Confessions of a People Watcher

As I walk my dog in our quiet, safe neighborhood, I sometimes reminisce about my days of living downtown in a colorful historic building with very colorful characters. The massive brick building is a former hotel and it takes up half a block. It was once the stopping point for the upper class, politicians and even a few presidents.

Since being transformed into apartments, the shine of the of the building had tarnished a bit, but the character has remained. From my tiny fourth floor apartment – the first home I ever had on my own – I got to know the soul of the building and what made it tick.

There was Smoker Guy in the corner apartment, he was afraid of the hallway lights and had a crazy cat. He was rumored to have been the building maintenance man for many years and his scraggly visitors used a secret knock in order to enter his apartment. I listened closely, but was never been able to figure it out.

Across the hall there was the 6’4” man, who could be heard relaxing to harp music on a daily and nightly basis. Around the clock, neighbors pounded on their walls to get him to turn it down. Apparently the relaxing music stressed people out.

Next to Harp Guy lived Exercise Guy, who carried his fifty-pound hiking backpack around the building for a work out. You could usually hear his labored breathing on the staircase from two flights below. But…he did not like to be seen. Others’ footsteps on the stairs made him climb quicker. If you met him on the stairs when he was working out, he stopped. He stared at you. It made you walk faster.

I spent two years in this building, in two different apartments and the turnover of characters was always high.

I missed many of them: the Girl Gamers who would play video games for days and then their apartment would go dark to make up for it. I liked them. They always waved from across the courtyard. Then there was Scott from across the courtyard. Luckily he moved up. Really, he moved to fifth floor.

There were those who just couldn’t take it the blend of interesting people. I met one of my last neighbors as he packed in a huff. Matt, I think it was. He said the building was cool for a while, and then the weirdoes start to get to you. He bet I wouldn’t last another month. I lived there another year and a half.

One morning I walked out of my spacious apartment ready to go to work with an extra spring in my step as my long white skirt swished around my ankles. I glanced down and fumbled with my keys, when I heard a neighbor down the hall locking a door. I looked up and saw a gentleman in his 70s smiling at me and admiring my skirt. That’s probably because he was wearing the same skirt in gray. From then on he was quite polite to me – I think we bonded over our wardrobes.

Each night as I tried to fall asleep, the neighbor directly above me would violently throw himself out of his bed. I don’t know how else to explain the crashing noise, other than to think there were circus elephants that lived on the floor above. Some days he would mix it up a little and make noises above my kitchen. In my mind’s eye I always pictured bowling pins and a stolen bowling ball, but I never had proof.

It was the greatest place in the world for a writer to live and sometimes I miss it. Except for the pigeons. Don’t even get me started on those guys.