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.
Conversing in public bathrooms, especially very small ones, continues to confound the very foundations of interpersonal relations. I subscribe to the School of Shut Your Piehole While You Do Your Business, but the fellow I ran into today apparently studied at the School of I’m Going to Interrupt You Midstream. Although these awkward conversations usually last for mere seconds, this discussion lasted for a good five minutes.
The topic at hand was elevators, and while I’m not opposed to the concept of elevators per se–hell, how else can you rocket to the 859th floor of your skyscraper–I’d like to talk about them when I’m more than three feet from a filthy toilet. I listened politely as he held forth on the industry shift to AC motors, and by the time he finished I had unwound four feet of paper towels. Both the topic and the fellow were pleasant enough, understand, it was just that we were in the wrong forum.
Consider the Romans, paragons of good discussion. Do you think they debated comparative politics while urinating into their rudimentary sewage system? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, but I’ll answer it anyway. No, they did not debate while urinating into their rudimentary sewage system–they debated while urinating in their bathhouses. Perhaps you need a modern example, so I’ll offer up Chief Justice Rehnquist.
“Hey, I just had a thought about segrega–who forgot to fill the soap dispenser again?”
“You’re scary.”
Maybe this exchange took place, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m glad we all learned something today. I’m ready for a pun now, gentle reader, so piss off.
In case you’re wondering whether Secondhand Rants dissolved into a puddle of silence and neglect, gentle reader, let me assure you we’re still alive and kicking. The office experienced a power outage halfway through the workday yesterday, and we all know that an Internet company without electricity or phones actually doesn’t change much–it still contributes absolutely nothing to the community. While that accounts for yesterday’s negligence, what about Friday? It’s simple, really. I lost the post.
It’s unfortunate because I’ve been striving beyond reason to maintain a level of consistency that runs counter to the basic tenets of Bloggery. I’m going to make it up to you, though, by explaining exactly what happened. It goes something like this.
I woke up Friday morning to the smell of burnt adjectives. Out of bed I rolled, grumbling and sneezing like the dickens, and I found Muse attempting to cook some breakfast.
“Wow, I guess Emeril died last night and was reincarnated,” I said to a disheveled Muse. “Right in our very kitchen.”
She sprinkled a little guile into the pan in a valiant attempt to save the dish. She failed.
“You’d better shut up before I kick you up a notch,” she said good-naturedly. “You know, it’s the funniest thing.”
“What’s funny?” I asked as I poured some dangling participles into my favorite bowl.
“I found a 16-ounce bag of adjectives just sitting on the counter. Did we pick this up? I don’t remember picking it up.”
I fished the package out of the trash and recognized it immediately.
“Oh, this. You know all those people who show up at the skyscraper on a daily basis, the ones who tromp into the lobby and dirty all my exotic furniture?” I asked, dropping the empty package back into the trash.
“Of course I do. You’re always yelling at them, but I know you like them.”
I opened the cupboard and fetched a roll of misplaced modifiers for Muse. The local supermarket had a special “buy one get one free” deal, but I insisted on picking up a single roll to confound the baker.
“Yeah, maybe I do like those chumps. They’re always hungry for some kind of treat, so I was saving those adjectives for them. It’s no big deal, you know. I’ll just get another package on Monday.”
“You were going to serve those adjectives right outta the bag?” asked Muse.
“Yup. That’s the way they like it. Raw.”
“Wow.”
We tossed all the dishes into the sink, turned on the faucet for five seconds to delude ourselves into cleanliness, and then set out for the skyscraper. It was just another workday.