Ode to Apartment 301

In the northeast corner on the third floor of the U-shaped brick building in the middle of the 00-hundred block on the west side of Washington Street in Denver Colorado is where I’ve spent the last 5(+) years of my life. Events, incidents, and people there impacted my life, personality, and identity. I’m going to miss ol’ #301.

South Washington Apartments is a U-shaped building with the open end facing the alley. I lived in the bottom right corner of that letter U, with windows overlooking the dense population of trees lining Washington Street. On the second and third floors, catwalks spanned the distance from one side of the U to the other. In the center of the U was a courtyard with a ratty rock garden, a couple of small trees, and several potted plants. Back in the day, I used to refer to the apartment complex as a ghetto Melrose Place, Melrose Place without the Spanish tile, without the pool, without the gated entrance, without the sunny California weather, without all the cool beautiful people like Alison, Jake, Michael, Amanda, Sydney, and my favorite Kimberly.

South Washington Apartments was never known for its extroverted crowd of friendly neighbors. Most of the tenants kept to themselves. Very few people ever opened their windows overlooking the courtyard and even less people ever left their doors agape. It was kind of lonely despite the high density of people. Unlike my neighbors, I was all about opening the windows and doors to let in fresh air accompanied by the sounds of rustling leaves. I had the little two-bedroom apartment at the top of the stairs on the third floor and I often hung out on the stair landing soaking in the evening air. Back in the day I would marinate out there with a cigarette and two-fingers of single malt scotch, my favorite brand being the smoky Lagavulin from the south coast of Islay near the ruins of Dunyveg Castle. Later, my tastes changed and I was more likely to be leaning on the stair railing with a steaming cup of black tea from Darjeeling, the current home of the Dalai Lama in the shadow of Mount Kanchenjunga. I would stand outside watching the night sky and trade fleeting greetings with anonymous neighbors. Most people would nod and scurry to their dwellings, but occasionally someone would pause to get acquainted. Ironically I had a friend, Kira, who lived across the ally in an exact physical replica of South Washington Apartments, but the tenants were polar opposites. Kira’s neighbors would leave their doors wide-open, shout to each other across the courtyard, and raid each other’s refrigerators without asking. Despite the reclusive nature of the tenants at South Washington Apartments I did make several acquaintances; it’s hard not to after 5-years of living in one place.

Mr. Mobley

The apartment manager introduced me to old Mr. Mobley the day I applied for the lease. He lived in #112 and would sit all day in his green lawn chair swirling a glass of lemonade and staring at the exciting browns of the rock garden. I always thought Mr. Mobley was just your run of the mill, bored retiree. I’d exchange pleasantries with him from time to time, then one day he decided to let me in on his little secret. He told me that all of the major world leaders were controlled by a specific secret society, much like the Illuminati. This secret society was vying for world domination and the only thing defending our freedoms from complete subjugated slavery by these evil rulers was the NRA and Charlton Heston. Yep. Shortly thereafter Mr. Mobley was gone. I don’t know exactly when or where, he was just MIA. Perhaps he was right about this Illuminati-esque society and he was rubbed out after he divulged his secret to me.

Betty

My constant neighbor in #302 was Betty. She had lived in the South Washington Apartment for eight years and her apartment was still sparkling clean. She was an older retired lady who spent the majority of her time at the library. I couldn’t have asked for a less nosey, more helpful neighbor. My new neighbors have a lot to live up to. I wish she could buy the house next to ours so that she could keep being my neighbor.

Mark

Party-boy Mark was a product of the dot-com era. He ran a computer consulting company out of apartment #204 for three-hours a day and then he put on his clubbing clothes and jetted out to the downtown scene until the wee hours of the morning. We would shoot the shit at the top of the stairs and every conversation ended with him inviting me to go clubbing or barhopping. For several months I joined him regularly every Wednesday at Café Cero out on South Broadway. In reality, I never fit in with his fast-paced, ultra-trendy, high-rolling, black leather coated crowd, but Mark was a good guy and excelled at making people feel welcome. I could never keep pace with the amount of money his dot-com buddies threw around; it always amazed me and I pondered a career change every time I hung with his crowd. Mark stuck around #204 for about a year and half.

Rex

Rex, the Native American pothead, was firmly entrenched in #305 when I moved into my new apartment. For the longest time I thought Rex was a big time drug dealer. He would sleep until noon and then come and go at all odd hours of the night. Then I found out he worked nighttime highway construction. That man had the grisliest stories about his highly dangerous job, like the time when a car sped past his construction site at 70-mph and the driver tossed a can out his window. The can struck one of Rex’s coworkers on the side of his face and Rex had to rush his coworker to the emergency room because of the massive head bleeding. Rex would set up a little charcoal grill on the concrete catwalks and cook up some savory smelling fish. Eventually a new manager came on board and put an end to what she thought was Rex’s private fire hazard. I think she just didn’t like Rex. After the new management stepped in, he moved out.

Jim and Lydia

Every night at 7:30 Lydia, garbed in pajamas and robe, scurried across the catwalk from her apartment, #310, to Jim’s apartment, #306. Instead of making a commitment and moving in together, they found a building with two vacancies and moved into South Washington Apartments together yet separately. They slept in the same apartment, they ate in the same apartment, they watched tv in the same apartment, but they still kept their personal belongings separated. Finally they decided to bust the move and buy a condo together.

