Boy am I going to miss this place. Kinda.
I wouldn’t have rented a 2-bedroom apartment in downtown Lansdale for only me. Moving in here last April was weird. I mean, I think we all knew that I’d be living here sans the duder but still I had hope. I really loved my cabin and the solitude I found there. But I really loved that guy, too, so I traded in my cabin in the woods for an apartment in the ‘burbs. But that’s neither here nor there. Here I moved and here I stayed.
Some of weirdest things have happened here. Like that time I was awakened from my siesta by the Lansdale police asking for Miranda. There was a warrant out for her arrest. Was I she? Hell, I don’t know! “I’m…Megan?” I was really nervous that we were all about to find out that I was Miranda so it was an intense couple of minutes while I ferreted out my ID.
It never got less interesting. I moved in to a happening building. H2 isn’t for the faint of heart. No sirreebob. I experienced neighbors in a very special way. Let me run you through the characters that I will miss now that I’m moving.
Doc, the ex-Marine
Doc was about a million years old and lived directly across the hall from me. Doc had that medical condition, you know the one Dixie Carter was in commercials for before she died, about the neck. When he was standing upright he was still looking at the floor. Not that it seemed to keep Doc from being Doc. He still drove his really large, really yellow car. He still told me how nice my legs were whenever I saw him…well, whenever he saw me…I mean, whenever he saw my legs. He always asked for me and my girls to come visit him whenever we were going or coming someplace. Never did though. I think mostly the boozing it up as I was leaving for work at 7 am was concerning. And the way he’d be drunk every time the EMTs got called because he’d stopped breathing and then how he’d fight them off when he was breathing again. He could hold his own though, only ended up in the ambulance 20% of the time, only had the cops called to help restrain him 10% of that. Then there was the 3 am screaming match he started with his primary caregiver, George (who you’ll learn about shortly), in the middle of the hallway. Drunk. At 3 am. Hours after coming home from the ER. All 70 pounds of him was gonna take George outside and whoop him. Yeah, I’m sure gonna miss that guy. I’ve been missing him for a while, though. He passed away alone in his apartment one night waiting for George to bring him dinner.
George (and Cindy)
George is a big ol’ teddy bear. Kind of reminds me of Meatloaf in Fight Club. Sadly, I am not the right socialization for George. He’s a really friendly guy and he wants to shoot the shit ALL OF THE TIME. Shooting the shit with my neighbors isn’t exactly something I do. If I’m not inside my place it’s because I’m coming or going somewhere. Also, I got two girls and they are super cute. I know this. That’s why they are my girls. But what’s also super cute about them is that they are well-behaved 95% of the time because we are in training mode 100% of the time. It’s hard. People don’t always understand I’m not trying to be an a-hole, I’m just trying to teach my girls not to be annoying. Your “coochiecoochiecooing” at them…well, it ain’t helping, big guy. So Georgie and I have been on the outs since the Great Morning Poo fiasco a few months back. I was running late for work, the girls were leashed up and following my commands nicely, and he wanted to chit-chat and let the girls run and jump on him. I smiled, said good morning and I was running late. He threw a case of beer back in his truck and started cursing about what a bitch I was.
Cindy is George’s girlfriend. I think she is even less socially adventurous than I am. The only time I’ve ever talked to her was during the 3 am smack-down that Doc was trying to lay on George. Since everyone was tanked, Cindy and Doc were hollering back and forth. Normally, I’m not the type to get involved. But it started at 3 am and was rolling on into 4 am. So I poked my head out into the hallway and said “Hey guys. It’s 4 in the morning. Anyway you can finish this in 3 hours?” Cindy replied, “Oh lookee here! Look who wants to talk to her neighbors now?” My reply came as they often do before I can head them off at the pass. “No. No. Please don’t be confused. I still don’t want to talk to you. I just want you to not do this ’cause it’s 4 am.”
Chris lives downstairs. And by “lives downstairs” I mean that he sleeps on the couch in his mother’s apartment. Chris is perhaps the one I will miss the most. There’s never a dull moment with this guy. This guy is always ready, willing, and able to talk at you. Talk so fast you could barely keep up not that it was necessary since he was the one carrying the conversation. One evening when he joined me to take Analaigh out to potty in 10 minutes we covered the Fibonacci sequence, intelligent design, and Labyrinth (the movie ’cause see he saw the poster hanging on my wall in my 2nd floor apartment one time I had the blinds open, read: “Hello, Creeper!”). He’s always pacing outside, smoking his cigarettes, telling his romantic woes to his bro on the other end of the phone until 2 am. A month ago I was taking the girls out, it was 4ish in the morning. He was out on the porch massaging a girl, not the girl I had met a few days earlier introduced as the girlfriend, though. He’s really nice though…always offering to come play board games with me (saw those too in my apartment one time when I had the blinds open), willing to let me buy his latest bootleg version of the new Transformer movie, eager to give me a deal on the copy of P90X he just made for $600.
The super weird guy
I almost completely forgot about this guy. I don’t even know his name. He lives downstairs in the studio apartment. He’s up every morning by 7am walking around town in his Eagles, Flyers, or Phillies gear. First time I took notice of him was when he was outside my building threatening to beat the crap out of the two very large, very burly Lansdale police who pulled up in their cruiser. Next time I saw him, he needed to know if the motorcycle parked outside belonged to my boyfriend. Motorcycles weren’t allowed to be parked outside, supposedly, especially when they belonged to the meth house “down the street” as he suspected of this particular motorcyclist. “Not in [his] f**king neighborhood.” Luckily, the bike turned out to belong to someone who was just visiting a friend and had no connections to the meth house. I would have forgotten to miss this guy if he hadn’t been at the Starbucks the other night getting into another screaming match with some more Lansdale police officers after trying to cause bodily harm to one of 16 year old baristas working the counter. Actually, that’s not true…I started writing this a bit ago. The most recent incident with this dude has me ducking behind cars when I see him. Last week I took the girls out to go potty when they saw him they started sniffing in his general direction until I gave our “Leave it” command. He’s sometimes dog-shy so I thought nothing of it as he stood stock still in the parking lot not moving or breathing until the girls and I finished our business and walked back inside. 20 minutes later, though, he’s outside hollering (I presume, the only volume he speaks) to George about how come he can’t ever say hi without them dogs there? All he wants to do is say hi to his neighbor without a dog coming and being around. “It ain’t right. It just ain’t right.” Ever since then whenever he’s outside he just stands there and stares at us. Never says anything, just stares. Creepily.
Thanks for the memories, H2 Building