I thought, well why not, put up a little of the book on the blog and see how it looks in print. The title of the novel is Condo, a story about Marmouth Castle III, a 10-story condominium association in the city of Chicago. The building hosts ten units to a floor. Did I say it is entirely fictional? It is.
We meet Ida Pollack, a woman in her late nineties. Her neighbor, Alex Fox, has finished his morning prayers at the synagogue and is back from a quick bike ride on the forest preserve trails across the street. Alex is ready for breakfast, about to enter his apartment when he hears Ida Pollack shouting after him, ‘Alex. Alex Fox!’ She is pushing her maroon walker off the elevator, a large box on the seat of the cruiser. Alex strides over to help her.
‘Hey, Mrs. Pollack. Let me take that. You are up and about early today.
'As are you, Mr. Fox.’
‘Alex. Call me Alex.’
Ida ignores him and points up at peeling wallpaper at a molding in the hallway. ‘Do you see that wallpaper? That has to change.’
‘Yeah, pretty gross.’
‘And how! So glad you to see you. I’ve been having trouble with my key. I think it is bent and that it probably needs replacing. Can you help me?’
‘Of course. Sure.’
Thinking he wants to help with her package, too, she says, ‘I’ll carry the box, it’s light. My niece sent me a new keyboard for my computer and for some reason they put this relatively small item in an awfully big box. I may be the oldest person in this building, but I am not an invalid. Even if it were heavier I could handle it.’
‘I don’t think you are the oldest.’
‘Second oldest, fine.’
‘Harriet always asks me to shlep everything, no matter if it is heavy or not. She likes me in that kind of role, rescuing the beautiful woman role.’
‘Ha! Funny, that Harriet. She’s active like me. I still swim every day and intend to get into the pool—the indoor pool—in a few minutes. I was quite the athlete in my day,’ she sighs. ‘You young people could take a lesson about exercise.’
Alex raises his eyebrows and nods vigorously. ‘Yep!’
‘Well, you get it. Anyway, it would be nice if everyone had your common sense. It would be nice if someone besides me, for example, would get on top the people around here who don’t follow pool rules. Some old fashioned community pressure might help! Whatever the rule, people seem to have to break it, disagree, no matter how sensible. I need to turn over the job of rule enforcement. It’s too much lately.’
‘Yeah, I’m not so sure I want it.’
‘No one does. Well, Horace does, for all his faults. He loves a good rule. In his heart he wants to run a tight ship.’
‘Wanting and doing—two different things.’
‘Give him a chance, Alex.’
‘Okay,’ he smiles.
They are still outside 608, Ida’s unit, and she is rummaging through a voluminously deep burgundy Kate Spade bag, feeling for her keys. Her hands shake, refuse to obey orders, and Alex knows his assignment, help her with her door, fit that key in the lock. She is otherwise independent.
She fishes out the key and looks up into his eyes. ‘You know what I should do?’
‘What, Mrs. Pollack?’
‘I should wear one of those lanyard wrist bands. But they irritate my skin.’ She inadvertently drops her keys to the hall carpet. Alex jumps to recover them.
‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Old habits are hard to break.’
‘That’s the truth. You know, I worked up to my eighty-third birthday. Now that’s a hard habit to break. Work.’
‘Money. We gotta eat is the thing.
‘It’s more than that. Work is more than what we do for money—it is for some of us lucky souls, especially if we have no children, no spouse. It is a place to be. A place we’re valued and find value in others.’
Alex swallows, doesn’t quite know what to say. He has successfully unlatched both locks. The door cracks open and the older woman toddles in pushing her walker, the box atop the leather seat. Alex makes a move to take it. He assumes it should go on a low marble-topped sidepiece by the door.
‘Leave it. Leave it,’ she commands. ‘The apartment is a mess. I’m embarrassed. But thank you, Alex Fox.’
‘Anytime, Mrs. Pollack.’
‘Ida.’
‘Ida. Um, Ida, we should think about getting you a combination lock. I want one, too.’
It is her turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Now that’s a thought. Have a good day, Alex.’
Alex thinks that she seems fatigued, weak. Or maybe that’s just what it is to be a certain age at certain times of the day.
‘You take care, Mrs. Pollack.’ He takes his leave and she firmly closes the door, double locks it, drops her purse, her pride and joy, to the floor. The Kate Spade bag is a gift from her niece. Ida stares into space for a moment before struggling out of her jacket and painfully hangs it up. The arthritis in her elbow is killing her.
The closet is bare but for a designer raincoat (Michael Kors, I’ve seen it) and an Anne Klein puffer for winter. A tan suede jacket, fleece lining, at least forty years old, and a full-length mink she hasn’t worn in a long, long time, are zipped into an apparel bag. Ida carefully adds the nylon windbreaker that she wore today to the closet, royal blue to match her eyes —it can be cool in the package room. She steadies herself with one hand on the walker. The jacket slides off the hanger and she lets out an expletive, one she wishes she didn’t say as often as she does. The word is out of her mouth, however, and she makes a mental note to work harder at this. She tries again with the jacket, this time more purposefully.
