In my previous Time Travel post, I deliberately restricted the story about my second apartment because I wanted the focus to remain mostly on the generosity of the couple which created the apartment.

In this post, I add some stories!

Because I was not in the apartment for long, I have few memories of my life inside its wonderful rooms. Yet, what memories I have are…vivid.

 

Early in the morning, I went downstairs to take the trash out, carefully leaving the door ajar as I did not have the key with me. Returning to the door, I realized with horror that the door had snapped shut.

Oops.

Could I get in through a window?

I walked out to Second Street. Right next to my apartment was a one-story building. Under my windows was a projecting concrete sunscreen for the first-floor retail windows. Ahhh! If I could access the one-story roof, I could easily walk atop the concrete ledge and see if any window were unlocked.

Returning to the rear of the building, I found a fire-escape to the roof of the adjacent building. So, easy-peasy! Walking across the tarred roofscape, I climbed over a parapet, and onto the projecting ledge. And, squee, the first window I tried was not locked! I pushed it up, crawled through, and, as I was closing the window, I noticed about six people across the street waiting for the Maas Brothers department store to open. They were all looking at me. I waved. One guy waved back.

A short while later I took a shower. Stepping out of the shower onto the floor mat, naked and wet, I jumped out of my skin hearing somebody shout: “Put your hands up! And freeze!”

My brain could not process this. For, I knew I was alone in the apartment.

Again though: “Put your hands up! And freeze!”

Still unable to process this, my body instinctively turned to the voice. And, to my stunned amazement, my eyes took in three police officers standing in my bedroom, with one pointing a gun at my naked, wet self.

“Put your hands up! And freeze!”

Was I having a gay fantasy hallucination? I mean, a naked young man surrounded by uniformed police officers? Hot!

 

With what seemed like glacial speed but was just seconds, my ears, eyes, and mind finally had a chat and agreed that the shit was real. I raised my hands.

The relief on the three officers was obvious. I pointed my head at the towel bar to my left. “Can I put on a towel?”

The officers looked at each other, seemingly confused as to how to respond.

Me, well, being me, said: “I’m going to slowly reach for the towel and put it on.” And so I did, even though a gun was pointed at me. (Looking back, this maneuver would have likely resulted in my death had I been Black.)

With my modesty somewhat restored, I walked barelegged and bare-chested into the bedroom, my long hair dripping water.

In short order everything made sense. One officer explained to me that a person standing in the small crowd at Maas Brothers had called in about a guy breaking into an apartment across the street.

Ahhh.

I explained that I was not a burglar but the occupant of the apartment.

“Can you prove that?”

With my hands still in the air, and a gun still pointed at me, I looked over to the dresser and said: “My driver’s license is in that wallet.”

One officer stepped over, pulled out the evidence, looked at me, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s him.”

“OK, but can you prove that this is your apartment?”

I wanted to laugh. However, I managed to contain this but had to ask the obvious: “Do you really think that, if I am a burglar, I took a few moments to take a shower?”

The officer with the gun replied, deadly serious: “You wouldn’t believe the stuff we see.”

I smiled in acknowledgment. “In the kitchen is the latest electric bill. It has my name on it.”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

I pointed my head to the left. “That way, and down the hall. Can’t miss it.”

An officer soon returned holding the electric bill. He compared the name to the driver’s license. “Yea, same name.”

The one with gun, at last, lowered his weapon. “Buddy? You could’ve been killed. Next time, please use your brain.”

I nodded. And thanked them.

As they departed, the youngest one, quite cute and about thirty, turned around, quickly looked me up/down, and smiled.

I felt dizzy.

 

In my first Time Travel post, I wrote:

One Saturday, while enjoying my ritual stay-home-night with Royal Castle, I was laying down on the 1940s sofa watching Mary Tyler Moore, alone in the apartment. Then something hopped onto my belly. My hands flew into the air, and my cola and fries went flying. I was scared to death. WHAT had just happened? WHAT was on me? Had a rat dropped from the attic somehow?

I looked down.

A cat was on my belly, looking at me.

I looked back.

Dede and I did not have a cat.

“Hello.”

The cat rubbed its head on my belly.

How did the cat get in? How long had it been inside?

The cat never responded to these questions. But, it seemed, I had my first cat. Or, rather, a cat had me for the first time.

Cat moved with me to the new apartment. Every morning, I knew Cat would be sleeping on my bed but one morning, soon after moving in, Cat was not in evidence. Where was he?

I looked everywhere. I called out. No Cat.

Steeping into my walk-in closet to grab some clothes, something caught my attention. I stepped back. Oh! There was Cat! He was resting on a pile of clothes.

Bending down, I said: “You scared me, Cat! What are you doing in here?”

Cat seemed disinclined to answer. I shrugged and dragged my hand down his silky fur. And then…I touched something gooey. I jerked my hand back. WHAT was going on?

Because it was a very nice apartment, it had a light fixture inside the closet. I flicked it on, and bent back down.

