Seeking Second Chances

Not only did this diminutive sprite have a sharp pointed nose, her chin was pointed and it jiggled when she talked. This managed to irritate me equally as much as the statement she was making.

“I can’t help you left your notice lying in your box for ten days,” she informed me. “The law says you got to have thirty days notice. You got it. In your box ten days ago. Now you have twenty days left. They’re going to start tearing the whole place down on the first of the month.”

I thought of at least ten snide insults that I could tell her, but I didn’t. I think about saying those kinds of things, but I very rarely do it. The lady with the bad news and strident voice was the manager of my apartment complex. I had never cared much for her and now with the twenty days of occupancy left, I cared a great deal less. I had lived in my apartment for four years. No trouble. No complainants. Quiet neighbors.

After parting with my ex-wife for the fifth or sixth time my dog and my parrot and I had found peace and freedom from bitching in an old apartment complex that was handy to my office, reasonable rent, and no restrictions against my pets. Being uprooted from my passive lifestyle was going to be very difficult. Finding another apartment was not the crux of the matter; it was finding an apartment that accepted pets. Two of them to be specific. I could find a house, but a house required yard card. Watering, mowing and cleaning were not included in my hoys of life. All I needed was a small space for my clothes, books and pets. I also need to be around people. I am not a good mixer or even a participant, but I am an observer. An apartment furnishes me with neighbors to observe, sometimes even to speak to or nod in passing. I like to hear people noises, enjoy cooking smells and see them doing whatever they are doing in the course of living their lives.

During the next few days I found plenty of apartments but they didn’t want all of us. My pets and me. With half of my thirty days gone, I had achieved no success in finding a new home, but help sometimes comes unexpectedly and from untapped sources. Mine came via a telephone call from my Aunt Rose. She calls my office to check on me, about once a week, and has ever since my mother died eight years ago. It would seem that the age of the offspring doesn’t seem to matter to some women; the mothering instinct never leaves the parent. My Aunt was the perfect example.

Usually we only talk for a minute or two about trivial day-to-day things, but on this occasion I told her about my impending move. I explained that my predicament was actually because of my pets.

“Richie, for goodness sakes, why don’t you move in with us? There are three vacant bedrooms upstairs. Arthur and Ardella would love to have you. It would break up their routine. And Richie, I know that your Mother would feel better, knowing that you are in the loving arms of family.”

And I had no doubt that she was correct in that assumption. Aunt Rose and my mother had always been very close. None of which would make them feel easy if they know the feelings that I had about Ardella. Back when we were in high school, her size 34 cups drove me crazy.