Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Ralph

His name was Ralph, and I can't for the life of me recall how I met the old man. I don't believe it was in the parking lot. Perhaps it was Zeela. It really is the only thing that makes sense, now.

Somehow, we discovered that we both were kindred spirits, old romantics who loved to read, drink vodka, and even watch Jeopardy in the evenings.

I was sad to see him go. He was somewhere around 60 years old, most likely on the younger side of it. He had a daughter, as I recall, all grown up, with children of her own. We would discuss the books we had read, as we'd sit in front of the television, waiting for the show. I would bring over some vodka, and dole out a couple of shots, or mix a cocktail or two.

One day, we started exchanging books to read. I would read them as quickly as possible, devouring any new information or concept I could get my hands on. Oddly, I don't remember any of the books shared, in either direction, except for the last one he left me.

One day, he told me that he was finally able to retire, and he was moving to the coast. I was quite upset. I had only just made this wonderful new friend.

I woke up one morning to find a package on my doorstep. Ralph had left me one last book to read, Timeline, by Michael Crichton. With it was a note saying that he enjoyed my company, to read the book, and there was no need to return it.

I hurried down to his place, two doors down. Ralph was gone.

Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Buddha and Zeela

I met Buddha through my other neighbor, Nathan. I never knew a great deal about her. For the longest time, I wanted to know her real name. I thought she looked like a Ruth, Rachel, or maybe a Rebekah. I just wanted to be right. One day I was finally told, and since I wasn't right, I quickly forgot it. She had a young daughter, around 12 or 13, who not surprisingly, was named Zeela. Buddha was sweet natured and motherly. She was self-reliant and independent. The "pioneer woman" who could make anything happen.

Zeela was a free spirit, which I always assumed her mother could be thanked for. The world was her oyster, and she was going to eat it.

One evening, while I was watching Jeopardy with Ralph, a tiny little kitten ran through his open door and scurried across the floor. Ralph picked it up and said, "Isn't he just adorable?"

I agreed. I hadn't seen a kitten that small since I was 8, and the size ratio between the little kitten and me was a lot smaller then. Very soon, Zeela showed up at the door, asking if we had seen the little kitten.

Zeela told me that they had a whole litter of cute little Tabbies. I was curious, so I headed over to apartment #1 with Zeela. They had a gate on their door, and still the little things were escaping left and right. They offered to let me have one, but I declined. As cute as they were, I had no interest in owning a cat, and knew nothing about them. I had never had one.

Buddha's apartment was at the end, by the street, so there was much more garden space all around it.  All of the other apartments did have their own little garden plot on either side of the door, however. Nathan liked to take his food remnants and bury them in the ground. You might think, "Oh, like a compost." But, it wasn't like that, it was only remnants of fruits and vegetables, so that he would end up with a whole garden full of whatever he buried.

One day, Buddha decided to move out, and Nathan jumped at the chance to move into her place. I was asked if I would help out, and I happily agreed. It was the first time I'd ever been inside her home. And I soon discovered that she had a rather large python, which she kept in a basket. It was the kind of basket you might find at a flea market, complete with a matching lid, and maybe some red and blue zigzag pattern to show they matched. I thought this was an alarmingly odd place to keep a large snake, or a pet of any kind, so I wondered if perhaps it was only for the move. But, the place was not boxed up at all, and it was a disaster everywhere, so I wondered if they were accustomed to living in the jungle, maybe. They had some small food of some kind cooking on their stove. They offered me some, but, I have a hard time eating from other people's kitchens when I see the disaster that surrounds it. I politely declined.

Buddha informed me that she was a sideshow performer, as an acrobat, and something to do with that python.

Like I said, I knew very little about Buddha. These are just little snippets and windows into moments I recall. And this is even all that I remember about her. Yet, Buddha is Buddha, and she must have her spot, here.

Shortly after she moved out, she invited us to a house party, where she promised to show us her acrobatics. We attended, and it was a wild, interesting, hippie party, complete with a room containing many hand drums with many people combining their skills (or lack their of) to create a rhythm.

Outside, they served beer in those obnoxious red Solo cups, which I've always felt made drinking anything, not all that much fun. It even makes tasty things taste less tasty!

This was Buddha and Zeela. The breeze came along, picked them up, and carried them away.

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Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Jared and Krystal

Jared once told me that he and Krystal were perfect together, on paper. I wasn't very familiar with the term, then. But, even in retrospect, I have no idea what he meant.

