Vic Socotra

04 October 2008

Half of 509

So, it’s Friday, things are nuts at the office, and I thought I would duck home and take the last two conference calls out on the balcony where I could expose my skin to the sun in the first brisk breeze of autumn. I am reluctant to let the summer go.

It was a good solid plan. I drove the Hubrismobile across the sun-drenched streets of Ballston, past the bus maintenance yard they are going to rip down shortly. If there is a recession in progress, the County Master Plan marches on. The crazy chicken place- Polo Loco- is going to be evicted, but is supposed to return.

I think that is a good thing. The Recession starts on Henderson, where the first two blocks of row houses are complete, though the sales office looks a little forlorn. The cleared swathes of the old Buckingham neighborhood are now growing up green grass where the million-dollar places were supposed to rise.

I suppose it is a sign of hope, and when the construction starts again we will have graphic evidence that this rough spot is past.

There will be a new Administration, of course, and the gigantic block of “affordable” housing will be occupied long before the construction on the luxury places gets started again. I wonder if that will tip a balance on the neighborhood? I suppose it is all about who is where, when.

I got the car put away in the underground garage and stopped to flirt with Rhonda at the desk.20She is a great lady. Her hair is shot with gray now, but you can tell she was a looker in the day, and a woman of insight and compassion. She works at the Doctor’s office on the east wing of the building, the last commercial activity left in Big Pink. There was a grand scheme at the beginning, and the covenant was designed to accommodate dry-cleaning and a beauty shop and a convenience store.

All gone like they never happened.

Rhonda is on shift until four, and has a better handle on what is going on in Big Pink, since she gets all the day-time gossip while the rest of us are out working.

I leaned across the counter and gave her a bus on the cheek.

“What is the scoop, Rhonda?” I asked. “Who’s doing what to whom today?”

She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Lot of activity this morning,” she said. “Half of 509 died this morning.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Who was that?”

E2Ingrid. She is one of the ones who uses a walker. Used a walker, I mean.” I reached back into my memory bank, and thought I recalled. She had come down to the pool in the mid-summer. It was quite a production number, with an old man, and some middle-aged kids and grandchildren. Her walker was one of the fancy ones, with a basket to carry equipment and high-speed handles and brakes just like a bicycle.

“Yeah, I think I knew her. Too bad.”

“Little Egypt went over first thing and called 911. Said she couldn’t handle it.”

“That’s surprising. She is a psychiatric nurse, after all. She sees crazy stuff all the time.”

“Apparently not like this. She said the husband banged on the door and was staring into space. She went over and saw the body and called 911 and then the desk, and told me to get the Mayor up there right away.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, thinking about death on a pleasant autumn day. The drill is usually that the ambulance rolls up the front door and the paramedics co me through with the rolling litter. Depending on the urgency, there can be sirens, though apparently there was not today. Rhonda turned and got 714 her rubber-banded bulk mail and explained the first class stuff had not arrived yet. I thanked her for the scoop, and told her to have a great weekend.

As the senior Concierge, Rhonda does not work Saturdays or Sundays, unless there is a hole in the desk rotation. It is one of those benefits of having a long time on the job.

Walking to the elevator bank the car on the left opened and Little Egypt herself came out. I looked at her and asked if she was OK.

“No,” she said. “I had to go across the hall this morning.”

“I heard. Are you doing all right?”

“No,” she said. “No, I’m not. I’m sixty-three years old, and I start the morning answering a knock on the door to go look at a dead neighbor and now I have to go to the Looney Bin for the eve shift and when I get home it is going to be dark and I will be alone. No, I am not OK.”

I gave her a hug, and felt the steel coil in her back.

“I don’t suppose I can say that it is going to be OK,” I said.

“You could try,” she said. “But I don’t think it will work. And I think the other half of 509 is not going to be here long. When that happens there isn’t going to be anyone to go for help.”

“I hear you.” I stood for a moment, and we looked at each other. “I have a conference call I have to get on,” I said. I pushed the button and the door slid open. I got on and went up to the fourth floor. I could hear a leaf-blower whining through the open windows when I walked in, but otherwise, there was nothing but cool silence and dust motes dancing in the long slanting golden rays of the sun.

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