I love living in my condo. I love the newness of the place. I love the remote-controlled fireplace. I love the underground heated garage. I love the trash shoot, where I shove all sorts of shit without having to go outside. What I like less are the neighbors. There is a collective personality among the people who live here, and if I were pressed to pick a word to describe it, I would use “nosey.” These are very nosey people, and I am very private, so we don’t mix well. I will nod hello in the elevator if someone joins my ride or I join theirs; I will say hello in the mailroom, but that is about it. I don’t do the condo board meetings or take notes on the community board in the garage landing — it’s not that I’m antisocial; instead, I have boundaries. These self-erected boundaries, however, created a specter of mystery about me with those who live on Railroad Place.

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I run in the mornings and always wear my iPod in the elevator. I then change into my suit, donning my sunglasses, jump into my shiny black Mercedes, and travel to places unknown to my neighbors only to return at the dinner hour — constantly alone. So, this, I suspect, was the groundwork for the rumors. I was clearly not a person without purpose. I suppose, too, that this is where my place in the building’s social structure could have remained. I was the man in condo 505 who drove off in his suit and tie every morning. The forty-something bachelor who appeared successful but friendless, and I suppose seen in this light, the chatter about me lessened. I was just another guy in the building.

But, as I know now, the addition of the Volvo Cross Country wagon got all the tongues wagging. Somehow, that car became so much more than a car. Why would 505 have a station wagon? What would 505 need with a station wagon when he clearly had an excellent 2010 Benz? Everything needs a context.

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So, today, because I had planned to be out of the office and at Disney World (and as you all know, that did not happen), I lollygagged and debated if I should even go to work. What the hell, I thought? Why not go in and play around with some projects I had considered. But I took my time and left my condo at 9:30 am.

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I went into the garage and decided I would take the Volvo and get it washed because it was muddy from my trip down to Seth’s house last weekend. And it was then that I was gently stopped by an older woman’s claw-like hand.

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“I’m Dorothy,” she said with a smile that I usually use for people in the office (usually patients) who you know are going through a terrible time — like they have a brain tumor.

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“I’m Josh,” I said, perplexed, and offered my hand to her talon.

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She nodded, took my hand in her claw, and then grabbed on with the other dagger hand. She had diamonds the size of dice on most fingers.

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“505, right?” she asked again with a misplaced concern.

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“Yes,” I said.

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“Taking the day off?” She asked, clearly me in jeans and a cashmere sweater on a workday said something to her.

 

“No, I was going to go away for the weekend, but things fell through, so I thought I would go into the office,” I told her.

 

She still had my hands in her diamond-adorned claws.

 

She let me go.

 

“It gets easier, you know.”

 

And this is where I was asking myself if she was some Alzheimer chick, and so, like I do most of the time, I play along until I know the game.

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“Yeah,” I said. And she cocked her head a bit and then asked me how long it’s been. I was unsure what I was being asked, so I made a face, which she thought was my discomfort.

 

“I don’t mean to pry, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been there… I know it’s hard.”

 

Now, at this point, I think she was stark raving mad, so I just raised my eyebrows and nodded my head because I didn’t know what this woman was talking about, and I just wanted to get my day going.

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“How long has it been?” she asked. Again, with a kindness that seemed odd and made me start to sweat.

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“Since?” I asked, confusion clearly all over my face. And she thought this look on my face was pain, but it was just me being perplexed.

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“Since she passed, dear?”

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“Who?” I asked.

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“Your wife,” she said.

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I started to laugh. And poor Dorothy thought I was melting down.

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After I squared her on the fact that there is no wife and she has not died, I asked her where she heard this.

Apparently, when I got the Volvo, the people in the building could not understand why 505 needed a station wagon, and thus, by the game most of us know as “telephone,” grew the rumor that the Volvo was my wife’s ride.

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It goes something like this. I was married, and my wife died. I was devastated and moved to my condo. My emotional pain is why I run early and late at times. I wear my iPod because I am in too much pain to talk to people. The Volvo was my wife’s car, and I had to take it in after I sold the house.

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Welcome to Franklin Square.

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