After a long day of running errands, I pulled into the driveway and saw, out of the corner of my eye, a long-haired man standing on the back porch of the neighboring apartment building. His hair was dark and he wore round eyeglasses and his hands were on his hips. He was standing with his chest puffed out and looking out over the parking area as if he were a pirate and it was the sea.
I was eager to meet my neighbors. I was eager to meet anyone, really. I was completely solo in my new town, and I wanted to make an ally or two. I parked my car and hopped out, but by the time I turned around, the long-haired man was gone. He disappeared. In a blink of the eye and the time it takes to put the gear shift in "park," he dissolved into the building.
Huh, I thought. Maybe he doesn't want to be met.
I took my grocery bags inside and lingered in the kitchen for a while. The first department mixer was later that evening, and I thought I might want to look nice. I threw the five items of clothing in which I felt most comfortable onto the bed. I picked up the red cotton tank top in which I'd traveled western Europe. I threw it back on the bed. I called my friend Nicole.
"What should I wear?" I said to my friend, who'd just had a baby in Ohio.
"A bra," she answered. "Wear a bra."
Two months before I moved south, I cut off all my hair. I wanted a fresh start, which I thought should include a fresh look. Instead, the cut, plus the product that the stylist convinced me to buy, made my hair look flat and stringy and greasy. I'd gained a little weight between acceptance and arrival, too. I didn't feel like myself, and I had to go meet a bunch of strangers.
"Maybe I should stay home," I said to Nicole.
"Well," she said. "Then you don't have to wear a bra."
I wore a bra. And I went to the mixer. Everyone was generally nice, although I did get the distinct feeling that we were being sized up. I was fresh meat. I walked out onto the porch of the professor hosting the shindig and I saw my next door pirate, standing with a few other people - people I didn't know, and I didn't know if they were new or not. I was new. I knew no one.
But, I'd seen this man and I was fairly certain he'd seen me.
"Hey," I said to him. "I think you're my neighbor."
He whipped his head around to look at me and his hair followed. It punctuated his movements like a period ends a sentence. He moved, and his hair let you know how to read it. His movement seemed quick and clipped. And I could see how this man could disappear in a snap.
He didn't say, "Nice to meet you." He didn't say anything. He just nodded. And then he was talking to the other people.
The nod was enough. I wasn't put off by it and I didn't feel brushed off. A small, still voice from deep within told me that the little yes was big beginning. What it didn't tell me was that before I knew it, I'd have a cataloged collection of every Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode before it was released on DVD. Courtesy of the man with the pirate presence and the exclamation point hair.
Showing posts with label dearing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dearing. Show all posts
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Selecting Furniture
If I closed my eyes, I could see the place: dark hardwood floors and woodwork, white walls, lots of light. It was small, but cozy. I was going to make it my home.
I was living in a studio apartment when I was accepted into the program. I had a futon and a skinny kitchen island I'd bought at a big box store and used as a desk. I would stand at it and type on the laptop I'd bought myself after college, or I would perch on the barstool I found at a yard sale and spend my time writing stories about women who were on the edge. In the six months I lived in the studio apartment, I wrote a story about a woman at a temporary secretarial job who beat up a guy in the lobby for constantly being nice to her.
Knowing I'd be leaving that apartment for the one on Dearing Place brightened my perspective a little. Plus, it gave me something to do.
I started shopping for furniture, dishes, domestic wares. I bought a book on Feng Shui. I agonized over living room rugs.
The kitchen was small, but there was room for a tiny table. I was reminded of the "ice cream table" or parlour table on the balcony of the apartment I'd rented in Paris right after college. It had reminded me of going for ice cream in my hometown, at a little ice cream parlour across the street from the cemetery. The tables had black and white marble tops. The claw foot bases were painted black. The chairs were practically made of wire hangers. And that's exactly what I wanted for my kitchen in the South.
My father found a base and heavier, sturdier wire chairs at the flea market. The chairs were missing seats and backs. He cut wood circles, added padding, and upholstered them with black and white striped referee shirts. He painted the base. And then he reminded me that I had a marble table top coming to me whenever I wanted it.
His friend, Gus, owned a marble and tile shop. He made bathroom sinks and countertops. When I was about to graduate from high school, Gus offered to make me a marble table of my own design. I didn't think much about it while I lived in college apartments, but this would be my first "grown up" place. I called, and he was happy to deliver. I asked for black and white swirled top. I got it. It was custom made for my perfect apartment.
