I am just making my way back to Brooklyn after a week upstate where I watched my friends' kids and worked on some personal projects. They live near Beacon, and the trees up here are starting to turn.
I got it in my head that while I am up here, this would be a good place to store a few things cheaply. I need to vacate my school studio (super sad face) and figure out a way of storing a few medium-sized highly irregularly shaped works in progress. Storage is big business these days, complete with brokers, price-matching, and sly little last minute insurance requirements. I searched for something more "Mom and Pop", if you will. A place where I could say, 'Hey, you don't mind if I plug in some lights and a Dremel tool for a few minutes, do yah?' or "sorry about that sticky spot. I'll clean it tomorrow.' Steering clear of big commercial outfits, I found an ad for a spot in Poughkeepsie resembling double-decker barn billing itself as "mixed-use industrial" - catnip to us Brooklynites, triggering images of loft-style structures with gantry cranes and 220 power that are also equipped with a place to sleep and eat. The photos included heavy metal walk-ways and double doors. It was accompanied by thoughtfully worded copy including a phone number. I called the number, left a message, and then went about my business with the children, working hard to cultivate a Mary Poppins-sort of affect.
The girls are eight and five. I an not family, but they are to me, the closest thing I have to nieces. I only know the mechanics of interacting with these ages from 10 minute increments spent drawing them at a Communion, or Bar Mitzvah. I am a long-distance aunt of three nephews, if that counts for anything. I often feel confused by modern children's assertion of themselves, as I remember myself to be more like an absorption barrier. My will was generally only acknowledged after combat. A sensitivity to the will of the child is difficult to reconcile with a keen interest in guiding them correctly. These are both good-natured kids, but the five year old is intractable when it comes to eating, sleeping, and screen time. At five, she already knows how to use her beguiling cuteness to her own ends. She made me laugh with my whole body a few times with her comic timing and Groucho Marx-like expressions. The child-whispering would have gone better if distance-learning were not in the equation. I was aggrieved by the on-line model, and set to gently coerce the two into math and penmanship. However, there was no outcome to this that would not cast me as the villain: at the end of the day, I was making them do something they did not want to do. I didn't blame them. The teachers on Zoom, though doing their best, struggled with technical issues and lighting, and thus creating many chances for the girls' attention to flicker.
To take the strain off the teaching component, we spent an afternoon taking a long hike through some nearby land where we walked along RV tracks with grassy purple and yellow wildflowers growing above our heads. A row of power lines traveled vanishingly in either direction, and hunting cabins suspended aloft in the trees were painted with camouflage. The eight year old said, "This is a place where deer have lost their lives." The five year old complained loudly and dramatically most of the way out about not getting to walk the dog as the eight year old was dragged forward by the muscular Boxer-mix. When we made our turnaround in a sand pit stamped with RV tracks, the leash was passed to the younger girl and it immediately began to slip from her grasp. Taking the leash from her I tied it in a knot so she could put her hand through a loop, retaining a better grasp. I knew this could backfire badly, and stayed side by side with her as she leaned all the way back to counter the dog's forward motion, clearly not in control, and loving every second of it. She laughed maniacally, and upon removal of the binding leash, she declared breathily, in her squeaky five year old voice, "I am SO full of joy right now!" She was all will, this girl. Fearless. Questionless. Doubtless.
I have an expiration time with children, because I am easily fatigued by too much interaction. At a certain point, even if I want to be patient and pleasant, I am totally incapable of it, and have to shut down. I reached that point very quickly in those last few days, and a hearty desire to forge ahead with non-caretaker-related business, in as much silence as possible, took hold. I worked on a small illustration project and eventually heard back from "Jim", who had placed the Craigslist ad for the storage unit. He left an amicable message which was every bit as inviting as the ad. I called him back and our conversation with him made everything sound pretty peachy. I could almost smell the welding from the neighboring metal shop and muffin bakery that my imagination had edited in. His voice was even-toned and sonorous, but I noticed, after all relevant details had been exchanged, a very difficult time dislodging myself from the conversation. He went on lengthily about it's "mixed use" status and history. He elaborated on how he had lived there for 48 years, and all the updates he had made to the property. I eventually told him I had to call my Mom back and clicked off abruptly, which was the only way that I could.
