There was a note posted in the apartment building’s elevator. I thought it was a notice about the exterminator’s next visit but it was a notice about the funeral for one of the building’s residents, our neighbor, David.
Who’s David? I tried to remember while putting a box of prewashed salad and frozen burritos into the fridge. My cats were meowing, rubbing their body against my feet. I guessed that David was the one, who lived on the 2nd or 3rd floor. He was always wearing light brown sunglasses like the ones NJ gangs used to wear in the 70s. Because of the sunglasses, I could never look at his face closely, so I couldn’t tell his age. He could be in his 60’s or 80’s. But, I knew that his health was failing. There were so many old people living in the building so I often held the elevator door looking at them walking slowly with their unstable feet. David used to push a walker with plastic bags hanging on it.
One summer about two or three years ago, the elevator was out of order for a few days. It was one of those hot days when the weather forecast warned us to drink plenty of water. I was stepping down the stairs when I saw David coming out from his place with his dog. He wore a dark green vest with lots of pockets every day throughout the year. During summer he would only wear a top and shorts.
I knew his dog’s name was “Kirby” because I asked him the first time I saw the pair.
“Hello, Kirby,” so I said. David looked at me surprised as if saying “how come she knows my dog’s name? Have I ever met her?” Almost all the neighbors, though they talked to me in a friendly tone, usually forgot about me the next time I saw them. Old age might be one of the reasons, but it also happened with younger neighbors. I think I am a forgettable person, appearing simple and polite, nothing special to them.
“Bastard!” David shouted at the broken elevator. Kirby was sticking out her tongue with short breath. I think she was a Siberian husky. It was clear that she was old. She was dragging her body like a marathon runner in pain crawling to the goal, and her goal was to complete this walk with her master. I knew it was hard for her but I don’t think she didn’t want to go. It’s like a painter painting while dying. Walk for a dog. It’s supposed to be a joyful routine, a connection to the outside world. I asked David if I could help them in any way. He said I could carry Kirby to the first floor. I carried her body. It felt like she was as big as I was. I can usually carry heavy things fine but her shivering made me feel like I was carrying an elephant. When I placed her on the floor, with her innocent cloudy eyes Kirby looked towards the stairs where David was slowly coming down. She didn’t even notice my caress and finally saw my eyes when David attached the leash to her collar.
“Fucking, bastard!” David once again shouted. Apparently at the elevator not at me. I wondered if he and the dog had enough water. Then, I remembered dogs don’t sweat.
“Thanks,” David said in the same tone as when he said “bastard”. I thought he was not genuine but for some reason I thought he was a decent person. I held the entrance door. Kirby went first, David second and then I. I said bye and looked back at them when I turned at the corner. Kirby won’t live too long, I thought. I believe the elevator started working 2 days later.
I don’t know when Kirby passed away but one day I realized David was walking alone often, so I assumed she passed away. Sometimes I saw him talking to our neighbors in front of the apartment. For some reason the neighbors talking to David always had a serious expression. I said hello when he passed by on the street, but he always looked at me as if I was an overly friendly stranger who greets everybody.
Another memory of him was on a Thanksgiving day. It was extremely cold that day unlike this year’s Thanksgiving. I think I was spending the day alone coming back from watching a move in the city, or I was with my friends coming back from dinner. That night David and I took the same elevator up.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” we told each other.
“Did you eat turkey?” David smiled. It was the only time I saw a friendly and happy expression on his face. Maybe, he was drunk. Maybe, he was back from a good dinner with his friends. I forgot what I answered to his question. I don’t eat turkey but I probably didn’t bother to tell. But, I do remember telling him that I was going to feed canned-turkey-wet-food to my cats.
“Sure you do. My cat already ate so much turkey and is sleeping like she is dead now,” David said and left the elevator.
Oh, he has a cat, I thought at the moment. I thought he was alone and petless since
Kirby’s departure.
As far as I know, two residents in the apartment have passed away this year. David this winter, and Sergio, who passed away earlier this year.
Unlike David, Sergio was young, perhaps younger than me. It was so easy to run into Sergio and his wife, Cathy, because they were walking around the building all the time. They seemed to be doing laundry every day. Whenever I was at the Landry room, I would see at least one of them. My machine was always nearly full with a week worth of clothes. But, they usually put very little inside, like a blanket or a few shirts, and they moved freely all over inside the machine. Their clothes must get cleaner than mine, but they must spend a lot of money for laundry. I remember one day Cathy was saying to Sergio, “Honey, did you take morning medication?”
They had 3 dogs. Paco, Lucky and Daisy. They walked them often. I don’t know how many times a day but it seemed as though the three dogs would be leaving the apartment whenever I was about to enter the building.
As many close couples tend to look like each other, Cathy and Sergio were both obese. Cathy had soft blond hair with highlights and bright eyes. She always wore T-shirts and black spandex that stretched out to the max. It was as if she had a healthy person above the shoulder.
I remember Sergio’s huge body but not much of his face. I feel he had a big nose and thick eyebrows. What I remember the most is his deep low voice of “how’re you doing?” that he always said to everyone as if it were a reflex. He said it so naturally that even if he didn’t look at you when he greeted, you could still feel his friendliness.
There is one incident I remember with Sergio. It was perhaps another summer day. Around the corner of the apartment, on the way back home, I ran into a lady I often chatted with about cats. As we came close to the building, we saw Sergio coming out with a cigarette in his month, which was already lit.
“I hate smoking! No one is allowed to smoke in the common area of the building!” she yelled as if she suddenly became a different person. Sergio looked at us at the corner of his eyes and said,
“Ehhhh . . . Fuck . . . ”
I stayed quiet. I don’ have an opinion about smoking.
“Fuck you,” the lady returned to him.
Despite the incident, I have memories of this lady and Sergio and some other neighbors, perhaps David also, chatting in front of the building, in the many days of us living here.
So, there was a note about the memorial for Sergio’s life last spring time. The notice wasn’t on the elevator wall but on the wall next to the mailbox. Sergio, Cathy and their dogs lived next to the mailbox on the first floor.
When I was looking at the notice, a man of my age (currently back in school after working a few years, he told me before) came back from jogging covered with sweat.
“Do you know Sergio?”
“He had a heart attack.” He pointed at the apartment next to the mailbox.
“Oh, no! He was so young.”
“Yeah, but he was apparently so unhealthy. A few months ago I saw an ambulance in front of the building and saw him being carried inside.”
“The wife must be so sad.”
“Cathy? Yeah, I cannot imagine . . . ”
I didn’t go to Sergio’s memorial. I don’t remember if I couldn’t make it or if I decided not to go. With some flowers I rang the bell of their apartment a few days later. There was no human answer but the 3 dogs emotional barking. When I got no answer again at my third visit, I just left it with a note mentioning my apartment #.
Later the same year, David had gone. I was eating the prewashed salad while watching TV and someone rang my doorbell. It was the anti-smoking lady.
“David left a cat. She is looking for a new home. Can you take her?” she said. I said I could take her temporarily until she finds a new home. I had already 3 and all my friends advised me 3 was the max.
“Where’s the cat now?” I asked.
“At Cathy’s. Do you know her? She is living next to the mailbox.”
“Of course.” Her husband had just passed away this year, I was about to say, but didn’t.
“Does the cat get along with the dogs? If the cat’s not happy there, I would take her for now.”
“OK. I will ask Cathy,” the lady left.
Neither anti-smoking lady nor Cathy came back to me about the cat. Today, picking up my mail, I heard shy “meows” from Sergio’s apartment.