Dick

"Well, in my opinion, he should not be re-elected president of the HOA."

"Why do you say that, Herb?"

"Lots of reasons- for starters... to resurface the jacuzzi.... just wasn't all that necessary."

The View: Poolside Old Man Edition's current topic-- who to vote for the head of the HOA- wove itself in and out of a sun induced sleep that I was trying to enjoy on perhaps the most perfect Saturday afternoon. For the next hour or so, Herb, Ted and Bob droned on through a garden variety of quibbles and quabbles, among these topics: The HOA, youngsters running around at bars, and late night noise.

My ears perked up at late night noise, just waiting for them to quip about the volume of music coming from the 2nd floor.

I hadn't always intended to live in a retirement community. However, in the 19th hour, when my roommate, Noreen, and I were about to become either a) homeless or b) subject ourself to another painful 6 month lease at the San Marin ( my previous complex which was actually a breeding ground for the service industry aka extremely annoying on the one night I want to sleep: Sunday). It was then that our useless realtor, Colin Prick ( poor idiot was unfortunate enough to have a name that rhymed with Dick and Prick), who had done absolutely nothing for us, found this little diamond in the rough or, perhaps, tooth in a pool of tapioca.

The moment I walked in, despite the mature carpeting in the hallways and the reek of the near dead, I felt at home, as the apartment itself was absolutely phenomenol: completely floored in marble, black granite counters, and rich cherry wood cabinets. The balcony, still boasting marble, was extremely large, large enough to comfortable place three beer pong tables.

And so, one blistering July day, we moved in, with the help of temporarily unemployed male friends who had spent the night at our apartment. Said 'temporary' unemployment is certainly voluntary as smoking pot while watching star wars and playing golf are priorities. Though I was extremely pissed when i woke up to find them sprawled on my old apartment's floor, a nearly empty fifth of some off brand whiskey and a spilled bag of pine nuts beside them, it was because of them that I was able to retire at 23 in my new old people's home, complete with an emergency rescue button next to the master bath toilet.

Days later, I found myself riding the elevator with a lovely woman named Delores, with whom I discussed her purchase of a new visor and matching sea foam green t shirt "Scottsdale: Most livable city". I'd like to think Dolores and I have a lot in common. We are both shopaholics and fans of colors most people think are disgusting. I bet her favorite candy is Dots and that she loves Maeve Binchy novels and Lifetime Movie Network. Who knew a party princess like me could fit in so nicely in a retirement community. I was in heaven as I truly love old retired people, especially for their big ears and slight hunchbacks.

Life was absolutely arcadic until I met Richard. Richard was the on-site maintenance man who seemed nice enough at first until I solicited his help. Despite the fact that his job was to support tennants with requests, because I was 23 and a mere renter, he seemed to turn his old nose up at me.

"Young lady," Richard snarled at me one day after I returned home from a long day of work, "you know you move too quickly. You are forgetting to lock your mailbox. Mailman won't deliver your mail if you don't lock it!" I stopped, turned around tiredly and apologized before trooping upstairs. That was a little harsh.

A few days later or, rather, Friday night, I returned home from a night out with youngsters to find that the door to my condo, literally, would not shut. That night, too tired to deal with it, I put in my denchers and went to bed.

The following morning, I awoke and realized I still had to give ol' Dick a call, even though it was Saturday. Fortunately, he was not too severe and only reminded me six times to lock my mailbox and put my parking permit sticker on my car. None of which I actually would do with enough promptness to his liking.

A few weeks later, as I left my condo in a Monday morning haze, I walked down the fire exit stairs to find the main doorway taped off because Richard was waxing the foyer floors. However, unfortunately for Richard, I was late and already needed to shave ten minutes off my commute as it was. As I clumsily began to step over the yellow tape, he spastically jumped out from around the corner like a guerilla fighter.

"Hey you," he growled, his beedy eyes furrowed behind bifocals, "Can't you read the signs!?!!? GO AROUND!!! and don't you know you are not supposed to park out front in the guest spots!?!? Read your home owners manual!!!!" I glared at him and mutter something unintelligible. Clearly, I had lost that morning battle.

The home owner's manual was a gem of a document with more stupid rules and disclaimers than you could shake a stick at. Among these, one of my favorites entails the procedure for Christmas trees: if you must have a real one, it must be disposed by being cut branch by branch and delicately place in a garbage bag. As for balconies, You were not to have more than three potted plants and only one may stand higher than the balcony rail. Do not park in guest spots on any occasion... the nagging list went on and on. I rolled my eyes and shoved it back in the drawer.

While living in the retirement community under the watchful eye of Richard, I realized I was becoming more and more like my neighbors: I seemed to be developing some form of on early onset Alzheimer's when it came to parking my car. Either that or my car was magically moving itself from place to place. The first time it happened, I had circled the back streets of old town crying to my mom about my lost car. You see, I had thought I had parked it across from the bridal store when, in fact, it was two streets parallel in front of a Native American art store, or one of the hundreds. Granted, this happened after watching Michigan lose another football game, but that was truly no excuse.

The second time it happened, I really burned every bridge with Dick. It was early Saturday morning around 2 am. I had just returned home after enjoying some cocktails with friends when, lo and behold, I noticed my car was not parked in its usual guest spot. I panicked. It had been towed!

Of course, my gut reaction was to call Dick. I reached across the concierge's desk and grabbed a card, and punched his number into my phone as quick as my arthritic digits could. When he did not answer, I left him a garbled message about how my car had been towed.

"I never read about towing from guest spots in the...er...manual," I cried, "i'm really sorry I never put the stickers on my car!!!" I hung up the phone and defeatedly climbed the stairs to my apartment. I then called Noreen freaking out. Again no answer. As I openend my door, my phone range: it was noreen.

"Your car's at Jen's!!!" she said, " I knew this phone call was coming... I just figured it would come tomorrow morning, not tonight!!!" Great, my best friend had already accepted my failing retention rate.

The next morning I woke up and my first thought was: Richard is going to kill me. For the next week, I slipped in and out back doors and made sure to not use the main entrance or be in the building from 8-4 on weekdays (easy, as I do have a day job).

One night, Noreen called me as I was on my way home from the gym.

" I ran into Richard," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I was tremendously afraid of this 65 year old maintenance man.

She went on to tell me that he had curtly reminded her that his hours are 8-4 M-F, and under no circumstance was he to be called at 2 am on a Saturday. Of course, he threw in, per usual, that guest spots are not to be occupied by residents.