| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 19, 2013 | Chapters: |
...4 5 -6- 7... 
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Continuing story of early marriage years
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
A Cast of Characters
by BethShelby
Awakening at two a.m. to the smell of smoke and wisps of gray seeping from beneath our door leading into our hallway exit, was one of the most heart-pounding moments of our early years of marriage. I'll get into that episode shortly, but first, a bit about our new residence and the people who surrounded us.
After our first year together, Evan and I said a cheerful farewell to the apartment with the split-level bathroom and lecherous landlord. Our new apartment, on the second floor, was in a lovely old Victorian style home. Now, we had a much larger and more private place to live. I had completed two years of college, Evan had a better-paying job, and we hadn't pawned our watches in months. Things were definitely looking up.
Our new living quarters on the second floor were accessed by way of a lovely spiral staircase. Our apartment comprised one side of the second floor. On the other side of a wide hallway was another apartment very much like ours. All of this luxury was ours for only $55 per month. Our rent had gone up only $5 per-month for a much nicer place to live.
Unlike our first apartment, during the two-plus years we spent here, we got acquainted with all the other tenants. Some of them fit into a category, which I billed as "characters" vs. "ordinary people". The retired minister, who owned the house, died shortly after we moved in. His disabled wife went to live with one of her children, and the house was turned over to a rental agency to manage.
Soon after the agency took over, the main downstairs living quarters were rented by a family with three unruly children, dressed like street unchins. The man was bipolar and suffered from other mental and emotional problems. He was unable to hold down a regular job. His wife worked in a clothing store, and he kept the children and made jewelry from rocks, which he polished in a tumbler. He came up to our apartment often, to display his latest creation, in hopes I would buy something. Dealing with his mood swings was a bit challenging. His mood swung in a rather unpleasant direction, after I let the washing machine hose escape from the kitchen sink. The water pouring though the ceiling of his dining room and collapsing the wet plaster onto his family, while they were having dinner, wasn't a pretty scene.
The couple across the hall from us fit into my "character" classification. Audrey was a young woman who appeared to be a flirt, with her mini-skirts and roving eyes. Her husband, Ned, was a large awkward man with a red face and bulging eyes. He had to be, at least, thirty years her senior. He had sustained a brain injury in service, leaving him unable to work. He came from a wealthy family, willing to support him, as long as he didn't live with them. Audrey had married him to escape her boring life in the boonies and move to the city. A few months after we moved in, Ned suffered a stroke and became a resident of the VA hospital, until his death several weeks later.
Once she became a widow, Audrey had a steady stream of male visitors coming and going at all hours. She explained the traffic by telling us they were from the Jehovah Witness Kingdom Hall, where she was a member, and they were coming over to have Bible studies and offer condolences for her loss. Often, they didn't leave till morning. I'm sure she found them to be very consoling.
Two men, both with serious alcohol problems, rented rooms with baths downstairs. The older of the two was a retired gentleman, who merely grunted when we passed. The younger guy, Phillip, who definitely fit into the "character" classification, appeared to be in his late twenties. He had a job with his uncle's company, but he seldom worked because he was always nursing a hangover. He knew my schedule, and he would be banging on my door before I left for class almost daily. When I answered the knock, I'd find him clutching his head and asking if he could borrow an aspirin or anything I might have for pain. The request also included a glass of water to wash it down. Then, he would proceed to tell me of his many maladies, including how many times he'd tried to commit suicide and had failed. Borrowing pain medicine was probably an excuse to find a sympathetic ear.
My final "character" was a 93-year old lady named Miss Jack, who lived in the garage apartment out back. The week we moved in, we were getting into our car, when we heard a high-pitched screeching noise. It sounded like some kind of bird. Evan was sure it had to be a peacock, since his family had once owned one. A disheveled white-haired lady emerged from her apartment with her robe flapping in the breeze. She waved frantically to get our attention. When we stopped, she proceeded to hand us a bowl filled with tuna salad, as a way of getting acquainted and welcoming us to the neighborhood. It was a surprise since cupcakes might have been a safer choice.
To our delight, the salad was delicious. It contained pecans and other ingredients, which gave it a unique flavor. Upon learning how much we liked it, she made it for us regularly. Each time I went over to return her dish, I'd find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the unmade bed playing solitaire. She'd never married but had lived an interesting and colorful life. At one time, she'd traveled with a circus, walking the high wire and performing on the trapeze. She never tired of telling hair-raising stories which held me captive as long as I could afford to stay.
