Vic Socotra

02 September 2008

The Open Door

I have always had an open door policy.

Not by choice. Most of my professional life I worked in open-bay environments, on ships and ashore, almost always in vaults of one size or another.

I had a postage-stamp sized office in the Pentagon one time, so small and so far buried in a warren that closing the door was akin to reaching up and pulling the lid down on the coffin.

That is one of the reasons that my lodgings at Big Pink are a respite. The tall glass windows allow us to feel as though we are connected to the world outside, and I almost never draw the blinds or lower the curtains. Only the people on the extreme western end of the main building can look in, and I am circumspect in what I do in the corners of the rooms that are visible to them.

I keep the door closed and locked here, though I suspect there is not much need.

That was not the case over the long weekend. The back door to the balcony was not just open. It was gone. It was in Annandale, which is a curious place for anyone’s back door to be.

It was liberating, in a way, the tall rectangle of nothingness that pierced the end of the living room. The dog thought it was very interesting, and he went in and out with reckless abandon. I am fortunate that he is old, like me, and his testosterone levels have declined to the point that he did not feel the need to stand out there and bark at the passers-by on the sidewalk far below, or convey his views to the squirrels who are busy harvesting acorns and seeds for winter.

It was the storms of spring that had wrenched the heavy fire door loose from its moorings and hurled it against the slate-topped dusty mauve brickwork. It must have been a micro-tornado, since the force had been sufficient to twist the composite slab, bending the upper hinges and ripping the lower one entirely from the frame.

It was far beyond the capabilities of the home handy-man, and a desultory opinion from Leo the Big Pink Engineer was that a new door, manufactured to County Code, would be required. He did not know where such a thing might be procured, since the hardware to the building are from another generation, and not readily available at the Hom e Depot.

“But it seems like doors to the building are part of the outside skin,” I said plaintively. “Doesn’t that make it part of the Condo’s problem?”

Leo shrugged. “The last President of the Association was afraid of that, so they amended the by-laws to make it the owners problem and get an anticipated liability off the Big Pink books. It is like the federal government. If you want someone to take care of things for you, I suggest you vote Democrat.”

I was stuck as thoroughly as the sad slab of wood in the frame.

The door hung drunkenly all summer, jammed closed with a screech and a thud. It opened, after a fashion, with a sharp kick administered just below the tarnished brass knob. With the air-conditioning on, I did not feel the need for the breeze, and it was just one more of the tasks deferred for a time with more time.

The pool below was more enticing for the idle moments, but that is just about done for the year. The official closing should have been last night, but a last minute appeal to the Board granted us a reprieve of two more weekends. But the weeknight swimming is over. Like the squirrels, it is time to get ready for the chilly breezes that will be coming.

I could see daylight around the door, and the only alternative to having it repaired was calking the thing over.

Walking the dog has it advantages. I came out of the elevator and saw a note on the bulletin board near the blue metal Washington Post dispenser. I have a grim fascination with the notes, since the people trying to sell or rent their units document the decline in Big Pink’s real estate prices.

Sometimes I go weeks without looking at them. This particular day, though, there was a hand-written note that advertised door repair, and claimed that the work was first-rate.

Waiting for President Obama to come and fix my door did not appear to be a rational option, since I would probably freeze to death before he arrived.

I sighed and copied the number on the note as the dog darted out the back door nearly dislocating my shoulder. He may be old, but he is still capable of dramatic action.

I called the number from the office, in between teleconferences and meetings about the frantic attempt to meet the Government deadlines that are looming with the end of=2 0the fiscal year looming. That is how John, the itinerant carpenter came to have my door across town, and how I adopted the open door policy.

Monday morning dawned clear and blue and at ten came the call I dreaded: his truck was unavailable, and I looked at the vastness of the outer world that beckoned next to my brown armchair.

The radio said that the hurricane bore-sighted on New Orleans had veered west, and Gustov was weakening. All that rain would be here in a week, in time to spoil the second-to-last pool weekend, and drench the armchair rugs and t he dining table. I thought about sandbags, like they use near the Mississippi.

I had to think fast, and it looked like it was every man for himself.

“Well,” I said. “I have a truck myself, and it would be nice to have the door back before the madness starts again Tuesday.”

0A
Normally, construction work is prohibited at Big Pink on the Holidays, but I viewed this as an emergency matter. Fortuitously, John was on hard times, and willing to work on Labor Day, partly in the hopes of building a new customer base in the building.

I could end the open-door policy, provided I came and collected the heavy slab of wood and helped him haul it up to the fourth floor and hang it.

Thank goodness the dog slept through the sledgehammer attack on the metal door frame that boomed like cannon fire. I am sure the neighbors didn’t mind that much.

It was not a matter that could wait until after the election, you know?

Close Window