF CATS!!" she thundered, slamming her door behind her.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment the following week and while passing the apartment below me, I saw that the door was open and boxes were stacked inside. A young woman with thick black twists of hair shyly showed herself and lit up with a large warm smile. We introduced ourselves, and I learned her name was Katherine. While we chatted, a small black kitten came to stand underneath us.
"Does Julie know you have a cat?"
"She knows, but she wasn't happy about it."
We later learned from the longer-standing tenants that the house had a mouse problem, but neither of us ever saw any sign of a mouse, thanks to Julie's forbearance.
Katherine and I sometimes convened in the hallway where she would tell me about her modeling aspirations, and the nanny jobs which kept her afloat. As an aspiring artist working a punishing job in construction, there was enough common ground for us to become friends, and eventually she came to spend time in my apartment where we would talk for hours about our lives and families, and would commiserate at length about Julie's dislike for spending money on building maintenance. Katherine never missed a day of work, was consistent, sober, ...
Six months after I moved in, I found a mewing grey kitten on the street and brought it home. It was the night of the second round of debates between Obama and Mitch Romney. I was going through a breakup, and the addition of kitten energy was a timely temptation, so I took a chance that Julie would grant permission to keep it. I called Julie the next day from work. "Can I have a cat?" I asked. "NO!!" She boomed with a short descriptor of her reasons which left zero room for argument, and my one attempt at protest was met with a click of the phone. However, before dejection could set in, the phone rang, and it was Julie saying, "YOU CAN KEEP THE CAT."
I named the kitten "Romeo" because of his way holding my head between his front paws and nuzzling, which were a lot like a make-out session with fur instead of saliva. Romeo seemed anxious when left alone for too long, and I was spending less and less time home. I found myself at a dinner party a few weeks later where a woman showed me a video of her foster kitten batting about a rattling ball. She was trying to find it a home for the kitten which she called "Crowley". He was all black, except for white patches where a humans pubic hair normally is located. Three white triangles, that were either an improbable mimicry, or a rogue genetic marker making its way down the wrong taxonomical branch. I told her I would take the kitten.
About a month later, Julie called me at work to say a worker had to come into my apartment to look at my outlets. I said, "no problem," thinking nothing of the presence of a second cat, which to my thinking, was not much different from one cat. The phone rang a few hours later, and it was Julie's name on my phone.
"MAH-LEEENE!? YOU asked.... for permission.... for A CAT. Why..... are there TWO CATS..... in your apartment?"
I panicked. "Its not mine. Its belongs to my sick friend. She is in the hospital."
There was a long pause on the other line. "That cat better better be gone soon."
Nothing more was said about Crowley for some time, and I was too busy with work to think much more of it. Plus, Romeo and Crowley had formed a brotherhood that I felt prepared to defend in some sort of way, when the time came. I ran into Julie while getting my mail from the bank of metal boxes by her garden level door.
"Did you get rid of that black cat?" she asked.
I panicked again. "My friend in the hospital..." I shook my head and assumed an aggrieved expression.
Julie's eyes became big with rage. "I am NOT TRYING to have a house FULL OF CATS!!" she thundered, slamming her door behind her.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment the following week and while passing the apartment below me, I saw that the door was open and boxes were stacked inside. A young woman with thick black twists of hair shyly showed herself and lit up with a large warm smile. We introduced ourselves, and I learned her name was Katherine. While we chatted, a small black kitten came to stand underneath us.
"Does Julie know you have a cat?"
"She knows, but she wasn't happy about it."
We later learned from the longer-standing tenants that the house had a mouse problem, but neither of us ever saw any sign of a mouse, thanks to Julie's forbearance.
Katherine and I sometimes convened in the hallway where she would tell me about her modeling aspirations, and the nanny jobs which kept her afloat. As an aspiring artist working a punishing job in construction, there was enough common ground for us to become friends, and eventually she came to spend time in my apartment where we would talk for hours about our lives and families, and would commiserate at length about Julie's dislike for spending money on building maintenance. Katherine never missed a day of work, was consistent, sober, ...
In the Winters, my apartment was brutally cold. I doubted there was a stitch of insulation behind my thin walls. In the Spring and Fall, it could be a perfect day outside, and my rooms felt oppressive. In the Summers, I had to run two air-conditioners if I wanted to put a dent in the heat. This eventually took its toll on the antiquated electrical wiring.
On those hot nights, I would stare longingly at the ladder outside my front door. Eventually, I could no longer resist and began to spend time on my roof, which was easily accessible by lifting a wooden hatch. There, the pitched glass skylight covers glowed sea green and orangy yellow. She had resisted but I cajoled her up with promises of beautiful Summer skies with cool breezes. We climbed up the janky wrought iron ladder, lifting up the hatch which was heavy with moisture and groaned. The sky was starry bright and we traversed the rooftops, giddy with mischief. I could smell Katherine's Victoria Secret perfume...
On those hot nights, I would stare longingly at the ladder outside my front door. Eventually, I could no longer resist and began to spend time on my roof, which was easily accessible by lifting a wooden hatch. There, the pitched glass skylight covers glowed sea green and orangy yellow. She had resisted but I cajoled her up with promises of beautiful Summer skies with cool breezes. We climbed up the janky wrought iron ladder, lifting up the hatch which was heavy with moisture and groaned. The sky was starry bright and we traversed the rooftops, giddy with mischief. I could smell Katherine's Victoria Secret perfume...
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