Thursday, May 27, 2004
On the surface of things, Wilmette plays wonderfully into the typical “wealthy Norshore suburb” mold. The sidewalks are clean, the population homogenous, and the streets well lit. It’s the kind of city where Panera Bread supplanted Wonder Bread since the dawn of time. A few doors down and a flight of stairs up, however, the story changes somewhat. My newfound informant told me a few evenings ago, with grand gesticulations and an excitedly conspiratorial tone, that I should watch my back. In case you couldn’t tell, gentle reader, I’m condensing our conversation, but you probably didn’t come here for condensed conversation. Here’s what she told me.
Down the hall, well out of earshot for me, lives a man who apparently argues loudly with God on a regular basis. I can safely say I’m not going to that seminary anytime soon.
A fellow living on the second floor known as Crazy Ed is, in a word, insane. He frames pictures for a living–there’s obviously no shame in that–but that’s his day job. He spends his other hours pounding on walls, screaming at the imaginary person strapped to his back, sweeping the stairwell and claming it as his second home, and generally making a nuisance of himself. He’s also left creepy notes on other apartment dwellers’ doors, and the police have received complaints from him about neighbors producing too much noise. The latter seems fair enough, except “too much noise” translates into “they’re flushing toilets and turning on faucets for drinks.” Perhaps some of this is myth, but I’ve indeed heard banging and shouting. Crazy Ed lives in the apartment directly above me.
“Yep,” said the leasing agent one fine spring morning, “all this is solid concrete. Can’t hear a thing.”
Worst of all, I found out that this leasing office has withheld security deposits in the past for good reasons, by which I mean any reasons they can find. One tenant simply didn’t pay his last month’s rent and faced eviction, thereby saving him a couple hundred dollars.
Although it may look like I’m caught in a hard place, I’ve brainstormed a few possible solutions. First, I could confront the leasing agent early on and preempt any headaches. Second, since I’ve got nothing to lose, I could buy a dog, buy him a leash, and then walk Roscoe around the apartment so he could fudgify the carpet. I would promptly set him free into the great suburban outdoors, waving goodbye to him as I drive to Target for some carpet cleaner. After securing a canister of Woolite, I would drive home and spray all the windows with the carpet cleaner. That’s how they do defiance in Wilmette, or so I hear.