Robyn

She lived in #309 for a couple of years and we bummed smokes from each other regularly, each of us claiming social smoker status as opposed to addicted status. One night I was chilling in front of the tv and I heard the loudest yelling and shouting that my timid little apartment complex had ever witnessed. I jumped up and flung open the door to find Robyn chasing a peeping tom down the stairs. She was shouting obscenities at the culprit and demanding somebody call the cops. The ruckus was so disturbing that many of the hermit-like tenants actually opened their doors to peek outside. Like Rex, Robyn left when she became displeased with the new management.

Michael, Conner, and the Wife

The family of three lived below us in #201. Conner was about a year older than El-Sea and the two of them always chatted it up when they passed one another on the stairs. El-Sea’s first kiss was at the tender age of two with Conner. Of course it was only a peck on the lips, but it still qualifies. The family was there when I moved in and it shocked me when they moved out. They were like a pillar of stability in an ever-changing cast of neighbors. Looking back, when they moved out I realized my residence at South Washington Apartments would be fleeting also.

Mariah

For six months Mariah lived in #203. At the youthful age of 17 she was living on her own and less then a year away from graduating from college with straight A’s. She was quite the décor-minimalist, without any furniture except a very large, very plain, very square coffee table. No tv or stereo, either. Mariah was one of the few tenants to ever leave her door open and every time I’d walk by she would be sitting cross-legged on the floor painting vibrant oils on a canvas propped up on her coffee table. I would pause and inquire as too her latest artistic endeavor and then she would adjust her boldly black-framed eyeglasses before describing her new vision of color. Mariah and I had an apprentice-teacher relationship, she being the teacher despite being 5 years younger than me. Even at the age of 17 she was one of the most insightful/intuitive/enlightened people I have ever encountered.

Stephanie

The best gym teacher I never had was Stephanie in #212. She even had that required booming P.E. teacher voice. I lived in the bottom right corner of the U-shaped building and Stephanie live in the top left arm of the U. Despite the distance, we could banter from across the apartment complex with our overly loud voices. I’m sure the rest of the reclusive neighbors loved hearing our deep amplified conversations echo back and forth within the courtyard. Stephanie’s Masters Thesis was on the birth control use of competitive female swimmers. Overall this was not a subject I was interested in, but she gave me two statistics that have always stuck with me. First, the majority of her data population used the condom as their primary means of birth control. Second, of those who were on the pill, the majority of them (50.3%) indicated that birth control was not their primary reason. These women used the pill to control menstrual flow, clear up skin, etc. Cool.

Stipan and Lucija

The divorced father and his 9 year old daughter fled the civil wars of their homeland, Croatia, and immigrated to the USA five years ago. They moved into South Washington Apartments, #209, one year ago and Lucija and El-Sea became friend shortly thereafter. Stipan has fairly impressive life story that includes holding the current record for Olympic javelin throwing in Croatia. He gave up a prosperous and well-to-do lifestyle in Croatia and, for the safety of his family, moved to the States with only the belongings they could carry and knowing only two words of English. Starting with nothing, he has rebuilt his life and is currently applying for citizenship. What will I do if the fates ever conspire against me to the point that I am left with only the shoes on my feet? Hopefully, I will remember and model Stipan’s courage and determination.

The Unabomber

The Feds have the wrong guy or there was a second bomber on the grassy knoll. I swear the Unabomber lives in #207. He was always lurking around, never making eye contact, and rarely returning the casual “hey” when I passed him on the stairs. Not only was his suspiciously reclusive nature a giveaway to his true identity, but he also looked just like all those police sketches. The hood of his sweatshirt was always pulled over his head. His nappy curly hair peaked out from underneath his hood, yet remained contained by the oversized aviator-style sunglasses he wore to stay anonymous. A bushy Magnum P.I moustache highlighted the division of nose and mouth… Yep, that’s the guy. The Unabomber has and always will live in the South Washington Apartments.

The Elders

For several years #107 was home to a rotating cast of Mormon Missionaries. They were genuinely nice kids, although somewhat dorky. Once a month the Elders would come and pay us a visit. Sometimes we talked about Mormonism, and --from an academic perspective-- those conversations bordered on interesting. Sometimes we talked abstractly about existence and free will, and those conversations were, indeed, interesting. Sometimes we talked about sports, music, movies, etc., and those conversations were all right, too. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all because the tv was on and the Elders would become hypnotized by whatever we were watching. Being ever helpful, the Missionaries would assist people moving into or out of South Washington Apartments. Unfortunately, they moved out a month before we did.

As of last Saturday, Apartment #301 has been swallowed by time to become a reminiscent lump that will form in my throat whenever I recall my 20’s. We did our final walkthrough with the apartment manager on Saturday. Empty. No furniture, no pictures, no décor, no life, Apartment #301 was stripped of its identity. It was a soulless shell lying dormant and waiting for a new tenant to imbue it with colors, laughter, textures, fragrances, flavors.

In 1997 I walked into the apartment and it was empty. Last Saturday I walked out of the apartment and it was empty. That word keeps swimming through my head… empty.
...and so it was written, shenry at 3/05/2003 05:17:00 PM.
...and so it was appended with .