NOWHERE CHER

I was friends with this girl in either Junior High or High School - very briefly. She lived near me and I would walk over to her house - they had a lot of white shag carpeting and a dog to match - a beautiful Samoyad - perfectly coifed. In the living room they had a glossy white grand piano and I would sometimes accompany her - doing her best impression of Cher. She would wear a halter top and hold her arms just like Cher, hands dropping, belting out those A side and B side tunes. She had a nice voice which she disfigured singing through her nose to get those Cher-like tones. The few times I was over I never saw an adult anywhere. The house was silent, almost padded (due to the sea of shag) until she filled it song. I still remember how soft that dog was, perfectly coifed - I had no idea who was tending to the animal. The whole thing had a kind of Grey Gardens effect - although the inhabitant was 14 and everything was white and brand new. Just last year I got a friend request from her - some forty-plus years later, now seemingly transformed into a tragic figure. Seems she was living on the fringes of society, the posts had a distinct victim voice. Now Cher is no one's victim - so it was surprising - plus she had been a smart, kind of "with it" teen - so I was wondering how this world-view had come to be. Her son had joined the military and it soon became apparent that her lodging might be in question. She started posting items for sale - only those you part with when times are dire. A mattress, a worn coffee table, and old washer dryer all on Facebook marketplace. I could tell by her posts that she would be un-hirable - her state-of-mind would not present well at any interview. Friends would post potential job opportunities - but were always met by crickets by my old friend. One day I had posted some light-hearted thing on my page which she responded to with a "me too" comment about a near miss experience involving almost-assault and possible rape, it was really out of place and awful. I sent her a private message saying she had misunderstood - and some sorry attempt at being sympathetic around her trials which obviously fell short -she read it and never responded back. It wasn't long after that - that her posts came to a sudden halt. Weeks and months went by, her friends would post "where are you - I'm so worried about you" posts. I couldn't have been the only one who was wondering if she was living in a car, on the street, or worse. The posts from friends kept coming, people would give them a thumbs up or the crying emoji. Cher was nowhere, I assumed something horrible had happened. Until today. I saw a profile of a guy I knew in high school. He was the first guy I kissed. I was in the basement of his house, I had followed his cute, popular friend there after school - but the cute friend proposed that I kiss his shy friend and it was terrible. How could I know it was terrible, it was my first kiss, but it was. He was nervous, and trembling horribly, an icky memory - so naturally, I wanted to see what had become of him so I clicked on his Facebook profile. The guy was still "shy" - he had like 40 Facebook friends, and one of them appeared to be Cher. Only she had created a new profile, a new version of her name, stating she had moved to a new town as a Facebook event. Her old profile photo was blurred as though looking at someone through punch-drunk eyes - it was now replaced by a new, crisp photo. I wasn't sure it was her, I hadn't seen her since her teenage make-shift lounge act - but I was sure, in the end. Now, I can't claim to understand depression, or severe mental health issues but lord knows I've tried. I understand wanting to re-invent yourself, to start fresh - but what I don't understand is wanting people to think that you're homeless, living on the streets, or have perhaps committed suicide. All these friends reaching out to her on her page - and I imagine in Private Message - which she clearly got but left each and every one of them hanging while she tweaked her new/improved profile. Maybe if I tried a little harder, gave it a bit more thought I'd get there. Do I lack empathy, see it as just another story? But it's this ending I can't quite grasp - the disappearing act, the studied air of mystery, the silent reinvention - all Cher-like traits come to think of it, sans tragedy.

