ONE MORE TIME

Two years can make a big difference with a population in flux, and that’s exactly what we found when we returned to campus. Most of the faculty was still all there, in a manner of speaking, and except for a few new buildings, the campus itself hadn’t changed, but the graduate students we had known were gone. Many of them had sent themselves through school on veteran’s allotments and had lived from hand to mouth.

This new group of scholars was young, rich and cocky. They were smart, not smarter, but smart, and had immediately matriculated to graduate school after graduating from various universities. A few students had been awarded scholarships and assistantships, but many were subsidized by the folks back home, and had few financial concerns. Also, this time, dynamic women had entered the mix and competition was keen.

Good jobs at the University were almost unobtainable, and I swore that this time I would find a job in this little college town rather than get stuck working for another Futzel. But first we had to find a place to live. Again, we were on a limited budget, since most of our savings had to go toward school. W.S. was awarded a graduate assistantship, which helped, but he could have earned more money raking leaves. Other than rent increases, the apartment situation hadn’t changed in the two years of our absence. However, we lucked out when one of the graduate students told W.S. that his place was available since he was getting married.

The apartment was on the ground floor of an old wooden house, and we were told that a single lady named, Mabel was moving in upstairs. The landlord put a fresh coat of cheap, glossy, dark gray paint on all of the walls, so it was kind of like living on a battleship without the booming canons---that is until Mabel finally arrived.

Our first encounter with Mabel was when we heard her dragging her grocery cart up the 20 stairs to her apartment. Early on, W.S. had opened our door and said, “You look pretty saddled down. You need some help?” And Mabel responded, “Certainly Not!” He closed the door, turned to me and asked, “What’s her problem?” “She probably thinks you called her a horse,” I replied.

It was then that the upstairs furniture began to slide across our ceiling. “She’s probably getting settled in,” I shouted as I straightened the pictures on the walls. However, two weeks later, as soon as she got home, Mabel began moving her furniture again. “What do you suppose she’s doing up there?” W.S. asked. “I haven’t the foggiest,” I replied. “I guess she can’t make up her mind.”

Then the stomping began. Every night, first we heard the sliding furniture, and then the stomping. “What the hell!” was W.S.’s nightly response. After two weeks of scraping, sliding and stomping, W.S. said, “I can’t take this anymore. Please, work your magic—Take Her A Pie!” I decided to follow his suggestion, more out of curiosity than neighborliness. So the next evening, when she came home, I took her a chocolate pie. When I knocked on her door, Mabel opened the door a crack and asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s your neighbor from downstairs, I’ve brought you a pie.” ‘What kind?” she asked. “Chocolate,” I answered. “I’m allergic to chocolate,” she replied, but she opened the door. “Sorry,” I lied. “I certainly don’t want to make you sick.” “That’s okay, I’ll take it to work tomorrow,” she said. “Those people will eat anything.”

When I entered the apartment, I saw that all of the living room furniture had been pushed to one side of the room, and on the wall, on the other side, hung three floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spent just enough time with Mabel to get the scoop before returning downstairs. “So what’s the story?” asked W.S.

“She clogs,” I replied. “Does that have something to do with her pores or her kitchen sink?” he asked. “She takes clogging lessons,” I said, “You know, that stomp dancing. That’s why she moves the furniture to one side of the room every night.” “Why can’t she just leave it that way?” he groaned. “Because,” I said, “She doesn’t find it esthetic.” I told her that it was very disturbing. “And?” he asked. “And, she said that moving the furniture doesn’t bother her at all and we will just have to get used to it.”  

Shortly after my visit, we were no longer bothered by the overhead cacophony of sound. Turns out that Mabel threw out her back. It must have been the furniture. Surely, my pie wasn’t that heavy!

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006