Jared can be summed up in one simple word: slob. It was quite amazing, actually.  You would never think that the 32 year old man ever put on a clean shirt. But, in fact, he did. One great highlight of many a day, was to wake up as early as possible, so that I could be there to witness the first thing he might spill on his shirt. It rarely happened. One particular morning, he managed to get more cherry pie on his shirt than in his mouth. 

Then there was Krystal, Jared's girlfriend. She was a girl that always had some reason she needed me to drive her somewhere as a favor. Not entirely wealthy myself, I rarely did so without requiring a little gas money first. She was average looking, with medium brown hair, and a long, skinny nose, that seemed to beak out like a bird, slightly. 

Krystal was pregnant. She always was, all the time that I knew her. She wouldn't touch a glass of alcohol, for her baby's sake, but she did smoke quite often. This amused me. She also had a son, named Gary. I just found this to be the oddest name for a little two year old, but I did realize that even men named Gary were babies once. I pitied Gary greatly. He was a very sweat natured little boy, yet with no chance at a decent childhood. 

Jared and Krystal were crazy and wild, and often kept questionable friends for company. As often as I would hang around them, there were times when I knew I should stay inside. 

There was a time when one friend they had over was climbing blackberry bushes, without flinching, and climbing the roof for whatever reason he had. I soon found myself hiding behind the safety of my front door, and occasionally peaking out my window, to keep an eye on things. I was worried to death about little Gary being around the effects of such a horrible drug, but it wasn't me who eventually called the cops. Jared, Krystal, and their friend were arrested, and poor little Gary was taken into protective custody. 

I don't believe I ever saw Krystal or Gary again after that, but Jared did hang around for awhile before eventually leaving as well. 

There is an interesting story about who moved into their apartment next, but I can't for the life of me remember her name. When I do, I'll tell you all about it.

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Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Chef Steve

Chef Steve is not very complicated, but his story is. Thinking of how to describe him is rather odd, because my description is based on someone only I know. I have a great uncle whom I saw a lot of when I was very young. My grandmother's brother was the sort who would always have cheap beer on his breath and ask me to sit on his lap. It sounds creepy, I know, but he wasn't actually that sort. Just one who liked to drink a lot and speak his mind while he was under the influence. This was Chef Steve, complete with the golden tooth, the kind they made for people of that age. He wasn't VERY old, however. Maybe 40-45 years. But he was scary in a way I wasn't to discover for sometime.

There is a common phrase which goes: you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

But, he wasn't ever an enemy, just someone whose enemy I knew I didn't want to be.

Yet here I don't know where to start. I suppose I should start with the fact that he had a concealed carry permit, and he kept a 9mm on him, unholstered (just tucked in his pants) at all times. He reminded me and everyone around him on a regular basis. But, what was frightening was that every now and then, he'd pull it out (loaded) to prove it.

Now, I never wanted to be that person he decided to put on the other end of his barrel, so I decided it was a great idea to be on his good side. 

But, the fact that he had this gun was information I didn't have for quite some time. But somehow, I still knew I needed to be on this good side of his.

Now, why I call him Chef Steve will be because he was a chef "of the culinary arts" as he loved to make it known, where he worked in the kitchen at the Pioneer Courthouse Square in my city. At one point he informed me how proud he was that he had become a Notary Public, and could earn $5 for performing such a service. 

But there is so much to say that is beside this point. So much!

This man was the first to introduce me to marijuana. I wasn't generally inclined towards drugs of any sort, and I had declined the offer many times in the past. But, at this time I felt rather safe with this man and felt okay with giving it a try. At the time, I was of an opinion that drugs that came directly from the earth and unmodified were worth considering. So, I gave it a try, and my mind could not compute. My head was instantly blown back onto the couch I was sitting on. I couldn't make head or tail of where my mind was. I was a girl who valued highly what was in my head, so losing the ability to think was difficult for me to deal with, and I didn't like anything about it. At one point, I realized that if I focused on one word related to a thought I had, I could retain the thought. So, I focused on the word "bird." Ironicly, I now remember the word, but no longer remember the thoughts it represented.

Bird was what I took from that experience, and while I didn't altogether enjoy the experience, I didn't hate it enough not to try it again, sometime later.

But, more about Chef Steve. We, in the Schiller Apartments, lived a block away from a local convenience store. He must have made decent money, because once I had turned 21, he would pay me $5 to go buy him a very cheap beer. Steel Reserve was his brand. Black label. I did this often, and soon learned that he enjoyed drinking just this beer along with a few hits of weed, every night (usually outside), after work.

