Bruised

BLACK AND BLUE

 

Lance lies in bed, putting off for just a short time, facing the day. What's going to happen to me now? Where will I go? Hell, I'm comfortable here. He looks up at the ceiling, sees the brown water mark that has been there for at least five years. A little chuckle escapes from deep inside of him as he pictures his buddy, Taylor Q. Hardesty, sleeping in his bathtub while the water overflows, floods his apartment and Lance's ceiling. Had it not dripped right on Lance's head, it might have been 'Goodbye, Pal.'

 

Lance rolls over, takes his familiar ten steps to the small but efficient bathroom, turns on the shower and waits for the water to be hot, nice and hot. He thinks again about the possibility of drowning in a tub which is worse than slipping in the shower and breaking a leg. For eight comfortable years at 702 Rawlings St. he has avoided the tub.

 

There isn't a family, an individual who lives in 'his' building that he hasn't come to know. As building Captain he meets, greets, says goodbye to every resident. Times changing slowly don't worry Lance. He lets Reagan take care of the country while he takes care of 702.

 

Lady friends are as abundant as he wishes but he is not a hog. Male friends are many, some like brothers to him. He is adept with computers, constantly changing modes and is a perfect example for youngsters who have much to learn in this friggin' world.

 

Chrisie Albertson, a knock-out gal, is his current squeeze. She maintains her own apartment and dignity, has refused to move in with Lance even if he repaints the ceiling.

 

Lance's outside door buzzer sounds. 'Mr. Crawford. This is the mailman. I have a registered letter for you. You have to sign for it. Want to let me in?' Lance tells him he doesn't have to go up the stairs and takes the steps two at a time. He signs for the letter and looks it over as he goes back up. Sure enough his name is on the envelope as well as the sender's. He feels nothing inside except paper and a staple. There are no lumps, bumps or paper clips. The sender's name is unfamiliar, George Watkins, Inc. As he starts to open it, his phone rings. Instantly he knows it's Chrisie. He can recognize her breathing, puts the envelope on the kitchen counter. The two chatter, gab, arrange their next date. At last he says,  'Kissie, kissie, Chrisie' and they hang up.

 

Lance is hungry, fixes a snack, scans thru the latest Time Magazine. On page twelve he notices an ad for George Watkins, Inc. What a coincidence he thinks. It is a small ad in bold print. George Watkins, Inc. is a real estate group, ready to buy, sell, private and commercial property. Wrinkles, puzzlement cover Lance's brow. He worries. Where did they get my name? Why contact me? The old cuckoo clock his Dad gave him sounds six cuckoos. Fox news is coming on. He lays the letter down again and fixes himself a dry martini to ease the pain the world news lays on his shoulders.

 

The letter waits for him. 'Buildings 702, 704, 706 Rawlings St. have been purchased by The California Condo Assoc. These buildings will be gutted and turned into new townhouses within one year. Work is expected to begin by Thanksgiving 2010  Any leases held by current residents are open for negotiation. Further information will be sent to you within the week of May 5, 2008 and May 12.'

 

Our email address is: ca.bldr@calif.com
Phone:1-888-702-3333

 

Douglas Barton, Pres.

 

Lance panics inside but takes the best control possible, makes copies if the letter and delivers each to the personal hands of a neighbor. He includes a note from himself asking for a meeting Sunday at 2 p.m.

 

The residents agree they are stuck with it. They don't want to be put out like dogs who crap on the carpets. They don't know where they can go. Each one must contact the California Condo Assoc. on his own. Lance waits for no one, sends  a long email to Douglas Barton as soon as 702's Sunday meeting is over. He demands, for all residents, the blue- prints, breaking lease arrangements, what the expected costs will be for new apartments. His blood boils.

 

Skimpy information arrives on Monday. It is far short of what will be needed but Lance is ready financially. Mentally he is a walking wreck. Too soon he tells Chrisie what is happening, asking her if he moves into a new apartment when it is ready, will she move in with him. Chrisie is no dummy. She does not commit to his offer, yet. Lance worries, can't sleep, doesn't want to change anything. He stays away from his computer, doesn't answer his phone or doorbell. Depression sets in. He is blue, really blue. If he wants a new apartment, will the builder sell one to a black man? Will he be the building's token black instead of his being somebody, the building's Captain? A new building will probably have a concierge, an elevator.

 

Chrisie feels his pain, offers him a few of her anti-depressants. He turns them down. They have long talks, long walks. Out of the blue Chrisie suggests she and Lance get married, buy a new apartment together.

 

THE END –becomes their beginning.