Night Owl Patio Update

Been a while since I've done a patio update, hasn't it?

Coming up on 5:00 AM here, and still dark out. I've come to know the familiar rhythms of pre-dawn in my complex. The first one each day to emerge from an apartment is always my upstairs-but-not-right-above neighbor, also known as Older Beer-Gut Speedy Guy. He looks to be around his early sixties. His crew-cut hair is a dark gray. He has an unshakable penchant for wearing shorts, even in the morning when he appears to be on his way to work. And though he's overweight and has a pronounced hunch, both things coupled with the gray hair suggesting, to the casual observer, that he's getting up in years and should have a gait to match, his pace is always hurried. Is he in a rush all the time, or is he just a man who knows exactly where he's going in life, so wastes no time getting there?

He's always the first door I hear, right about 4:15 AM. He, in his shorts and polo shirt, carrying some kind of briefcase, makes his beeline for his truck and pulls away while the rest of the complex (except me, of course) seemingly slumbers. Ah, but not all is at it appears, for others, too, are on the rise. At almost precisely 4:30 AM, my next-door neighbor, Dennis, exits his apartment (one that I've been in before, before he ever moved into it, because I used to feed the cat of my previous neighbor who lived there while she was out of town) and heads for his own truck, almost always turning toward my patio while passing and saying "Good morning" to me in a daylight voice, not bothering to whisper as the dark sky and quiet walkways might cause others to. This fits Dennis, as he strikes me as the kind of man who is always himself in any circumstance, not bending to fit the environment, but simply confident that who he is is who he is, and the world can take him or leave him. He's natural friendly, mustached and barrel-chested, quick to share a genuine smile with any in his path. Dennis is a church-goer, a fact I've picked up from the pleasant, short conversations we've had over the past year, over my patio rail or as we're both arriving at our parallel front doors at the same time. I'm not sure, at this point, which church, but whichever one it is, it seems to make him a peaceful, satisfied man. His outgoing nature is the reason that I actually know his name and don't need to make up a silly acronym for him.

There's thirty minutes of silence after Dennis, and then Blond Lady With Good Posture comes walking by, traveling from her apartment at the other end of my building, so I never hear her door open. Her hair is medium length, and I believe she's got a few years on me. Her shoulders are always squared, and she walks as through she trained with books stacked on her head as a schoolgirl. She moves like a graceful, programmed robot gliding easily along her assigned morning path. She strikes me as someone who either enjoys or has just accepted routine in her life, making me wonder, were our walkways made of dirt, if I might examine them after her passing and find that her footsteps have fallen in the same impressions she made the day before, matching them exactly.

After her, the complex is all mine for the remainder of my final writing/reading/thinking shift, with only the sound of early traffic and the hum of surrounding air conditioner units my calm companions. If I stay out a little longer on Mondays, the garbage truck will loudly pull in and do its duty just across from the complex office. This happened yesterday, and on a whim, I decided to, for once, roll forward so I could see the process. The thought that made me do so was realizing how magical the sight of a garbage truck lifting and tipping a dumpster was when I was a child. It's amazing to me how our perceptions change, how the once-extraordinary becomes all but invisible to us as we grow older and our minds fill, instead, with the worries and regrets of everyday adult life. I wanted to see if I could somehow recapture some of that magic, to see if I could glimpse what had so mesmerized me when my eyes were once so much wider. Apparently, I could not. Now it's just a garbage truck, something to resent if its doing its job when I'm inside trying to fall asleep, manned by workers whose jobs I would not want but probably make more at their hourly wage than I ever have.

Remember when I last reported, after hearing her (consistently) over-loud phone conversation from her patio, that CGWI would be moving out in a couple of weeks? That was the middle of June. It's now almost August, and she's shown no signs of vacating. Just tonight, when I decided to roll outside with my iPod as midnight neared, she had a small party going on, with her and several other smokers out on her balcony loudly laughing and talking. She's still around, her dog still barks at all hours, but the change in weather, at least, has caused her to keep her windows closed. So at least the Porn Theater has MOSTLY ceased. For a while it seemed her new guy had reached the level of a platonic friend, or so I assumed from the lack of screaming, God-calling and rump-slapping. But a few nights ago, with the array of air conditioners providing me with a comforting white noise as my background, I heard a sound that didn't seem to fit. After a moment's pause to listen, I confirmed that the theater had re-opened, but at least the show wasn't open to the public. It was understated enough to ignore, and I was grateful for that, at least. I continue to watch, against hope, for a U-Haul truck to magically appear in the parking lot some afternoon.

