My Landlady’s Secret – Part One

Linda was a schoolteacher that found literal overnight success as a leading lady in high profile musical theater. Someone heard her delicately nuanced but undeniably powerful voice in a choir–it’s range like an elevator to the stars–and got her in contact with a William Morris agent. She was signed up, and before she knew it, she was on tour. If it had a tune, chances are she was in it. She shared floodlights with the likes of Burt Reynolds, Leonard Nimoy, John Raitt (Bonnie Raitt’s Dad), and that Gaston Guy from Beauty and the Beast. She toured nationally, entertained the troops in Viet Nam, and of course, graced that most unobtainable and mystical of theatrical pantheons, Broadway.
 
A looker. Long, shimmering, golden hair; a classic face with bright, engaging eyes; a queenly, slender frame forged on tomboy tomfoolery, adolescent athletics and tennis dates. She was given a golden pass to the inner sanctums of all the upper echelons, fraternizing with the film legends, the music sensations and the eccentric billionaires of her day. "It was a fun life," she would often say later.
 
When it came time to put the show behind her, her charm was not put to waste. She has a way of fawning over people, of making them out to be more intelligent, handsome, interesting, brave, fun, exciting than they actually are. She has been working title for several decades at the same company, keeping hold of many of the same clients throughout her career. She is prized for her contacts, and she continues to be among the best at what she does.
 
But she is facing an impossible situation. No matter how she swings it, there is going to be a point where she can no longer uphold the illusion of productivity.
 
Linda has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Her employers don’t know this, her co-workers don’t know this, many of her friends don’t know this. She had been looking down the barrel of a dark genetic possibility her whole life. Many of her closest relatives had the disease. "I’ve always been a bit of a dunderhead, but now I’m really in trouble." For whatever reason, she’s denigrated her cognitive abilities to the level of self-abuse throughout her whole life. Sure, her brothers are geniuses; one can name every flora, fauna and mineral deposit in a fifty mile radius and tell you exactly why it’s there and how it survives and how and why the distribution has altered over the years and on and on… The other brother is an accomplished professor of theater–he wrote an impressively technical book about obscure medieval musical instruments. But you can’t belittle her own accomplishments, not only as an artist, but as a single woman carving out a lifestyle of her own. She never married. With the companionship of two cats and the occasional on again off again relationship, she forged a life on her own terms. And she’s been very good to yours truly. And yes, she really is in trouble.
 
And no, it’s not always easy to be her tenant. Especially one that’s leaned upon to set every electronic and computer-related quandary to rights, and not just once in the same day, or the same hour for that matter. There was a time when she was just a technophobe that didn’t know how to do certain things. Now she is, sometimes, physically incapable of learning what I put before her. The input function on her television… that in itself, has become my great white whale. Did you know, ladies and gentlemen, that you must set your television to accept different avenues of input? Sometimes, you’re playing your television, sometimes, your playing your DVD, and most systems have a function that allows you the opportunity to switch between mediums… I’ve used every combination of words, I’ve written enough instructions and hieroglyphics to fill an ancient pyramid. She will never get it.
 
 

 
 
Yes, there are a few things at my home that will never be fixed. For about a month after I returned from my winter vacation back east, I didn’t have running hot water. Funny story. Before I left, there was just some problem with the water heater. It kept trickling water from a pipe outside, some kind of regulator was broken, needed to be replaced. She makes the call to her homeowner’s insurance. Guy replaces one of the parts, says he has to call headquarters to replace the remaining part. But it’s Saturday, so he can’t get an answer. So for the week or so before I leave for home, I keep the heater off like a good boy and cross my fingers.
 
When I returned home I had no water, and the back yard was completely dug up, the pipes exposed like an open-heart surgery in progress. Enter Mario, an unlicensed, Latino, bible-thumping, sort-of plumber recommended to her by Harold, a retired contractor / handyman that is unmistakably sweet on my landlady. A simple installation had become a full copper upgrade, and Mario–given the wiggle-room of two blank checks–made innumerable trips to Home Depot, never keeping any of the receipts.
 
Living without running water for any period of time is an unequivocally humbling experience, one my social construct forces me to leave deliberately vague.
 