'Extra friendly', I thought. It is Poughkeepsie! I drove out to meet him, but the address was on a busy thoroughfare, and I was not able to slow down enough to read the house numbers. I parked around the corner feeling slightly thrown off by the decidedly non-industrial quality of the neighborhood, a hamlet of Victorian houses with tidy front lawns. When I approached the specified address, a man in a tweed suit stood at the gate looking at his watch. When he looked up at me, I saw that his skin looked soft and unlined. He didn't smile when he asked if I was here to see the unit.
"Where did you park?" his brows raised in consternation.
"Around the corner."
"Didn't you see me?"
"No, I was looking for street numbers."
"Did you read the signs? You might get a ticket."
"Ok, I will go check on my car." The street signs were faded beyond legibility, so in grudging obiesance, I pulled around to his driveway down into a small lot amid baby blue double-decker barn houses. Standing in front of the car, he forcefully waived me in, as I hesitated for fear of hitting him. Why did he have to stand there? I parked and after pleasantries he spoke about the layout of the units, their uses over the years, and about the personal details of every person currently renting space there, or who had ever rented space there since World War Two. He tells me about the alley cats he feeds and all their backstories. When he smiled, his teeth were unnaturally intact and straight. It began to occur to me that he was not going to stop talking this way unless I initiated movement. When I took a step in the direction of the available unit, he bristled.
"Do you have somewhere to be?"
"No, I am just so excited to see this space!" He motioned for me to stop while he passed me on the stairs, hobbling a little.
"I walk very slow and I have a limp."
A beat of silence.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I got a limp?"
More silence. He stops and begins to tell me a story about Paul Revere that somehow ends with him falling off a horse and hurting himself. My head is now vibrating with numbness and I am glad I am wearing sunglasses which will hide my wandering eyes.
He looks at me in a way that suggests he is put off by my lack of response. I smile appreciatively.
The unit is one of many along a narrow hallway. He unlocked the door, and waved me in. I almost walked through opening, but then I remember all the Criminal Minds episodes which left me angered by scenarios where serial murder victims do stupid things to imperil themselves. His hand is on the knob and the ring of keys are in the other hand. He is jerking his head with a crescent smile toward the shadowy interior saying "Go ahead....Go on.." I put my hands up in protest.
"I am good. I see everything I need to see. "
"You are not going to go in?"
"Nope. I see it fine." Stepping away.
"It has a window."
"I see the window. "
He snorts at me and locks the door.
"Do you have outlets in here?" I have already abandoned my Dremel tool idea but it is a way to shift the conversation. He indicates a row of shiny outlets running the length of the storage unit - unprecedented in my personal storage unit history. He shut off the light switch, and added that this is how he knows if someone is here or not and points out the window to a lighthouse like enclosure at the top floor of his personal residence. The situation was seeming more and more like a gingerbread house to me, and I sidle out the door and down the stairs while Jim asks me bullet point questions about my art and am I any good, and what am I having for dinner?
I notice two security cameras mounted to the eves.
"How many security cameras do you think are here?"
"Four?"
"I cannot tell you the correct number, but you are wrong."
"Why can't you tell me?"
"Contract with security company."
"Really? what's the name of the security company?"
"I cannot tell you that either. Its in the contract."
I made my way out of there under the pretense of dinner plans and barely escaped without a full description of recipe ingredients and a full guest list. Poor scary guy. I couldn't tell if renting the space would be renting "Jim" with it.
On my way out of town, I found a nice commercial storage spot. A blue-eyed girl assisted the transaction with robotic efficiency. I feel confident that I will never see her again, and I this is a strictly self-service situation. All the units are ground level, and there are grassy patches all around - perfect for thinking days when there is good weather.
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