I wasn't about to make the futon a permanent sleeping option. In my mind, it took the place of a sofa. I needed a bed, and I looked for a bed. I looked for a wrought iron bed at the flea market, in antique stores all over southern Ohio, northern Kentucky and in every shop in Huntington, West Virginia. Nothing seemed right, or the right price. I was browsing an antique store in my hometown when I saw the odd bed. It wasn't intricate. The posts were thicker, the iron less delicate. The white paint had cracked over the years. I said, "I'll live with that." I was happy to find it back home, in my hometown. It would be from home. The seller said it was as old as the late 1800s. It had lived in southern Ohio a lot longer than I had. And now I was making it a piece of my own history.
Like all furnishings, my possessions made statements. We made the ice cream table. The top was custom made. The bed was from a mercantile near the river. My bookshelves belonged to my grandparents - my Mamaw's childhood bookshelf and one my Papaw built himself in his garage.
I wanted a rocking chair, and found one that needed new caning. Instead, we put flat wood on the seat and I covered it with a comfortable pillow.
I moved it all into the little one bedroom just before the left curve at the top of the street. And it felt like home so fast that the neighbors could have been anyone.
And they were.
I was living in a studio apartment when I was accepted into the program. I had a futon and a skinny kitchen island I'd bought at a big box store and used as a desk. I would stand at it and type on the laptop I'd bought myself after college, or I would perch on the barstool I found at a yard sale and spend my time writing stories about women who were on the edge. In the six months I lived in the studio apartment, I wrote a story about a woman at a temporary secretarial job who beat up a guy in the lobby for constantly being nice to her.
Knowing I'd be leaving that apartment for the one on Dearing Place brightened my perspective a little. Plus, it gave me something to do.
I started shopping for furniture, dishes, domestic wares. I bought a book on Feng Shui. I agonized over living room rugs.
The kitchen was small, but there was room for a tiny table. I was reminded of the "ice cream table" or parlour table on the balcony of the apartment I'd rented in Paris right after college. It had reminded me of going for ice cream in my hometown, at a little ice cream parlour across the street from the cemetery. The tables had black and white marble tops. The claw foot bases were painted black. The chairs were practically made of wire hangers. And that's exactly what I wanted for my kitchen in the South.
My father found a base and heavier, sturdier wire chairs at the flea market. The chairs were missing seats and backs. He cut wood circles, added padding, and upholstered them with black and white striped referee shirts. He painted the base. And then he reminded me that I had a marble table top coming to me whenever I wanted it.
His friend, Gus, owned a marble and tile shop. He made bathroom sinks and countertops. When I was about to graduate from high school, Gus offered to make me a marble table of my own design. I didn't think much about it while I lived in college apartments, but this would be my first "grown up" place. I called, and he was happy to deliver. I asked for black and white swirled top. I got it. It was custom made for my perfect apartment.
I wasn't about to make the futon a permanent sleeping option. In my mind, it took the place of a sofa. I needed a bed, and I looked for a bed. I looked for a wrought iron bed at the flea market, in antique stores all over southern Ohio, northern Kentucky and in every shop in Huntington, West Virginia. Nothing seemed right, or the right price. I was browsing an antique store in my hometown when I saw the odd bed. It wasn't intricate. The posts were thicker, the iron less delicate. The white paint had cracked over the years. I said, "I'll live with that." I was happy to find it back home, in my hometown. It would be from home. The seller said it was as old as the late 1800s. It had lived in southern Ohio a lot longer than I had. And now I was making it a piece of my own history.
Like all furnishings, my possessions made statements. We made the ice cream table. The top was custom made. The bed was from a mercantile near the river. My bookshelves belonged to my grandparents - my Mamaw's childhood bookshelf and one my Papaw built himself in his garage.
I wanted a rocking chair, and found one that needed new caning. Instead, we put flat wood on the seat and I covered it with a comfortable pillow.
I moved it all into the little one bedroom just before the left curve at the top of the street. And it felt like home so fast that the neighbors could have been anyone.
And they were.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Perfect Apartment
My mother and I spent hours driving around town, searching for the right neighborhood and the just-so apartment. I was never a fan of the big complexes. I didn't want a box in a building I couldn't recognize from all the ones around it. I cared about other things. I wanted sidewalks. I wanted to be able to walk to campus. When we happened upon Dearing Place, I stopped the car. I got out just to walk the length of it.
