Escape From Almost Alcatraz

Pandemonium too grand and a surfeit of people living loud and partying long, Friday morning found me skedaddling from my beachside haven to parts removed. Basket case pretty much describes my nerve jangled condition this past week, the beach starting to look like the place not to be—and with 4th of July festivities just over the horizon. In the words of my also frazzled neighbor, “Get out while the getting is good!” So I threw some gear in a bag and headed for Maitland, to my sister’s empty house fifty miles west where the blessed quiet has already begun restoring my sanity.

Last Saturday brought the invasion of a wedding party of fifty or sixty adults, who along with their beach trappings and wedding baggage all brought five children under the age of ten. By noon my quiet spot on the beach had morphed into Wet ’n Wild at high season. Loud disco music thumped from speakers set up around the pool, the water seethed with a mass of children and their water toys, while forty big-bellied men stood around pouring can after can of beer down the hatch. Others stood on their balconies having shouted conversations with people on opposite balconies across the wide courtyard. Over my head a child drummed on the balcony railing sending resonant vibrations through half the building. I looked out the window to see a plastic bottle of Coke tumbling down from a floor above, and when it hit the brick walkway and burst into a foaming spin, the waiting munchkin screeched in fury that his drink lay spilled on the ground. 

Heading out for a walk early Sunday morning, I found the shower and hose both spouting water, left to run all night, and nearby trash cans stuffed to overflowing with a ring of beer cans and pizza crust around the base, the oceanfront deck littered with cigarette butts, the sand off the front of the deck an oversized ashtray. On a table by steps leading down to the beach one of our guest clowns had arranged a spill of soggy corn chips into a plate-sized smiley face.

Later in the afternoon I watch a father playing catch with his six year-old son, throwing a football from his second floor balcony down to the boy at ground level. The ball bounced onto my patio two times before I said anything. Maybe I should learn to keep my mouth shut. With the pounding disco beat unbearably loud, I walked down to the pool to remind the Shake that Booty Dance Team that house rules disallowed music around the pool without earphones. I was almost attacked by a woman with three pounds of turquoise and silver attached to her navel, screaming, “I paid my money and I’m gonna have music, dammit!” The crowd in the pool shook their beer cans and hissed at me. The property manager was having a harder time of it than I was.

The mid-week wedding ceremony (seen from a distance) turned out to be a dusty pink eyesore. I had a feeling the wedding planner told the bridesmaids design didn’t much matter if their dresses were something close to pink. The only thing that matched were the beer cans.

Keep Your Distance

Most of us choose to be around people who bring some light and laughter to the days, friends or acquaintances thoughtful and sympathetic to others, who make their presence if not a comfort then at least harmless. Not to say that everyone can be sunshine and smiles in every instance, but few are willing to tolerate unrelieved negativism.

For the past seven months the third Saturday of each month has turned into the kind of day that approaches with ominous forecast, one that adds anxiety to the Friday before and regret to the Sunday following—It’s board meeting weekend.

For many years I lived among people in another country who would do almost anything to avoid confrontation. Acquaintances, co-workers and neighbors wouldn’t dream of insulting others in a gathering. Disagreements on policy or procedure discussed without red faces and snarling frustration, meetings calm and unthreatening and differences of opinion respected without ill humor.

Three, four, five different friends warned me of getting involved with boards and home owner associations. Each friend recounted their own experience (little of it good) and recommended keeping a distance. I listened but didn’t take their advice. How I wish I had.

And so on the third Saturday of these past months I’ve found myself entangled with neighbors who value control over conciliation, brashness over self-effacement. The distressing (and difficult) part of it is the discovery that I am member of a community that includes neighbors who embrace critical behavior as a normal part of socialization. Would be ridiculous to hold myself up as a paragon of social graces, as someone admired by all and full of unselfish graciousness. On the other hand, allow me the hope of being one who offers reasoned and benign opinion instead of hurtful snipes.

Sometimes I miss Japan.

Bad Vibes

Times are when out of sunshine and good cheer comes an unexpected slam of day-changing ugliness, when we stand shocked, feeling impotent and wondering what just happened. The confusion is even greater when it comes not long after a hand has been extended in help. So let me tell the story and maybe shake some of the clouds off.

A couple of times each week I spend time with an elderly friend. Angela is confined to a wheelchair and because she is unable to care for herself completely, and at times requires care, she lives in a nursing home. Finances dictate that she share a room there, meaning that in a shallow sense she has a roommate. At least the room is large and divided so that each of the two occupants has their own private space.

I don’t really know Angela’s roommate except that her name is Elizabeth and according to Angela, is often snappish and irritable. I also know that she is very shaky on her feet and moves haltingly with a walker. This Monday past I was sitting with Angela when I heard from across the room a sound of falling. Turning to look, I saw Elizabeth sprawled on the floor unmoving, and knowing that I shouldn’t touch or move her, I ran to get help. Nurses came quickly and took the situation in hand.

On Wednesday morning I was again visiting with Angela, and not giving it much thought I assumed Elizabeth was there somewhere across the room, napping perhaps. After a while I began to read a travel article to Angela, and since we were sitting face to face, I read in a reasonably quiet voice. Suddenly, in a shock of sound Elizabeth’s television came to life with a roar of studio laughter and applause. Bells rang, people screamed and someone was the hysterical owner of a new car. I didn’t know televisions were capable of such decibels, or that remote controls allowed that level of noise. Unable to read my lips, Angela sat with fingers pressed against her temples.

I leaned over and whispered in my friend’s ear that I would ask Elizabeth to turn the sound down. She shook her head, warning me that saying anything could be dangerous. But still, I crossed over to Elizabeth’s side of the room, smiled, and hoping to be heard over the television said as politely as possible, “I’m sorry to bother you, but do think you could lower the volume a little?”

Looking back at me as I imagine a rattlesnake looks at a mouse, the woman snapped, “You get the hell out of here and take that crap you’re reading with you!”

Stunned, frozen and completely flummoxed I gaped at her, looking into cold, flinty eyes. In a moment I caught my breath and backed away, then suggested to Angela that we get out of Dodge.

We found a quiet corner to finish our visit and then Angela reported her roommate’s behavior to the administrator. Hard to imagine that a bad behavior report will do much to change the ways of the eighty-five year-old sourpuss who wished me the hell out of her sight. But what are you gonna do?