After we'd lived in the apartment a couple years, one night around two a.m. we were awakened by the smell of smoke. Nothing terrified either of us more than the idea of a fiery death. Evan rushed to the door, leading into a shared hallway. Thick smoke filled the lower portion of the house and was drifting up the stairs. The light in the hall gave off an eerie, reddish glare. Close to terror, I grabbed my clothes and yanked them on, not realizing the pants pulled off before going to bed were wrong side out. We were convinced the floor below was ablaze and we would have to climb out on the roof and jump.
Evan snatched a wet towel to put over his face and rushed to the phone in the hall alcove and dialed the emergency number. Just after the phone call, we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. It was our young alcoholic friend, Philip, coughing and gasping for breath.
"OH NO! No!, No!. Don't call the fire department. I've got it under control. The fire is out. We don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood."
It was too late. The fire station was just down the street, and sirens announced they were already en route.
They discovered his mattress and covers still smoldering in his bathtub. He'd gone to bed smoking and had fallen asleep. At least, this time he hadn't been too inebriated to wake up. I assume death by burning wasn't one of his choices for a suicide attempt.
Before going to bed that night, we had planned an out-of-town trip for later in the morning. It was pointless to try to go back to sleep. We opened the windows to rid the apartment of the smell of smoke, grabbed our bags, and headed out into the darkness. It was time to start thinking about moving once again.
Awakening at two a.m. to the smell of smoke and wisps of gray seeping from beneath our door leading into our hallway exit, was one of the most heart-pounding moments of our early years of marriage. I'll get into that episode shortly, but first, a bit about our new residence and the people who surrounded us.
After our first year together, Evan and I said a cheerful farewell to the apartment with the split-level bathroom and lecherous landlord. Our new apartment, on the second floor, was in a lovely old Victorian style home. Now, we had a much larger and more private place to live. I had completed two years of college, Evan had a better-paying job, and we hadn't pawned our watches in months. Things were definitely looking up.
Our new living quarters on the second floor were accessed by way of a lovely spiral staircase. Our apartment comprised one side of the second floor. On the other side of a wide hallway was another apartment very much like ours. All of this luxury was ours for only $55 per month. Our rent had gone up only $5 per-month for a much nicer place to live.
Unlike our first apartment, during the two-plus years we spent here, we got acquainted with all the other tenants. Some of them fit into a category, which I billed as "characters" vs. "ordinary people". The retired minister, who owned the house, died shortly after we moved in. His disabled wife went to live with one of her children, and the house was turned over to a rental agency to manage.
Soon after the agency took over, the main downstairs living quarters were rented by a family with three unruly children, dressed like street unchins. The man was bipolar and suffered from other mental and emotional problems. He was unable to hold down a regular job. His wife worked in a clothing store, and he kept the children and made jewelry from rocks, which he polished in a tumbler. He came up to our apartment often, to display his latest creation, in hopes I would buy something. Dealing with his mood swings was a bit challenging. His mood swung in a rather unpleasant direction, after I let the washing machine hose escape from the kitchen sink. The water pouring though the ceiling of his dining room and collapsing the wet plaster onto his family, while they were having dinner, wasn't a pretty scene.
The couple across the hall from us fit into my "character" classification. Audrey was a young woman who appeared to be a flirt, with her mini-skirts and roving eyes. Her husband, Ned, was a large awkward man with a red face and bulging eyes. He had to be, at least, thirty years her senior. He had sustained a brain injury in service, leaving him unable to work. He came from a wealthy family, willing to support him, as long as he didn't live with them. Audrey had married him to escape her boring life in the boonies and move to the city. A few months after we moved in, Ned suffered a stroke and became a resident of the VA hospital, until his death several weeks later.
Once she became a widow, Audrey had a steady stream of male visitors coming and going at all hours. She explained the traffic by telling us they were from the Jehovah Witness Kingdom Hall, where she was a member, and they were coming over to have Bible studies and offer condolences for her loss. Often, they didn't leave till morning. I'm sure she found them to be very consoling.
