Sherry

Imagine, if you will, a suburban apartment complex. Manicured lawns, singing birds, and a promise of a greater tomorrow. A community of good neighbors and good friends; an island of good will on the periphery of America's 29th largest metropolitan area. Management is friendly, efficient, and knowledgeable. The bulldogs all have rubber teeth and the hens lay soft-boiled eggs. In short, this is the place to be.

This sounds quite nice.

Now I'd like you to wipe this image from your mind. We're not talking about this place - we're talking about my apartment complex.

Seven buildings of matchwood, destined for inferno at the slightest provocation. 200 or so residents, most of them falling somewhere downwind of "respectable." People who can't seem to take care of themselves - but have no qualms owning/begetting other living things. Laundry rooms that are something out of a John Carpenter film, only with less whimsy. A crazy dog lady who stands idly by while her mutt pisses on resident's vehicles. A crazy cat lady, parading her feline around on a leash and baby talking to it while she waits for the mother ship to return. This... this place, is where I hang my hat.

Let me cut you off at the pass here - you're no doubt going to tell me that I need to move. No sir, I wouldn't dream of it. And it's not (just) inertia. Yeah, I hate moving and yeah, the apartment is small. But I've never been a big "space" guy. As long as it's a place of my own, my requirements are met. But this place has personality - even if it's bad. It's location is excellent for me: I'm a stone's throw from the freeway, the grocery store, and Quik Trip. There is a quaint little suburban neighborhood right in back of me that is perfect for the constitutionals that I enjoy so dearly. And, perhaps best of all, it seems to hold up just fine when I'm not here for weeks at a time.

Sherry is the "manager" of this complex. I use the term loosely, and only because it is her official title. This place is no more managed than my waistline is (boom. roasted.) There are many adjectives to describe Sherry - but competent is not one of them. Somehow the complex floats along on volatile mix of barely functional residents and blind luck. From the inside, I believe that we toe the razor's edge.

Sherry is probably in her early 40s, blondish hair, and hips that unknowingly present a small-scale rendition of sea-floor spreading. Her voice betrays a protracted relationship with Virginia Slims and conjures images of gravel, kerosene, and a dash of Joan Rivers. She fits the definition of "Cougar" only in that she is an older woman on the prowl for a much younger man. Although I do my best to avoid her, I have had more than one awkward exchange. To wit:

Sherry: Boy, you do a lot of walking. I see you walking by here every day. (ed. note: creepy) I envy your motivation, I need to get out and exercise more. Maybe one of these days I'll bring my shoes and walk with you...
Me (in my head): Lord, I don't really believe in you, but if you can prevent this from happening, you've got a convert.
Me: Thanks. I'm actually quite lazy but I manage to get out and walk a bit.
Sherry: You look good. You definitely have lost some weight. But you know, some women go for bigger guys. I like bigger guys.
Me (in my head): Christ in a fucking canoe. Lady, I prefer my women younger, attractive, competent, AND having had all of their shots.
Me: Oh. Thanks.

In truth, Sherry is harmless - most of the time. But sometimes her sheer inability to do her job - a brazen incompetence mirrored by her employees - is less than benign. The first three months I lived here, I was given notices on my door that I hadn't paid my rent - when in fact I had. These notices were downright nasty, threatening lawyers and eviction.* Each time I called the office, used my adult voice, and got the circus train back on the tracks, if momentarily.

Sherry and I have had a bit of a rough patch lately. I believe that the doucheboxes below me shouldn't be thumping bass so that it shakes the walls of other residences. Especially when that bass is from a John Mayer song. (OLD MAN LOOK AT MY LIFE, I'M A LOT LIKE YOU WERE). She thinks that one passive aggressive noise warning posted on everyone's door is sufficient. And it was. For about 2 days.

Well, tonight I received a word-processed notice on my door, one of those that the office is so fond of. I eagerly await them, as I usually learn some new and creative spelling from each one. I'd like to quote from this one directly. Mind you, none of this is edited.

"We are having a party in the leasing office on April 17, 2010. This Saturday from 11am-2pm. Bring all your friends, family, and coworkers.

We are showing the absolute safest way to fragrance your home, office, car for pennies compared to the glad plug-ins and sprays.

All visitors that come in my office always ask "What is that great smell in my office?" Come smell all the fragrances that you can choose from. This is the different fragrances that make my office smell so good. I change them daily, weekly, and monthly.

COME JOIN THE FUN!

These make great mothers day gifts, graduation presents, and something for everyone to enjoy."

Let us parse this a bit:
Party in the leasing office = I'd like to sell you something. I won't even promise you cake.

Bring all your friends, family, and co-workers = I'd like to sell them something too. There still won't be any cake.

This Saturday from 11am-2pm. = I thought this should be a separate sentence from April 17, 2010. Not sure why I did that.

We are showing the absolute safest way to fragrance your home = I am selling a way to fragrance your home. That way does not involve the eating of cake, or any free food for that matter.

Visitors ask what that great smell is = they are not asking about the dead bodies under the floor boards.

This is the different fragrances that make my office smell so good = My high school teachers need slapped right up in the mouth.

I change them daily, weekly and monthly = What the fuck am I even talking about?

COME JOIN IN THE FUN = there won't be cake, but I'd like to sell you something. This is a rurl party.

I'm to go ahead and ruin the surprise: I won't be attending.

* Yes, I realize, once again, you would have moved. When I get comfy somewhere I can put up with a great deal of shit.