The biggest news on the goings-on here, though, surround the infamous WFK. The news is two-fold - first, he actually HAS a parent, and second, he knows my name! Both of these were quite surprising. I finally found my answer to the question of why I never saw any legal guardian of his coming or going from a job. This turns out to be because this parent works HERE. I finally figured out one day, while he and what I assumed was a friend from the complex, were in the pool. Mike, the complex handyman, came walking by and started talking to the boys through the pool gate. This is when I found out that the boys are brothers, and that Mike is their dad. Mystery solved, and this oddly pleased me. First, because it was now clear that WFK was not somehow living on his own in my complex, an orphan surviving on untoasted Pop-Tarts between his OCD rounds of the property each day. Second, because he had a brother, so he was not all alone in the world (and was not brought to his weirdness by isolation). But third, because I approved of who his father is. Mike is a good guy, a short but muscular (disproportionally so in his upper body) man probably just a little younger than me, who's personable in that salt-of-the-Earth kind of way. He's come in and changed high light bulbs and done toilet fixes for me in the past, and we've had nice talks. He's very proud of his home electronic system and likes to go into detail about it, particularly about his (literally) thousands of videogames that "they" have. I'd never connected the "they" before, and "they" seem to comprise him and his boys. So WFK does have a family, apparently one with the mom out of the picture, but one filled with X-Box games and a library of DVDs that puts my (I once thought) impressive one to shame. I know this because one day while I was outside, Mike came out and showed me a photo of his system and library, proud as a father showing off graduation pictures, which I thought was a nice gesture, since, as he lives on the top floor, he knew he wouldn't be able to bring me up to show it off in person.

What really threw me for a loop, though, was the day not long ago when WFK, his brother and another friend were heading toward the pool (the gate of which is right across from my patio). As they passed, and as I was typing away at my laptop, WFK suddenly spoke in my direction and said, "How's it going, Mike?" This jolted me. The kid I'd never spoken to (as we discussed earlier, it's never good form for single, middle-aged men to start up conversations with children in this day and age) suddenly spoke to me...and knew who I was, obviously from talking with his father. I'm always surprised to find out that people have discussed me - or even have given me a second thought - when I'm not around. I suppose it's a self-esteem thing, but I tend to think my always staying under the radar keeps me OFF people's radar. I tend to forget completely that I'm often the only person in a wheelchair some people have ever met, so I'm not near as anonymous as I seem to think.

So I find myself happy that WFK, who's no longer a child, really, but a burgeoning teen, seems to have a happy home life after all. This makes me worry less about him, and gives me hope that, despite his unusual and very Jack-Nicholson-in-As-Good-As-It-Gets behavior, he has a better than average chance of turning out all right after all. Good for him. Maybe one day I'll even know his name.

Oh, and a quick wrinkle to the morning - I just heard a car accident happen nearby. Its exact location was hard to pinpoint, since the screech and impact I heard happened right as a small plane was flying overhead, but the further squeal of tires afterward makes me think it was a hit and run. Over a decade in auto claims has taught me that this is all too common. It's also taught me that, since I only heard a crash and saw nothing happen, that I'm completely useless as a witness, so there's no point in my being involved, especially since I don't even know for sure where it happened. So there's no point in my pursuing it further. That's life living off of Madison Avenue. I just hope everyone's all right. The good thing that all those claims also taught me? Most of the time, everyone is.

The sky has now gone blue, birds are chirping, and it's a beautiful morning out. A strong breeze has given sway to the trees, and I'm still alone in my little world. Time for me to pack it in and let the rest of the residents here take over and get on with their days. Mine is at an end. Sleep calls, and a handful of errands awaits me later in the afternoon. So as my Tuesday closes, I wish you all a good Wednesday. Drive safely. And if you feel the need to wake your significant other with an intimate surprise, please...keep the windows closed.