Oh. Oh! OH!

Three things were revealed:

1. Cat was having kittens.
2. Cat was not a boy.
3. I was a father!!!!!!!!

Four kittens were born. Three were as expected: beyond cute, with oddly fat bellies, and frantic for milk. The fourth was unexpected. Its little hind legs were clearly not right, it wasn’t frantic for milk, and it breathed strangely. The day after its birth, I was holding him/her in the palm of my hands and a surprising thing happened. I felt my heart open wide for this tiny, not-quite-right creature. I had never known such a feeling and in a flash knew, just knew, what it was like for parents who have not-quite-right children. One loves them even more. It’s effortless. As I stroked the soft fur, tears dripped from my cheeks and I promised the kitten that I would always protect it, that I would make him/her a little cart so it could get around, and would assure its always being safe and loved. 

As I stroked the little thing…its head fell over.

Oh. Oh.

Oh.

Tears welled up in my eyes, offering an external confirmation about my myriad, intense feelings for this tiny, brand-new creature.  

For a while I just sat, blinking through the wetness. The other kittens were hungrily nursing and Cat was content and purring.

I slowly backed away, hiding the little thing in my hand.

All these decades later I still think of him/her.

 

I suddenly had four cats. And I had done nothing to create this reality. Nothing. Rather, all this happened to me.

Looking back, Cat knew she needed refuge, with her belly full of babies. So, she snuck into my first apartment, hopped on my belly while I watched the Mary Tyler Moore show, and purred and rolled around until a deal was assured: Yeah, I’d keep Cat.

I had no idea that this would prove a pattern in my life. It is as if—I am now certain—that I have a neon sign above my head which only animals can see. You know, like a dog whistle which only dogs can hear. This sign is huge, and the neon letters spell out SUCKER in blinking pink neon, and with an arrow pointing down at me.

This, this, has proved the pattern of my life: A man unknowingly walking through time with a damn neon sign, mostly invisible, above his head, but a sign which every animal in need clearly sees and reads.

 

Previously, I mentioned that I invited my best friend from high school, Tim, a musician, to be my roommate.

He proved, from day one, that karma is real.

Regarding my first apartment, I wrote about the typical discussion my sister, Dede, and I had every month when the rent was due:

Dede: “You don’t have the rent? But you purchased a sofa a few days ago?????”

Ross, nodding dumbly: “Well, yea. But it’s not just any sofa. It’s a fabulous 1940s sofa!”

I had grown up enough by apartment #2 to make sure I always had my share of the $150 a month rent. Tim? Not ever.

Ross: “You don’t have the rent? But you purchased a guitar a few days ago?????”

Tim, nodding dumbly: “Well, yea. But it’s not just any guitar. It’s a never-played Fender!”

Yep, karma. Biting me in the ass, almost live.

 

My mother called. Her best friend when we lived in Michigan, Jackie, was in Florida, and could they come by?

I hated Jackie, and had not seen her since I was fourteen.

She and her family had lived three doors down from us in Westland, Michigan. I was best friends with her son, Mark.

 

 

When I was in sixth grade, my teacher was Mrs. Hammer. It was her first year of teaching and she was a knock-out. About twenty-five, with the face of Peggy Lipton but the body of Brigitte Bardot.

Mrs. Hammer had given us a play to perform, and we each had to memorize our respective parts. Jackie read the play, stormed off to Monroe Elementary School, met with the principal, and got Mrs. Hammer fired for “promoting smut”.

We all loved Mrs. Hammer. We did not know what smut was. And, even if we had, we would have found none of it in the play, which was just a silly comedy.

This infuriated me. For, even though I did not know the words at the time, Jackie was a damn hypocrite. And, she was projecting.

You see, I knew something the principal did not. Jackie was openly having an affair with a man half her age: Dan. Dan created sculptures out of wire, and my mother and Jackie called him Dan Dan The Wire Man. One day, I was tagging along with my mom and Jackie as they shopped, when Jackie said: “Let’s go visit Dan!” Soon, we were in the apartment of Dan Dan The Wire Man, whereby Jackie brazenly sat on his lap and began kissing him. My mother looked at me, horrified at what I was seeing. And her expression confirmed the swirling rumors: Jackie, in her forties, married, and with four children, was openly having an affair with Dan, who was about twenty-five.

I watched her and Dan, wide-eyed. It was as if a French film was playing before my innocent suburban Michigan eyes.

Scandaleux!

My reaction was mostly astonishment rather than judgement. Then, and now, I am OK with people living their lives as they see fit.

But…do not be a hypocrite. And do not project. And that is what Jackie did regarding Mrs. Hammer, even though I did not know such concepts in 1968.

Jackie was having an affair. Openly. She then projected onto Mrs. Hammer immoral behavior.

To this day I wish that I had gone to my principal and told what I knew about Jackie. Would it have saved Mrs. Hammer? Not likely. But I would have felt better for doing a brave thing.

