UP, UP AND AWAY ??

It’s four a.m. and I’ve been lying in bed since one, worried, concerned about the most important person in the world–me. I toss, turn, delve deep into my cortex, search for an opening sentence for yet another short, imaginative story that I send to my friends daily. The magnitude of 1005 sent without a single day storyless scares the living daylights out of me, leaves me lost, unable to go on. There is nothing left in me. What am I going to do every day before the moon disappears, the world opens its eyes, before the paper man tosses the Morning Ledger on my porch? Has Merlin forsaken me? Whoa, wait. I hear him galloping thru the Arden Forest. He drops a scroll that opens, rises above the Atlantic Ocean, reaches Roanoke and dissolves into my head. I am saved. There is a eleven story Art Deco building, retro designed, standing since 1970. It is fully occupied by successful firms on the first 6 floors, condos above. To my knowledge what I have noticed in 2001, no one else has seen. No leases have been broken. This building is listing, ever so slightly, and may in the future become another Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just yesterday during my yearly tax visit to my accountant on the 6th floor, I saw no change in the slant of his walls. The wooden slat blinds hung straight. Yet, when I dropped my black Parker fountain pen on the desk, it rolled off, hit the floor and kept rolling, albeit it slowly, and stopped at the eastern wall. Mr. McCourt seemed oblivious, thanked me for coming in and asked me to make another appoint closer to April 10 to finish up. The elevator going down made a slight sound it didn’t make going up. Instead of going back, I Fed Exed my papers to Mr. McCourt with a return receipt requested. He sent me the final papers for my signature and check the very next day. I was finished until 2002.

A turtle moves like lightning compared to the tilt of the Ivory Tower. Yet I see a slight change for the worse. Doesn’t anyone else? The strain and fear of a possible future catastrophe spurs me to take action. I mail a letter to the editor of the Evening Standard. He calls me personally the following day, asking if I wrote the letter and what do I know about construction. I tell him truthfully, ’Almost nothing but I know what I see.’ Mr. Corona seems alarmed and informs me that a crew of scientists, engineers, contractors will be out there for a few days starting tomorrow and asks me to keep my mouth closed until a thorough investigation is over. I agree. I watch the editorial page for four weeks, see nothing about the tilt. I feel foolish. It just so happens that four days plus one, a Friday 13th, my letter is printed. The t.v. news shows several large moving vans in front of the building, a newly made sign near the entrance offers ‘Space available for executive offices, 3 two bedroom condos for sale. Contact RA 205-4123, Mr. Darcy.’

The street that the Pisa is on is roped off to normal traffic, even to pedestrians. From across the street I watch steel girders, cement trucks, come and go non-stop. It takes a full crew of 10 men to remove the bank of elevators and put new ones in. The noise, the mess disrupts all businesses. Tenants leave, expecting to return in a few months but no assurety is given. Interest wanes. The work goes on. Destroying the one building would destroy the entire block. Scientists, architects, crews are making out well, while so many are losing a bundle. I am almost famous. Calls come in, praising me, calling me an idiot, a trouble maker. They fill my message machine. I install a new phone line with a separate number for personal calls.

I regret deeply sending Mr. Corona my letter but know that it was the right thing to do. My life, too, seems ruined. I move to a small town, Bethesda, where the town laws have limited construction to four floors. It had been three but the legislators upped it to four recently.Have reached age 65 and have made a vow to myself not to be concerned about the four stories someday being five.

I get the morning, evening and Sunday papers, don’t know, don’t ever want to know, the name of the editor.