 
One day, Mario, having witnessed–purely by chance–one of my 100 high-definition video-game-slash-movie-related wallpapers (revolving on a five minute loop upon my beloved HDTV), decided that a spiritual intervention was necessary. The picture in question was of Gollum, the motion-capture mutant sensation from Peter Jackson’s universally acclaimed Lord of the Rings series, and I’m pretty certain that his objection was because the character–I will admit–resembled a demon. I explained to him that I was a movie fanatic, that I desired a career in The Industry, that I wasn’t actually worshipping evil, I was merely paying tribute to one of the most successful cinematic trilogies in the history of mankind. He countered that Hollywood was a den of sinners, a reasoning I lacked the personal conviction to dissuade. But, I said, Lord of the Rings is about the triumph of good over evil, not just in an environment as expansive as Middle Earth, but in the individual, overcoming temptation long enough to ensure the fruition of The Great Plan. What’s more, Gollum, in his bi-polar complexity, even wallowing in utter weakness at the very end was able to perform a perfect good that benefited all of whateverkind.
 
This was all lost on my pious friend, but by then, the wallpaper had faded to Jodie Foster from Silence of the Lambs. "That one’s okay," he said.
 
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Taking pride in watching absolutely no movies and accusing me of occasionally watching pornography (guilty), Mario asked if he, apparently a fullblown preacher, could provide me with a blessing. I have a soft spot for all randomness, spiritual and otherwise, so I submitted. He started out in English, asking me to repeat what he was saying. Eventually it became Spanish, and I did the best to approximate–with self-conscious difficulty–the foreign phrases. He asked me if I felt better, and I did, if only for being temporarily amused.
 
He kept shaking my hand and raising his fists to the sky, recommending that I thank God all the time. Waking up and thanking Him for everything that is good in my life, everything that I’m working on, everyone and everything that loves me and takes care of me. And, giving credit where credit is due, I wholeheartedly agree. I try to take the time to be grateful for things, to establish a firm hold on those things that I might take for granted but provide the peace of mind on which all other good things can flourish.
 
I was, for instance, extremely grateful for getting my water back, even though it only came cold. And I appreciated, as a lifelong student of Irony, the fact that once he claimed that the hot water was fixed, the water heater was still leaking exactly the same way as before.
 
His limitations as a plumber were starting to become distressingly apparent. Linda was already disenchanted with him and the tens of thousands he was costing her. The water pressure was through the roof, and suddenly my toilet wouldn’t stop running. My kitchen sink couldn’t shut off completely unless I turned the valve underneath. 
 
Several times, I had to write out exactly what needed fixing and talk it through with Linda. I had to listen carefully when she called Harold to make sure he understood exactly what problems we were entering with his recommended worker.
 
It was a Thursday that everything came to a head: my friend John over for our weekly movie, Mario back to work on the sink, a homeowners insurance guy working on my toilet, Linda hanging out, reacquainting herself with the necessary repairs, and Thomas on the phone (my Mother on call waiting) at the same time. It was like humanity was being squeezed into my habitat like toothpaste from every conceivable angle.
 
Before, Mario tried to convince me that the amount of wasted water was negligible, but it was ludicrous for me to accept that, especially since that was the beginning, and actually the whole point, of this entire endeavor. He talks to the homeowners guy in Spanish, finds out which part needs to be replaced. He replaces it. The homeowners guy finishes my toilet. And after weeks of boiling water on the range for washing my dishes and myself, the water heater was finally fixed, though I now hear an endearingly incompetent gurgling from the pipes whenever I turn on the hot faucet.
 
Oh, and the toilet never really got fixed. It would run forever if I kept the valve open, same as before, but even if I twist it shut as tightly as I could possibly manage without a wrench, just enough water will drip into the tank to offer one or two solid flushes per day (which actually works out). 
 
And one of Mario’s workers ripped off my kitchen cabinet without saying anything.
 
Ditto for the hole in my back screen door.
 
Linda, with Harold’s blessing, was afforded some small comfort in deciding not to pay Mario the extra five or six thousand he wanted for his shoddy work. It was a short-lived victory, however. Because now, whenever something goes wrong, whenever she loses something, she’s sure that Mario is behind it. When, for instance, the garage door wouldn’t shut all the way, and then open later completely on its own, she actually thought Mario would drive across town to sneak inside her garage, open the door, and then… leave.
 
She was taking Lexapro for awhile, but moved on to something else. I attempt to help her when she asks for help. I attempt to be patient while I explain certain things several times in a row, and not jump to conclusions that she’s forgotten something even though it’s highly probable. I try to give her solace about the future, that I’ll be there for her. But the world to which she is fused, the world she goes to when she leaves her home, is too complicated and detailed for me to adequately maintain from a distance.
 
That’s not to say I haven’t tried…