She speaks to the vacuum cleaner, an old Hoover standing proud. I’ll get to you. But not today. Breakfast first. Then, she thinks, Later I will have linner with Ed Wintergreen. Linner, that word that she and Ed made up for the meal they have between lunch and dinner.
In the refrigerator she finds everything but eggs, which is what she would have preferred for breakfast. She has bought fresh goat cheese for some reason—oh, for the beet borsht, and ready-to-eat chicken and string bean take-out from the local Jewel deli. The deli is new, all kosher. It is worth it to take the shuttle there twice a week for good ready-made salads. But it is too early for any of that.
She will settle into her swivel Dunbar chair to eat her daily toast lavished in butter and to watch The Morning News. The Dunbar has seen better days. She’s angry at herself for not having recovered it. The frayed burgundy fabric, the color regrettable, hurts her eyes. I should have had it reupholstered you years ago, she thinks. Her choice? Bright colors, a happy pattern would have increased the vintage chair’s value considerably. One day her nieces and nephew might think to do that. But for now, where is she going? Who does she have to impress?
The television channel is set to 106, the building closed circuit video stream. She must have been watching late last night. Four squares of activity reveal four locations: the front lobby, the pool, the mailboxes, and the back lobby, the door to the package room. There are more cameras in the building, but this is it, this is what unit owners get to see. They know who isn’t closing the back door, who is in the hall by the mailbox. The Board talked about adding another channel so that night owls could view other venues but opted out. It didn’t sound cost effective at the time.
She sees Maurice Katz, also an early riser, reading the latest sign on the front lobby marquis. He seems angry. Shelley, the maintenance-person, appears, too. She just saw Shelley in the package room and had asked her to stop in to jiggle her lock, perhaps squirt the keyhole with a little W-D 40. The two women, fifty years apart, commiserate as peers. What in the world is going on? What’s going to become of this place? There went the neighborhood.
From the monitors Ida sees that nobody is in the pool and that the door to the back lobby has been left wide open once again. No wonder we have thieves in the building, she mumbles to herself. She sees Ed coming back from his swim. She isn’t that much older than Ed but he looks far more fit, has no trouble walking, less trouble with his hands. He does get an occasional dizzy spell. This only Ida knows.
One of the great loves of her life, Ed Wintergreen. The couple started out as friends in a bowling league, gravitated toward one another. It did not take them long to fall in love, but for over sixty years Ed had to settle for an on again-off again relationship. Ida refused to commit. She still does. Even now. You hear of couples getting married in their later years, but not Ed and Ida. I drove him crazy, she thinks. Still do. She takes no pride in this, merely understands that this is the way it has to be. She does not want to bump in to him in the bathroom. She wants to want it to be forever fresh.
Shelley knocks loudly so that Ida is sure to hear it. The older woman sets her toast on an oak glass-topped coffee table, an antique with an Oriental theme. They don’t use the word Oriental, anymore, she’s been advised. But that is exactly the word used by the Marshall Field’s personal shopper to describe the décor when she bought that table in the seventies. Oriental was in, very popular.
Before answering the door for Shelley—she did ask her to stop by—Ida watches Ed for another second on the black and white monitor, mentally seeing him in technicolor, his powder blue cover up against his strong legs. He is truly a handsome specimen of a male, she thinks. She loves him in powder blue. She loves blue, all shades of blue, on most people.
Balancing with a hand to the wall Ida carefully makes her way to let in her young friend. She is surprised that Shelley responded so soon. As she toddles so as not to fall, eyes flitter at the mantel above the fireplace, a display of framed photographs, trinkets, trophies. They are dust-catchers, she thinks. Dust-catchers that are her. She likes to pour over them to remember a younger self.
Shelley is in her ugly gray maintenance uniform, the one that washes out her complexion. She is pale, her hair light brown, eyes are pretty, not dull as in the type of dull that drinkers have in the morning. She should wear powder blue! True, like the song goes, she could lose a few pounds. It is Shelley’s kindness that Ida admires, but also her sense about the way things work. Shelley does side jobs for Ida for a measly twenty dollar tip. She stops leaky faucets, unclogs drains, checks on buzzing convectors. Convectors buzz when leaves get inside but there is no place else to put her two small windowsill houseplants.
‘I thought I’d catch you now because there’s so much to do today,’ the young woman opens. ‘Horace is on top of me. He wants to present well at these meetings, have something to show for the month. Theo has to go someplace. We’re all so busy. It’s nuts. The boiler is acting weird and I have to make a run to Home Depot. So busy, Ida.’
‘Oh I know, I know! Everyone is busy.’
‘Yeah. Did you see that somebody had a set of tires delivered to the package room? This is the second time. Do you think he’s running a tire business out of his apartment?’
‘Ha, ha. Or her apartment. Yes, I saw that. We should fine whoever that is. That’s ridiculous to take up all that space. Tell Horace to mention it at the meeting.’
‘Yeah. Good idea.’
