When my first wife an I separated, I moved into an apartment in a big old house in Catonsville, Maryland. Catonsville, with roots in the early days of the railroad, has a number of big, old houses that were once the homes of railroad executives, and have now been broken up into apartments. The building had eight apartments, I think, and it was magnificent: 10 foot ceilings, (non working) Italian marble fireplaces, beautiful woodwork. It was drafty and expensive to heat, but it was lovely if you didn't have to pay for it.
It was also filled with the most bizarre collection of characters I'd ever met.
The landlords were a man and woman who were heavily into est — look it up — and were constantly trying to get all of us to go to a free introductory seminar. I eventually went to one, which was another story. Bill, the male half of the duo, was completely incompetent when it came to repairing anything in the house, often turning minor problems into major ones. He never did get the heat working correctly, so we alternately froze or roasted. The female half of the duo swung both ways, I think, because she was always visiting the lesbians' apartment (more on that in a minute).
The other inhabitants of the house included:
a woman who tended bar in a topless bar (she invited me to come down for a free drink, but I decided I couldn't see her topless and then pass her in the hallway),
a guy who made his living playing the horses (and did pretty well),
a guy who played violin in a string quartet in the U.S. Army (they played a lot of fancy generals' balls and events like that) and was stoned every waking moment (he was amused that the generals had no idea),
a woman who filled her Volvo station wagon with everything she owned and left her husband and children to find herself (she ended up in bed with every male in the house at one time or another, except for me — I declined — including my oldest stepbrother when he came to visit me once),
a musician who played trombone in a jazz band and bass in a punk band, was superb in both, but definitely tended toward the dress and lifestyle of the punk side, rather than the jazz side,
two lesbians who used to have screaming, throw things at each other, battles at least once a week,
and Bill, one of the only two fairly normal people in the house (I count myself as the other one).
The house was semi-communal, in that many folks kept their doors propped open and sometimes people would wander in and out of each other's apartment, generally when looking for the occupant.
One day Bill and I were walking up the stairs from my second floor apartment to his third floor place. His apartment was at the end of a hallway, with the lesbians' apartment next to his. As we approached their open door we heard yelling. Just as we were bout to pass their door, a teacup came flying out the door to smash against the opposite wall, missing us by inches. As we paused to make sure no other missiles were about to be launched, the saucer followed it.
Bill turned to me and shook his head. "Yikes" was all he said.
I decided there were too many things in life that all you could do is shake your head and say,
"Yikes," and that's been my philosophy ever since.
Just before I moved out of that house I took a play-writing class, and decided to write about some of the people and incidents that took place while I was living there. I handed in my play, and proudly waited for what I was sure would be the professor's glowing praise.
"Is this farce?" he asked me. "No, it's my life," I replied. I got a B. His criticism: "often humorous, but not believable."
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