Eventually, I had a boyfriend (now my husband) who was with me, visiting Chef Steve. I had just returned from a beer run for him, and we all engaged in conversation. 

What happened next may seem as though I was, perhaps, a horrible person. But, hearing the whole story, you may realize that I simply took the most reasonable option.

Chef Steve seemed to be more intoxicated than usual, and whatever was said he, at one point, took out his gun in front of both of us, brandishing it frighteningly. We both (my boyfriend and I), we're not sure of the certainty of the situation at the time, and glanced at each other. The look we gave meant, "leave when possible."

There is no way I could ever remember what was said. What is important was that at one moment the conversation eventually shifted towards only my boyfriend, at which time I politely came up with an excuse to return home.

I did so at the most casual pace I could think of. I hid just behind my door, slightly looking out the window, with my phone in my hand, ready to call the police. 

Luckily, there was no need to do so. Eventually, my man made his way back to my place. But there was no end to the caution I used toward Chef Steve, ever again.

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Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Chastity Cash

I know that a reader could never believe that this is the name of any girl other than a stripper. And they'd be right, but they'd also be wrong.

While I dug around my brain, trying to think of who I should introduce next, this one excited me the most. She's a simple and rather quick, but sad story.

Her name was Chastity Cash. I couldn't believe it myself, but such was her name. I loved her at first. She was much like me: spunky, full of life, and a great smile, but at least 10 years older. Sometimes we would just hang out in the parking lot, as many dwellers did, maybe imbibing one of Monique's whiskey and coke cocktails. And sometimes we would walk down the street to the little shop together.

I never would have guessed that she was a train wreck still waiting to happen. But apparently she was. What I found the most odd about her, was that I used to look at her and think to myself, "she could be pretty and very attractive, but someone needs to teach that girl how to dress." But, there is no kind way I could think of, how one could inform a person that they needed a makeover. But, I was certain that if she had one, she would be surprised at the attention she could get.

She used to dress in what seemed like oversized, hand-me-down, men's clothes. The baggy sweaters and you couldn't see that she had a waist. The faded black jeans, and you couldn't even see her legs properly. It was constantly on my mind, how I was going to break it to her. 

At the time she worked for a used car sales company and she even gave me her card one day, when she was proud of having been promoted.

Then, one day it happened. She was suddenly wearing proper girl clothes. But I thought she had gone to a bit of an extreme in that respect. She couldn't wait to tell me that she could now afford to pay her rent properly. She was now a stripper at a bar. In retrospect, I wonder if it was Devil's Point. My neighbors used to actually attempt to persuade me to work there in the most insulting way ever: they'll hire anyone.

Chastity was happier, and like many of my neighbors, would ask for a ride somewhere from time to time. I didn't mind, most of the time. 

Eventually, she was making enough money to afford to rent a house, so she moved. She visited once or twice and that was it. I never saw her again. She was simply an anecdote in my little book of funny stories. 

Then one day I received a very firm knock on my door. When I opened it, I discovered police officers there. 

"Miss Cash?" one of them asked. 

I said, "Excuse me? What can I do for you?" I told them my name. 

They said they were looking for a miss Chastity Cash. 

I said, "Oh! I remember her. You see, she used to live in apartment #4 on the other side. It's a different address." I told them that she had moved into a house, but I had no idea where.

Poor Chastity. She was dealt a sad hand in life, which began with her name.

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Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Nathan

On a beautiful Christmas Day, about a week after I had moved in, I had the usual garbage and cardboard to throw away in the dumpster. So, out my door I stepped. I noticed an old man in the parking lot and I curtsied slightly with a polite hello. I don't remember his name, but he introduced himself. He wore the silliest, most obvious wig of an excuse for a toupee that I would later see on him, turned sideways at times. A great bit of giggling came from that thing. Wishing me a Merry Christmas among other small talk, he mentioned that he lived with his son, Nathan, in apartment number 3, on the other side of the parking lot. Should I need anything at all, I need only knock on the door and ask.

A few weeks later, I stepped outside my door again. But there is something you need to know about the lock on my door. There were two: the deadbolt, and the simple one on the knob. I kept the simple one locked all the time, but there was a strange, unexpected malfunction where you could sometimes open the door without turning the knob, if it hadn't been properly shut firmly with a click. Here, I was about to figure this out for the first time. I managed to close the door properly after I stepped out, and alas, I locked myself out. I had to leave for work soon and had no idea what to do. 