‘Who goes shopping for tires on the Internet?’ Ida finally asks, registering disapproval again and expressing incredulity as is her habit, her personality. Ida always appears flabbergasted at the stupidity, rudeness, or laziness of others. ‘People should have big things like that delivered to their doors if they need a delivery. I’ve seen entire bedroom sets in that package room that sit for days. If you have a walker you can’t exactly move around because of all the crap all over the place. People have no consideration, none. It is one of my pet peeves the way owners take advantage of the privileges in the building.’
‘You’re in good company on that one, Ida. But if we let Amazon, UPS, and the FedEx delivery guys roam the halls we could find ourselves with a security problem, am I right?’
‘So then maintenance should do it—you and the boys should bring up the large packages—but I realize that would be a terrible inconvenience for you.’
‘Not enough hours in the day, Ida.’ Shelley shakes her head slowly. ‘No way that’s happening.’
‘It used to be like that. That’s how it used to be. Packages delivered to our doors.’
‘Those days are gone. There were a lot fewer packages. Change of subject. How ya’ feeling?’
Ida shrugs. ‘Eh.’
Shelley is one of the few people who cares. Ida can be an irritable sort, and as the building’s previous rule enforcer, an old lady who would forever be telling residents what they should and should not do, she is unpopular to some, adored by others. She yells at the kids –especially at the pool— to stop running, admonishes adults to put their sunscreen on in their apartments first, not at the pool, so that the oil soaks into their skin, not the water. She used to be a lifeguard years ago.
Shelley shrugs. ‘Well, you’re still valuable around here, always keeping an eye on the back door, the back lobby. Manning the monitors. That’s good, Ida. We need night owls in this place watching channel 106. Let’s get to fixing your door lock, okay?’
‘Okay!’ Ida agrees. ‘You know, people still leave the door open in the back, Shelley. We have to bring that up, too. There is no security guard here anymore. I’ll tell Karen that I want to bring this up at a meeting, maybe I’ll even make a motion that we cough up the money to get a security guard. We’ll need a special assessment for that.’
Shelley is jiggling with the door knob. She squirts a little machine oil into the keyhole. ‘I think you’re right. You just need a little grease in there. Try it now.’
Ida turns the key. ‘Oh! You’re a genius.’
‘Not. But I’m out of here. Before I go, please tell me. What do you think of your new neighbor Rae? I think she’ll be a huge asset to Marmouth Castle. She has experience in building management.’
‘Who?’
‘Your neighbor across the hall, Rae somebody? Wears a uniform like me?’ Shelley points proudly to her name. Shelleyis stitched in red above her shirt pocket. ‘She’s a house painter.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen the woman you are talking about. She lives next to the Khans, third floor. You know that I know every single unit owner’s apartment number and I know all of their names. Rae D’aello, 309. We haven’t really talked. Do you like her, Shel’?’
‘She seems like a good person to me.’
‘Maybe. Oh. Now those Foxes, the Samsons. They are good people.’
‘They are, they are. Okay, see you later!’
‘Bye Shelley, thank you so much. I’m getting back to my breakfast now.’
The door closes and it takes a few seconds before Ida returns to her Dunbar chair. On the way she stops to take a close look at the bowling trophies on the mantel. She lightly touches one, Bnai Brith 1st Place, the words etched on silver in script. Her name and the names of her five of her best friends are etched in below. Ed is on the list. The trophies remind her so much of her youth, it is proof that she had one. First place—so many of them are for first place. Or second.
We used to be a pretty good team, didn’t we? She is addressing her friends, her fellow bowling partners, as if they are still alive.
Beverly could you always could get the strike when we needed it. Sarah, not so much, but consistent at 130, give or take a few points. But that enthusiasm. No one could match your enthusiasm, Sarah. Certainly not me.
Max Rothschild, your scores? Up and down. If only you could control that hook. Sidney Lamar—how we counted on you to bring up our average, and you always did it! Probably you shouldn’t have missed your daughter’s birth, but we did win that tournament in 1952.
And Ed, my lovely Eddie. Consistent. Graceful. Perfect. We sent them flying, those pins, didn’t we? Until we couldn’t, or the doctors wouldn’t let us. Wouldn’t let me.
Max—did you have to have that damn stroke? That was terrible. That guy who replaced you was okay, but missing you, well, we missed you terribly. But until then, what fun it was! Right Max? Closing down the deli on Dempster? Hy and Stan’s? Or was it Sam and Hy’s? Crazy how some things I can remember, and others get lost in the cobwebs.
She speaks to each of them, marvels at their youth, their skill. We bowled, we played poker. We smoked! Until that had to go for obvious reasons. We could swim for hours, it seemed. None of this video game, binge watching television crap that my great-niece Sarit talks about— pathetic ideas of fun.
Ida lifts a trophy to keep it real, wipes it with her hanky, then sets it down.
Yes, back in the day, true. We could bowl. I could bowl. I could do a lot of things back in the day.
Then she returns to her chair. She doesn’t mind that her toast is cold.
