I live in a warehouse

Rear Window is a great old movie about a man, stuck in a wheelchair as he recovers from a badly broken leg, who amuses himself by watching his neighbors across the courtyard. Through his binoculars he discovers who is happily married, who is lonely, and who is homicidal.

Since I'm on the condo board, I don't have to use binoculars to peer into the private lives of my neighbors. I am forced to read about them in emails. What I've learned is that what looks to the untrained viewer as a standard multi-unit residential building is really a warehouse for storing troublesome relatives. 

Second Floor: The Saddest Boy in the World.  He is in his mid-50s and has lived in this building, in the same apartment, since he was a child. In 2001, when I moved in, he spent all his time caring for his invalid mother. I think being alone with her all the time eroded his social skills. When she died in 2012, he took a series of part-time jobs (the local grocery store ... Macy's Department Store ...) but for various reasons he quit or was fired. He is like Eeyore. Nothing makes him happy. Nothing. While his home has long been paid for (no mortgage), there are still property taxes and monthly assessments. Legally the unit belongs to his sister, but they don't talk. At all. I suspect he's in constant pain, as his teeth are visibly very bad and he's told me about his recurring gout. I can't put too fine a point on this: His negativity is mind-numbing. He means well, but he's living embodiment of that old joke, "The food was terrible, and in such small portions!" Anyway, we got word from the County that the unit he lives in has been sold for property taxes. Meaning his sister (the legal owner) has approximately two years to repay the back taxes or the unit will go to the new owner. And The Saddest Boy in the World will have to move. I can't imagine where he will go or how he will cope. I don't know if his sister has explained this to him. What he thinks of as home, she seems to see as a place to keep him out of sight and out of her hair.

Third Floor: The Old Man. He's 90. I've known him for 25 years, since I moved in, when he was newly retired and vibrant. He was excited about "the ladies" he was meeting at the local library and was even helping one with her Avon sales. (He sold me some nail polish back in the day.) Today he is vague – either he can't see me or doesn't recognize me – and requires oxygen. He can't walk on his own. His daughters visit him regularly, though not daily, and they are staggeringly unpleasant. They complain when the cable is out because it's tied to his phone and then he's unable to communicate. (Not an Association issue.) They complain when the elevator is out for more than an hour or two because they need it to get him from his unit to the parking area. The elevator is original to the building and sometimes it takes a while to find replacement parts that will work. Besides, it's not like I can get my toolbox out and fix it myself. They used to complain about the dog that lives on the premises but upon learning its a service dog they finally shut up. After all, one of his daughters is a lawyer (as she loves to remind us) and I'm sure she understands the ramifications of discriminating against Americans with disabilities. Bottom line: He shouldn't live alone anymore. But the condo is in The Old Man's name. As is the unit next door, which they rent out, even though we no longer allow rentals. The Old Man was grandfathered in. As I understand it, once he no longer lives here and isn't, at least technically, an on-site landlord, the Association could demand he sell the rental unit. His daughters don't want to do that because they are greedy. If they sold both units today, they would get likely get a windfall of more than $350,000 that would pay for a year or two in a facility where The Old Man could get around-the-clock care. But if they wait for him to die, they can sell both units and pocket the money. I dislike these women intensely. Not just because they are bossy and whiny and rude – and they are – but because I think of The Old Man's quality of life alone in that apartment and it makes me sad.

Fourth Floor: Chris. The man at the end of my hall. I've posted about him a lot recently. He has mobility issues and struggles with neurodivergency. Like the Saddest Boy in the World, Chris has a good heart. But he has no respect for boundaries and doesn't pick up social cues. Our management office has let the condo board know that they have literally given him guidelines on how to interact with them. When he can't reach our property manager, he doesn't leave a voice mail. Instead he calls the main number and asks the receptionist "to go get him." If she can't/won't, he goes back to calling the property manager over and over, again never leaving messages. So now the property manager has instructed him: Call once, leave a detailed voicemail, and give the manager two hours to return the call. (I think two hours is more than fair.) Of course, if it's an emergency, Chris should call 911, but it's never an emergency. It's always something like, the trash man didn't put the bin back where it belongs. I asked our property manager why Chris doesn't just email. And here's where it gets interesting: 1) He doesn't know how to use email and 2) even if he did, his brother is the unit owner and so Chris wouldn't get the building announcements (water will be turned off for an hour, the elevator will be in use for a move, etc.), they go to his brother. And, as with The Saddest Boy in the World, the siblings don't communicate well or often. Unfortunately, legally, it's Chris' brother's responsibility/decision as to what is shared with Chris. If this situation doesn't get better, if Chris can't give the building manager a break with his calls, we're going to have to escalate this to his brother. Again, our building is just a place for Chris' brother to make a problem go away.

I'm so glad I have long-term care insurance. If the time comes and I can't care for myself, I can make the decision myself to sell this place and go live in a care facility. I don't want to be the relative that is hidden away out of sight. 

 

Photo by Doug Bagg on Unsplash