 

Not long after, Jackie told me that I could no longer play with Mark because I was not “manly”. Yes, she had basically just called me a queer. She went on: “When you are ready to be manly, you can play with Mark again.”

Jackie had torn my best friend away from me. All the while she was fucking Dan Dan The Wire Man.

Months passed. I had no idea of how to be more manly. Then an idea struck me: all I had to do was to tell Jackie what she wanted to hear. So, I walked over three houses, knocked on her door, and said: “Can I talk with you?”

The next few moments were about the worst in my life. I stood before a person I despised and felt forced to say: “I’ve given your concerns a great deal of thought, and I’m now dedicated to being manly. I now understand how important being manly is, and thank you for bringing this to my attention. So, can I play with Mark again? He’s my best friend. I miss him.”

And Jackie…assented.

I despised her.

 

I had long known that Jackie, with her four kids, always felt in competition with my mother, who also had four kids. My mother never saw this.

I would be in the kitchen, for example, and my mother would say to Jackie: “Ross got all A’s on his report card!”

Jackie: “Why are you always bragging about your kids?”

My mother would react, startled. “What?”

And she never saw how this happened all the time.

 

We moved from Michigan when I was fourteen, and one of my thoughts was: I will never see Jackie again!

Five years later though, she was coming to my downtown apartment. Fuck! Fuck! She was going to invade my space. Mine mine mine! My safe place!

It proved surreal because I was no longer a kid. I was now, like Jackie, an adult. Yes, she was older but the playing field had been leveled. I shaved! I had hair on my chest! I, too, was having sex!

Jackie and my mother sat on my 1940s sofa. I sat in an adjacent chair. And a miracle happened. I could see that Jackie was nervous, intimidated, and unsure of herself. And I could see why. My mother had just turned forty and looked fabulous. I was nineteen, and…looked fabulous. Jackie was about fifty and looked…much older. And Dan was long gone (I had previously learned).

The conversation was the opposite of electric. Jackie, who had been so vivacious five years previously, seemed uncertain and even scared.

Then the door buzzer rang. It was my friend Lou. Could he come up?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

 

Lou was one of my post-high school friends. He was truly brilliant (I’m a sucker for a good mind), and a dazzling story teller. When he finished a story, one would be in tears laughing.

But, he was also…evil. There was a dark side to Lou that took me several years to comprehend.

That night though, I buzzed Lou in. I pulled up a chair for him, and he did what he did best. He regaled us. I thought: This is going well! What was I so worried about about?

Then Lou dropped an atomic bomb on the 1940s leaf-pattern rug.

He outed me as a gay man.

 

In an instant, everything became wildly weird. It felt as though the oxygen has been wholly sucked out of the room. Time seemed to have stopped.

I turned to Lou. He was smiling, broadly. I wanted to choke the life out of him.

I turned to my mother. All the color had drained from her face. She looked destroyed, and for the first time in almost a year I felt sympathy for her.

I turned to Jackie. She had been transformed from a deflated balloon to the Goodyear blimp. She radiated…V I C T O R Y ! For, she now knew that my mother had a queer son. A faggot son. Jackie did not.

 

My mother and Jackie left, STAT.

I walked up to Lou and said: “You’re a piece of shit. Get the fuck out of my apartment. NOW!”

He protested, but I saw the glint in his eyes. He reveled in shitting on the lives of others. Sadly, it took me several years to fully understand how toxic Lou was, and to barricade him from my life.

 

My mother never fully recovered from that night. Interestingly, her decades-long relationship with the toxic Jackie did not survive the night either, hugely fueled by the stories I belatedly told her about Jackie. As I child I could never have expressed what I knew about Jackie. As an adult though, I could. And did. To her credit, my mother was horrified by the Mrs. Hammer story. “I didn’t know Jackie was behind her getting fired. She seemed like a good teacher. I never understood that whole thing.”

I replied: “Mrs. Hammer was a good teacher. And Jackie profoundly damaged her. Over nothing. Over nothing.”

 

That night, in time, helped repair the fissure in my relationship with my mother. She had been so cruel when I moved out that I thought I would never talk to her again. That night though? My heart went out to her.

During the ensuing weeks we talked as we never had before. For the first time, we were honest with each other, and communication barricades somehow collapsed. The elephant in the room had vanished.

Unexpectedly, I had Jackie to thank for this.

 

My time in my second apartment was brief, yes.

Yet its few memories proved profound, indelible, and life-changing.

 

My second apartment was wondrous.

My second apartment was elegant. I had never known such elegance.

My second apartment was of high-quality. This, too, was new to me.

My second apartment was friggin’ fabulous with its 1940s draperies and rugs.

And, yet, it is obvious forty-four years later that I was not ready for such an apartment. I fucked it all up. And was soon forced to move back home.

I. Fucked. It. All. Up.

Yet…for brief moment…I lived in Emerald City.