Two men, both with serious alcohol problems, rented rooms with baths downstairs. The older of the two was a retired gentleman, who merely grunted when we passed. The younger guy, Phillip, who definitely fit into the "character" classification, appeared to be in his late twenties. He had a job with his uncle's company, but he seldom worked because he was always nursing a hangover. He knew my schedule, and he would be banging on my door before I left for class almost daily. When I answered the knock, I'd find him clutching his head and asking if he could borrow an aspirin or anything I might have for pain. The request also included a glass of water to wash it down. Then, he would proceed to tell me of his many maladies, including how many times he'd tried to commit suicide and had failed. Borrowing pain medicine was probably an excuse to find a sympathetic ear.
My final "character" was a 93-year old lady named Miss Jack, who lived in the garage apartment out back. The week we moved in, we were getting into our car, when we heard a high-pitched screeching noise. It sounded like some kind of bird. Evan was sure it had to be a peacock, since his family had once owned one. A disheveled white-haired lady emerged from her apartment with her robe flapping in the breeze. She waved frantically to get our attention. When we stopped, she proceeded to hand us a bowl filled with tuna salad, as a way of getting acquainted and welcoming us to the neighborhood. It was a surprise since cupcakes might have been a safer choice.
To our delight, the salad was delicious. It contained pecans and other ingredients, which gave it a unique flavor. Upon learning how much we liked it, she made it for us regularly. Each time I went over to return her dish, I'd find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the unmade bed playing solitaire. She'd never married but had lived an interesting and colorful life. At one time, she'd traveled with a circus, walking the high wire and performing on the trapeze. She never tired of telling hair-raising stories which held me captive as long as I could afford to stay.
After we'd lived in the apartment a couple years, one night around two a.m. we were awakened by the smell of smoke. Nothing terrified either of us more than the idea of a fiery death. Evan rushed to the door, leading into a shared hallway. Thick smoke filled the lower portion of the house and was drifting up the stairs. The light in the hall gave off an eerie, reddish glare. Close to terror, I grabbed my clothes and yanked them on, not realizing the pants pulled off before going to bed were wrong side out. We were convinced the floor below was ablaze and we would have to climb out on the roof and jump.
Evan snatched a wet towel to put over his face and rushed to the phone in the hall alcove and dialed the emergency number. Just after the phone call, we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. It was our young alcoholic friend, Philip, coughing and gasping for breath.
"OH NO! No!, No!. Don't call the fire department. I've got it under control. The fire is out. We don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood."
It was too late. The fire station was just down the street, and sirens announced they were already en route.
They discovered his mattress and covers still smoldering in his bathtub. He'd gone to bed smoking and had fallen asleep. At least, this time he hadn't been too inebriated to wake up. I assume death by burning wasn't one of his choices for a suicide attempt.
Before going to bed that night, we had planned an out-of-town trip for later in the morning. It was pointless to try to go back to sleep. We opened the windows to rid the apartment of the smell of smoke, grabbed our bags, and headed out into the darkness. It was time to start thinking about moving once again.
After our first year together, Evan and I said a cheerful farewell to the apartment with the split-level bathroom and lecherous landlord. Our new apartment, on the second floor, was in a lovely old Victorian style home. Now, we had a much larger and more private place to live. I had completed two years of college, Evan had a better-paying job, and we hadn't pawned our watches in months. Things were definitely looking up.
Our new living quarters on the second floor were accessed by way of a lovely spiral staircase. Our apartment comprised one side of the second floor. On the other side of a wide hallway was another apartment very much like ours. All of this luxury was ours for only $55 per month. Our rent had gone up only $5 per-month for a much nicer place to live.
Unlike our first apartment, during the two-plus years we spent here, we got acquainted with all the other tenants. Some of them fit into a category, which I billed as "characters" vs. "ordinary people". The retired minister, who owned the house, died shortly after we moved in. His disabled wife went to live with one of her children, and the house was turned over to a rental agency to manage.
Soon after the agency took over, the main downstairs living quarters were rented by a family with three unruly children, dressed like street unchins. The man was bipolar and suffered from other mental and emotional problems. He was unable to hold down a regular job. His wife worked in a clothing store, and he kept the children and made jewelry from rocks, which he polished in a tumbler. He came up to our apartment often, to display his latest creation, in hopes I would buy something. Dealing with his mood swings was a bit challenging. His mood swung in a rather unpleasant direction, after I let the washing machine hose escape from the kitchen sink. The water pouring though the ceiling of his dining room and collapsing the wet plaster onto his family, while they were having dinner, wasn't a pretty scene.