THE TENATIOUS WOULD-BE TENANT

Well, it's been a long, interesting journey finding a tenant for my rental. Perhaps people looking to secure housing aren't their "best selves" - the last gentleman put me through the ringer. Sixty-plus, fastidious, with great sensitivity to noise. Although he owned a condo just 2 blocks away, he was seeking a nest with "zero noise". Now my rental is off the street, facing a quiet courtyard, he checked out the windows and inquired about installing "sound proof" windows. He nervously scoured the 600 square food space, scanning for evidence of annoyances. I suggested he look at unattached housing, to which he did not respond. He asked if he could come back at 9PM to garner findings about noise levels when neighbors would be home. I needed an out. I did allow him to return, and spent most of the time coming up with reasons why he would not find the place to his liking. Still, later that evening, he sent me a lengthy text - asking to return at 9AM to "make more notes". Now, I'm a person who doesn't suffer fools gladly. Yet, I couldn't find a way to extricate myself from this nervous gent. I turned down his request for a 9AM, then he sent another two lengthy texts about his schedules, appointments, and his next available window which would be 9:30 the following morning. I spoke to fellow landlords that gave me an out - but I created my own, a response to his inquiry to purchase the unit after a "trial" period. Told him it would be unlikely that I would part with the unit, to which he responded, "I would be happy to be your life-long tenant." So push-over here let him back in. He began nervously scanning the apartment again, but this time busying himself with a tape measure and copious notes, asking me for exact measurements for ceiling height of closets, I could get back to him that afternoon. I started jabbering away at why he would never be happy in such a space, but he was in the zone. He only spoke up to report he had looked into "sound proofing" - he had a plan that involved staplegunning a double layer of towels to my freshly painted walls. But soon after he determined that he could "never be satisfied" living in a studio apartment; that he couldn't sleep unless he had a closed bedroom door. Although I had suggested this from the very beginning, and he assuring me that this was the perfect fix for his "downsizing" plan, he finally determined after much handwringing and note-taking that my apartment would not meet his rigorous requirements. After he left, I engaged a realtor to sell the apartment. The steady stream of apartment seekers had worn me down. The realtor was eager to see the pad, he brought an associate over the very next morning. We discussed what they would offer, and came up with a price. Yet, the next morning I was filled with doubt. I still loved the space, and it had served me well as a rental, albeit with some drama, for almost the last 30 years. But my inquiries had slowed to a halt. It had been on the market for 9 days, which qualifies it as a stale listing in this desirable Brooklyn 'hood'. As I mulled over what to do - lower the price, hire a realtor to handle the rental, or perhaps a property manager to deal with the drama both before and after move-in, I got a lone inquiry. She showed up the next day, a young advertising gal, very polite. She and her mother walked in, within 30 seconds she turned to me and said, "I love it!!! - I can't believe it's still available!!!" We signed a lease within the hour. This isn't a tale about faith, about the universe, although I don't discount that. I did put my hands together, looking up at the sky - and thanked, well, the sky - but it was most likely just blind luck. As I like to say to myself, "it only takes one." But that can be broad, as I got a doozy of "ones" - until the "right" one appeared.

THE WIDOWER

There's a man in my building, his wife had suffered from MS long before her untimely death a couple of years ago. She was a real cool woman, funny, ironic, really open about her "situation" and life in general. They had two kids, the girl in high school - an incredibly talented singer, super smart, a "big girl", spent a lot of time in therapists' offices. The son who was in college was a gifted athlete who was considering playing pro baseball, he, too had his own demons which may or may not have been fast-tracked due to his mother's illness or the fact that he broke his arm a week before training season. Anyway, this man who lost his wife - he was frumpy, shy, introverted and gentle. I felt so sorry for him and I thought perhaps I should invite him to the movies or something, just to get him out - I knew he dearly loved his wife. So one day I engaged him in the elevator and asked him how he was doing. He said he was doing okay, that he had started dating but he wasn't looking for anything serious. I guess he immediately started dating a close family friend and it was going well but he had "cut her loose" because there were "so many options". I guess a lot of women wanted to "take him to the movies" - and not in the innocent way I had considered. Cut to a couple years later - he's hot n heavy with a woman in the building who wears a lot of leopard print - I see them dining in the window in a few of a local eateries. His kids - I haven't seen either of then in the building for over a year. Today I passed him on the street on my way home from a walk in the 'hood - he was wearing a Burberry jacket, dad-jeans replaced by something less ill-fitting (he had dropped quite a few pounds), aviators hid his eyes although the sun was sinking fast into the Fall sky - yet, I could feel that horny gaze of a 50-something feeling seventeen. Perhaps it was his pursed lips or the way he insisted on getting my attention on a day I wanted to remain invisible. This, his new life, seems awkward - because he's still a huge dork behind those Foster Grants. I have to give him credit, though - still, I wonder if in those quiet moments he ever thinks of his wife, her wit, her courage, her fabulosity, and remembers their life fondly.