It was simple street, tucked away near downtown. I thought it must be in a historic district. All of the houses were nice, but one house, midway down the block, stood out. It was obviously an old Antebellum home. The street was lined with trees that touched in the middle. At the end of the street, two brick pillars stood, each marked with a stone plate that announced your entrance on to Dearing Place. Just beyond it, across Queen City, was another southern estate. In the yard stood two large shrubs in the shape of peacocks.
I drove down the street and circled back around to drive down it again, and then again. We drove around the neighborhood to find a tiny grocery store, a gift store, a bar and a used bookstore in an old house - all within walking distance from the apartments at the end of the street. We drove back down Dearing Place so I could write down the number on the front of the building. There were no "For Rent" signs. There was no indication that an apartment was available that Fall. But I was going to call anyway. I was going to beg if I had to.
Back at the hotel, I was nervous while I dialed the number of the real estate office. I heard a strong southern accent say, "Hello?"
"I'm calling about the apartments you own at the end of Dearing Place. I was wondering if any of them were one bedroom and if so, are any of them available for this Fall?"
I was put on hold and then a man picked up the line. "It looks like we do have a one bedroom available on Dearing Place this Fall."
"How much is the rent?" I asked.
When he told me the very affordable price of $295.00, I practically squealed. "It's perfect!"
"Well, if it's perfect," the man said, "then it's $400.00."
Then we both laughed.
I hadn't even been inside the apartment yet, but I knew that street was home. I didn't consider the neighbors. I didn't think about who might live near me. All I could see was the architecture and the tree tops that touched in the middle of the street. I kept saying the name over and over again on the drive from the hotel back to Dearing Place to see the apartment. Dearing Place. "Dearing Place," I said. It sounded significant. It was. It would be.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The New Guy
I wore monkey slippers. One little monkey face per foot. I wore monkey slippers at home, and by "at home" I mean that I wore monkey slippers in my apartment and on the porch and when I took out the trash and when I walked across the driveway to go to P or E's apartments. I wore monkey slippers to the pick up Chinese takeout or rent videos sometimes, too. I wore monkey slippers to go up the stairs and introduce myself to the new guy and invite him to the party a few of us in the apartment complex had planned for that night.
It's strange that I already thought of him as "the new guy" as I climbed the stairs to knock on his door. It wasn't really his door. He was subletting from the girl who normally stayed there. When Nora was about to leave for the summer, she made sure to let the rest of us know that she had found a renter for the summer.
"He's an archaeology student," she said. We were all standing in a circle in the driveway, sharing news from our days. We nodded and filed the information away. A few days later, he showed up in a tiny car. I watched from my perch in my bedroom window as he carried his few belongings around the side of the building. I could hear him on the stairs. I could hear him moving around in the apartment above me. I thought he'd be a lot quieter if he invested in some slippers.
That's all I knew of him when I padded up the stairs and knocked on his door. It took him a minute to cross the small apartment, and when he opened the door, he did so quickly, like he was going to take whatever was knocking by surprise.
"Hi, I'm your downstairs neighbor," I started. I stuck my head inside the door, which made him step back. I kept on chirping while he took a look at my monkey slippers.
"We're having a party out back tonight," I said as I stepped inside the apartment. I took a look around. Nothing in the apartment had changed except for the few items scattered across Nora's coffee table. Well, two items: a passport and a very large knife.
I stood next to those items in my monkey slippers and explained how much fun the party would be. "A lot of people from the English department will probably be here," I said. "And a bunch of folks from the campus radio station. We'll have a fire and a keg. You should come."
"Um, I'll think about it," he said. Then I remembered that it's polite to let the people who you're inviting to your party know what to call you.
"I'm M, by the way," I said. I waited for him to tell me his name, once he was finished scrutinizing me.
"S," he said, as way of introduction.
"Well, S," I wrapped up, "Hope to see you tonight. We'll be right out there," I said, gestured to the backyard, and then stepped toward the door. "Nice to meet you," I said.
He mumbled something along the lines of "You, too."
I wore my monkey slippers down the steps and across the driveway and up the steps of the other building. I opened P's door, and when I noticed he wasn't in the living room, walked over to knock on the door of the computer room. I heard the wheels of his office chair roll along the hardwood, and then he opened the door. He and K were watching something on the computer, but paused it to hear my quick story.
"So," I start. "I just met the new guy."
"Yeah?" P said.
"And I invited him to our party tonight," I said.
"Yeah?" K said.