The couple across the hall from us fit into my "character" classification. Audrey was a young woman who appeared to be a flirt, with her mini-skirts and roving eyes. Her husband, Ned, was a large awkward man with a red face and bulging eyes. He had to be, at least, thirty years her senior. He had sustained a brain injury in service, leaving him unable to work. He came from a wealthy family, willing to support him, as long as he didn't live with them. Audrey had married him to escape her boring life in the boonies and move to the city. A few months after we moved in, Ned suffered a stroke and became a resident of the VA hospital, until his death several weeks later.
Once she became a widow, Audrey had a steady stream of male visitors coming and going at all hours. She explained the traffic by telling us they were from the Jehovah Witness Kingdom Hall, where she was a member, and they were coming over to have Bible studies and offer condolences for her loss. Often, they didn't leave till morning. I'm sure she found them to be very consoling.
Two men, both with serious alcohol problems, rented rooms with baths downstairs. The older of the two was a retired gentleman, who merely grunted when we passed. The younger guy, Phillip, who definitely fit into the "character" classification, appeared to be in his late twenties. He had a job with his uncle's company, but he seldom worked because he was always nursing a hangover. He knew my schedule, and he would be banging on my door before I left for class almost daily. When I answered the knock, I'd find him clutching his head and asking if he could borrow an aspirin or anything I might have for pain. The request also included a glass of water to wash it down. Then, he would proceed to tell me of his many maladies, including how many times he'd tried to commit suicide and had failed. Borrowing pain medicine was probably an excuse to find a sympathetic ear.
My final "character" was a 93-year old lady named Miss Jack, who lived in the garage apartment out back. The week we moved in, we were getting into our car, when we heard a high-pitched screeching noise. It sounded like some kind of bird. Evan was sure it had to be a peacock, since his family had once owned one. A disheveled white-haired lady emerged from her apartment with her robe flapping in the breeze. She waved frantically to get our attention. When we stopped, she proceeded to hand us a bowl filled with tuna salad, as a way of getting acquainted and welcoming us to the neighborhood. It was a surprise since cupcakes might have been a safer choice.
To our delight, the salad was delicious. It contained pecans and other ingredients, which gave it a unique flavor. Upon learning how much we liked it, she made it for us regularly. Each time I went over to return her dish, I'd find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the unmade bed playing solitaire. She'd never married but had lived an interesting and colorful life. At one time, she'd traveled with a circus, walking the high wire and performing on the trapeze. She never tired of telling hair-raising stories which held me captive as long as I could afford to stay.
After we'd lived in the apartment a couple years, one night around two a.m. we were awakened by the smell of smoke. Nothing terrified either of us more than the idea of a fiery death. Evan rushed to the door, leading into a shared hallway. Thick smoke filled the lower portion of the house and was drifting up the stairs. The light in the hall gave off an eerie, reddish glare. Close to terror, I grabbed my clothes and yanked them on, not realizing the pants pulled off before going to bed were wrong side out. We were convinced the floor below was ablaze and we would have to climb out on the roof and jump.
Evan snatched a wet towel to put over his face and rushed to the phone in the hall alcove and dialed the emergency number. Just after the phone call, we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. It was our young alcoholic friend, Philip, coughing and gasping for breath.
"OH NO! No!, No!. Don't call the fire department. I've got it under control. The fire is out. We don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood."
It was too late. The fire station was just down the street, and sirens announced they were already en route.
They discovered his mattress and covers still smoldering in his bathtub. He'd gone to bed smoking and had fallen asleep. At least, this time he hadn't been too inebriated to wake up. I assume death by burning wasn't one of his choices for a suicide attempt.
Before going to bed that night, we had planned an out-of-town trip for later in the morning. It was pointless to try to go back to sleep. We opened the windows to rid the apartment of the smell of smoke, grabbed our bags, and headed out into the darkness. It was time to start thinking about moving once again.
 Recognized |
|
For those of you who have read my biography from the beginning, you may recognize some of this story which was written when Evan was still alive. For the later readers, you will learn a bit about how my story begins, told in a more humorous way.
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