Showing up at the door of apartment number 3 in my pajamas and no sweater or coat, with snow on the ground, I was later reminded of what a silly sight I made. I knocked on the door, and the alleged son, Nathan, answered.

Nathan was a man in his 30's, best described as a living Hunter Thompson. He looked like him and dressed like him, but I'm not sure if he even knew who Mr. (excuse me, Dr.) Thompson was. He invited me in from the cold, as I explained my situation of having been locked out. I mentioned that I had met his father who had told me to come to him if I needed anything, and now I did. He informed me that the building maintenance man could be called to unlock my door, which was free the first time. He let me use his phone, at which point, I also called my work to let them know why I would be late. 

Nathan was a unique, interesting character, who I'll never fully understand. He was from Texas, and would wear shorts and a heavy plaid sweater or jacket on a regular basis. I liked to think he was dipping his feet in both worlds: the shorts to remind himself he was from Texas, and the jacket because there was no choice if it was cold.

Nathan spoke softly and even oddly, with his mind constantly grabbing at the clouds for what he was going to say, even as he spoke it. I was not accustomed to waiting so long to hear someone think and speak at the same time. I learned a new kind of patience, here. He was a wealth of information, somehow seeming to know everything. And the funniest thing I had noticed was that he had two vans parked outside. Both were the same make and model and year and color. One ran, the other didn't. I figured he must have loved the first one so much that he had to have another.

As I waited for the maintenance man, Nathan smoked a clove cigarette. At the time I had never seen or heard of them, and found it to be a rather pleasant, Christmas-like smell. Later, it became an obnoxious, overpowering smell. 

He spoke gingerly, and it made me wonder if this was simply the way he was, or if he had a preference for his own gender. 

I don't remember what he said, but I had made a new friend. He seemed to view me as the little sister who could use a friend. And I saw him as a quirky big brother who could show me around this building, which I would soon discover, contained a wealth of oddities, myself included.

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Schiller Apartment Shenanigans: Gary

It was a small, one-level apartment building. I had just moved in, not even a week earlier. I loved the place, but really didn't know much about it, its occupants, or even the neighborhood, as I had never spent any time in that area in the past. It was the dead of winter, days before Christmas. I had seen none of my new neighbors.

I heard a knock on the door. A man was there and describing him will be one of the most amusing experiences of my life.

I think the best way to start would be to say that he seemed like the sort of man who was still stuck in some kind of surfer era from his past. But one would wonder whether he ever actually surfed in his youth, or was it some sort of homage to those past days? Maybe he just happened to look the part. But, I think that perhaps it was as simple as he was a man from California, now living in the Pacific Northwest. He was getting older, maybe about 45 years. He had sandy blonde hair, rather receding in the front and about shoulder length in the back, but he wore it well considering his age. He had a white convertible Mustang from around the early 1990's or so, and he washed it every day. Later, I was able to use his car washing equipment (reluctantly, on his part) to occasionally wash my much prettier green 1976 Mercedes.

All of this is simply my description. Whether or not you can picture the image in your mind properly is not as important as the fact that he was standing on the other side of my door when I opened it.

"Do you have a cup of sugar?" he asked.

I was a little confused, because I was pretty sure it was obvious to my neighbors that I had just moved in. At the time, I was very naive and definitely not street smart. I compensated by being excessively cautious and 'not street stupid.' I definitely told people like it was, when I didn't see any danger in it, and even sometimes when I did.

This was my answer. "No. Why would I have any sugar? I just moved in."

He apologized and admitted that he didn't actually need any, but was looking for an excuse to say hi and welcome me. His name was Gary.

Now I was even more confused. I was raised quite respectably. I was taught that if you wanted to welcome someone to the neighborhood, you came to their door bearing gifts, not the other way around. I was reminded of a silly book I had read as a child, about the three little pigs. The story started with the self-proclaimed 'innocent' wolf asking for a cup of sugar.

He then invited me to a little party he was having at his house with a few of the neighbors. I declined, at first. I was not ready to throw myself into an unknown atmosphere full of strangers. Plus, I didn't know anything about him except for how he looked. What was I to expect? After a bit of convincing, I finally agreed to stop by for a moment. 

I showed up a little late. I wanted to be sure that people were at his place and things were happening over there, across the parking lot, before I arrived. I suppose that Gary should have mentioned that the party was specifically created for me. Apparently, the apartment neighbors weren't accustomed to coming to his place for parties. They were all just anxious to meet their new neighbor: a young 20 year old girl, out in the world for the first time, treading cautiously with every step she took. Me.

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