"And I went inside the apartment," I said.
"Yeah?" P and K said in unison.
"Yeah," I said. "And the only thing he's got in there is a passport and a giant f'ing knife."
P looked back at his computer screen, completely disinterested in how other people may or may not decorate their apartments. But K's eyes grew wide. He looked at P and then he looked at me and then the shouted his realization.
"He's Indiana Jones!"
I wore regular, run of the mill flip flops to the party that night. I sat on the back step and drank cold beer and stopped what I was doing when I saw the new guy try to walk to his car without notice. He stayed in the shadow of my building, his building, and almost made it past my car to his own. I glanced over at K just as he noticed the new guy trying to get by us.
"Jones!" K yelled at him. The new guy kept walking toward his car.
"Indiana Jones!" K yelled again. The new guy looked over at K, who was waving his arm at him, signaling him to come on over. I saw the new guy glance up at me and then take a step toward K. He was hesitant, but he came over. He accepted K's offer of a cold beer. And he sat in our circle.
I don't think K knew his real name for weeks. That night, he told everyone at the party, "This is Jones!"
It's strange that I already thought of him as "the new guy" as I climbed the stairs to knock on his door. It wasn't really his door. He was subletting from the girl who normally stayed there. When Nora was about to leave for the summer, she made sure to let the rest of us know that she had found a renter for the summer.
"He's an archaeology student," she said. We were all standing in a circle in the driveway, sharing news from our days. We nodded and filed the information away. A few days later, he showed up in a tiny car. I watched from my perch in my bedroom window as he carried his few belongings around the side of the building. I could hear him on the stairs. I could hear him moving around in the apartment above me. I thought he'd be a lot quieter if he invested in some slippers.
That's all I knew of him when I padded up the stairs and knocked on his door. It took him a minute to cross the small apartment, and when he opened the door, he did so quickly, like he was going to take whatever was knocking by surprise.
"Hi, I'm your downstairs neighbor," I started. I stuck my head inside the door, which made him step back. I kept on chirping while he took a look at my monkey slippers.
"We're having a party out back tonight," I said as I stepped inside the apartment. I took a look around. Nothing in the apartment had changed except for the few items scattered across Nora's coffee table. Well, two items: a passport and a very large knife.
I stood next to those items in my monkey slippers and explained how much fun the party would be. "A lot of people from the English department will probably be here," I said. "And a bunch of folks from the campus radio station. We'll have a fire and a keg. You should come."
"Um, I'll think about it," he said. Then I remembered that it's polite to let the people who you're inviting to your party know what to call you.
"I'm M, by the way," I said. I waited for him to tell me his name, once he was finished scrutinizing me.
"S," he said, as way of introduction.
"Well, S," I wrapped up, "Hope to see you tonight. We'll be right out there," I said, gestured to the backyard, and then stepped toward the door. "Nice to meet you," I said.
He mumbled something along the lines of "You, too."
I wore my monkey slippers down the steps and across the driveway and up the steps of the other building. I opened P's door, and when I noticed he wasn't in the living room, walked over to knock on the door of the computer room. I heard the wheels of his office chair roll along the hardwood, and then he opened the door. He and K were watching something on the computer, but paused it to hear my quick story.
"So," I start. "I just met the new guy."
"Yeah?" P said.
"And I invited him to our party tonight," I said.
"Yeah?" K said.
"And I went inside the apartment," I said.
"Yeah?" P and K said in unison.
"Yeah," I said. "And the only thing he's got in there is a passport and a giant f'ing knife."
P looked back at his computer screen, completely disinterested in how other people may or may not decorate their apartments. But K's eyes grew wide. He looked at P and then he looked at me and then the shouted his realization.
"He's Indiana Jones!"
I wore regular, run of the mill flip flops to the party that night. I sat on the back step and drank cold beer and stopped what I was doing when I saw the new guy try to walk to his car without notice. He stayed in the shadow of my building, his building, and almost made it past my car to his own. I glanced over at K just as he noticed the new guy trying to get by us.
"Jones!" K yelled at him. The new guy kept walking toward his car.
"Indiana Jones!" K yelled again. The new guy looked over at K, who was waving his arm at him, signaling him to come on over. I saw the new guy glance up at me and then take a step toward K. He was hesitant, but he came over. He accepted K's offer of a cold beer. And he sat in our circle.
I don't think K knew his real name for weeks. That night, he told everyone at the party, "This is Jones!"
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