Autumn Commerce
Created | Updated Sep 19, 2010
Today's tip for women with lazy husbands:
Sic the Porch Police on 'em.
Today has been about the most beautiful early-fall day you could imagine – by North Carolina standards. This means that the high temperature was only 80 degrees Fahrenheit1, not a cloud in the sky. Only a few overanxious trees, determined to beat the rush, have been shedding the desultory leaf, mostly in the direction of the pool. This makes no difference to us, as Elektra and I enjoy the exercise of swimming around collecting them.
Our gratis pool service will end early next week, however, as we bid a fond farewell to swimming season. The maintenance men are looking forward to this, and almost nobody else is swimming, anyway – the cooler nights are rendering the sparkling blue water less inviting these days. My neighbours apparently lack my tolerance for cold water. I prefer my bath at about tea-making temperature, but will swim in anything that doesn't have actual ice cubes in it. Elektra can usually be cajoled, preferably by my nonchalantly breast-stroking around while lying through my teeth. "Come on in, the water's fine!" I let her get revenge later, because she's not too squeamish to remove the occasional dead frog, and is murder on lurking wasps.
We had just spent a couple of delightful hours out in chlorine heaven, admiring the swallowtails and having the place to ourselves, and made our way back home, goal: coffee. There was a rolled-up paper wedged beside the doorknob, the management's way of leaving love-notes. I grabbed it as we went inside.
And went ballistic.
"What in Sam Hill?" I exclaimed (years of teaching have left me with an impoverished vocabulary). At the top of the paper, in large, unfriendly letters, stood
PATIO VIOLATION
In the first place, I was unaware that we had a patio. I assumed the missive referred to the screened-in balcony of our first-floor flat. In the second place, said balcony contained two folding chairs (outdoor variety, sedentary middle-aged persons, for the use of), two well-kept hooded cat boxes, a scratching post (for the cats, I keep mine elsewhere), and a forlorn-looking potted juniper from last Christmas. True, we had been using a small drying rack to hold the beach towels and swimsuits...perhaps that was it.
The hand-delivered snail mail from the office went on to explain that we were in violation of our lease, to wit:
Your lease clearly states that the only things you can keep on your patio are patio furniture, plants, a grill, and a bicycle. If you do not remove the offending items by Monday, you will be fined $25. Have a nice day!
I dismissed the last sentence. People in the US have been wishing each other a nice day under any and all circumstances ("You will be deported to Nicaragua tomorrow. Have a nice day!") since about 1968, and the odious custom shows no sign of abating. I mulled over whether I needed to buy a grill and a bicycle while I surveyed the offending "patio".
Elektra called the office, and was informed that the desk person knew nothing about this. We would have to phone on Monday morning to talk to "the boss lady", and see what she wanted. I decided in the meantime to remove all possible sources of offence. After changing out of my swimsuit (and putting same in dryer, not on rack), I set to work. I dismantled the scratching post, which had seen better days. I removed the drying rack, which no doubt made us look like Tobacco Row. I thought about the cat boxes: Moving them indoors was not an option in a one-bedroom flat, but neither were they, strictly speaking, patio furniture. Aha! How about the utility closet at the end of the screened porch...er, patio? Easily done. The cats wanted in there, anyway, being incurably nosy, and if we left the door ajar (not a violation, surely) they could winkle it open when they needed to do what cats do. (In spite of cat whisperers of all stripes and multiple Youtube videos, I cannot get our cats to use our loo.) I opened the door to the utility closet.
And realised where Elektra had stashed every single item of junk, supernumerary possession, or mere detritus that I had complained about during the past year. Back in the 1940s, there was a famous radio show in the US, called "Fibber McGee". Fibber was a pack rat. Whenever he opened his hall closet, the resulting crash tickled American funnybones. In spite of her claims to being German, Lithuanian, and Lenape Indian, Elektra must have an Irish ancestor or two, because she is definitely related to Fibber. I ducked, and a furled umbrella missed me by inches.
I sighed. The moment of truth had arrived. If I wanted to clear out space for cat boxes, I needed to do some archaeology. I flexed muscles (though nobody was looking), and went to work.
"Do you need this?" "Er, not really." Out.
"What's in this box that's wedged under this pile of broken electronics?" "Er, nothing." Out.
"Could you go through this bag of clothes, please?" "Oh, those are all too big – I've lost weight." Out.
A broken laundry basket? Out. The bag the lawn chairs came in? Out. The television antenna from the television we don't have any longer? Out. Bits, bobs, and more bits and more bobs? Out, out, out and out. Within a half-hour, I had reduced the rubble, restacked the remainder, and managed to insert the cat boxes. I stood back to admire my work.
Elektra stood looking at the resultant trash. "Er, hon, what do we do with all this?" Genius is never done.
By the time I started stacking boxes and bagging junk, a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the flat – disgruntled neighbours. Apparently, everyone was in violation of the Patio Laws. My buddy Paddy (don't let the name mislead you, he's African American, although, come to think of it, he may be related to Fibber, as well, the McGee legacy seems to be multicultural) yelled up at me, "Don't do it! We're all wondering the same thing, and if your porch is in violation, what are they up to?"
Paddy has an entire bedroom suite on his porch. Only until tomorrow – after that, it'll be something else entirely. Paddy does a thriving off-the-cuff second-hand business from that apartment. I know. I'm his PR man, having printed notices for him before. He thinks I'm clever because I can work a printer. Paddy is a nice guy.
"I've got a thousand-dollar drum set on that porch," claimed Paddy.
"I don't mind," I grinned. "Just as long as nobody plays it."
By the time I had the boxes consolidated, and Elektra and I started carrying them to the car for a trip to the community dumpster, the mini-crowd in front had assembled patio furniture and beer and were comfortably lounging under the trees, kvetching about management's approach to "Clean Up, Paint Up, Fix Up" Week2. I waved off offers of help, but when Jake from next door saw the boxes, he smelled loot. Jake and his wife sell stuff at flea markets.
"What's in there? Mind if we look?" No, not at all. A workmanlike search yielded a pair of socks Paddy wanted and some old t-shirts Jake's wife swore she could peddle at the flea market. The juniper bush was deemed salvageable by a caring, green-thumbed participant in the confab.
Jake's wife explained how they got interested in the flea market business. "My sister has OCD," she said. "And she's a hoarder. We had to clean up."
"What's OCD?" Paddy wanted to know.
"Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder," I elucidated. "Like the lady in the office who sent out all these clean-up notices."
"Freebies sell out fast," has always been Elektra's motto: within a few minutes, an old pink terry robe had been claimed, and Paddy's wife was in possession of the electrically-heated footbath we had been conned into by the Christmas TV adverts a couple of seasons back. I even benefited, rescuing a scarf I'd been missing for years before it was lost forever. Soon our dumpster load was down almost to the bed of the SUV. Nobody wanted the ratty old scratching post, so I took it and the boxes off to the dumpster (Sign: No dumping. $500 fine. We are watching. This applies only to non-residents). We returned from the dumpster with one neglected treasure for Paddy, the out-of-date television antenna I'd forgotten we had3. Total time for clean-up: an hour and a half.
Only slightly the worse for wear, we went home for coffee, finally. Sitting on my porch – denuded and compliant at last – I reflected:
Old junk never dies – it just ends up in somebody else's closet.4
Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive
