Moorpark Palms - 7. Chapter 7

Sometime in March – around the ides – we all woke one Saturday to find envelopes taped to our doors. They were also taped to the doors of the three empty apartments, so at first I figured it was just another hit by the local rug shampooing company. Nope: the building had been sold. Our new owners were Fantasy Realty, perhaps not the best name even for Southern California.
Our rents would stay the same if we signed new one-year leases (enclosed). Utilities remained as they were: gas and water paid; electric and cable on us. I’d skipped cable. I worked in television but had little need to watch it in multiples of fifty. There was also no indication that anyone was about to tear the place down.
One year lease? I would have signed up for five. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Don’t you want a house?” the Kansas couple asked. Their names were Sue and Eric.
“In California? I’d rather buy a bridge in Brooklyn.”
They wanted a house – partly to raise kids and partly for the tax write-off. They possibly wanted kids for a write-off, too. They were both only children, and were – again possibly – in for a big surprise.
But I could read topographical charts. I’d survived undergrad geology. “The Los Angeles Basin,” reports cited, “is like a fractured porcelain bowl.” And you didn’t need maps to realize the area was one of nature’s on-going projects – the mountains all had points. So I didn’t plan to wipe out my anticipated savings – the main reason I’d come west – by owning a house built on a weak foundation. It would never stand. I’d learned that from Harry Belafonte.
“What ya think?” Gabe asked. I was still in the courtyard, reading my letter.
“You know this was coming?” I answered.
“No, sir.”
“It seems all right.”
He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “I hate it. So does my wife.”
“Why?”
“No one inspected the place. No one even looked at it. Sounds like they’re more interested in the land.”
“What about the leases?”
“It takes time getting plans approved. Probably want to be sure of their income.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Suck-o,” Vic suddenly announced behind us.
“Morning,” I told him. Gabe scratched his nose.
“They bought the place next door, too,” Vic said. “They all got little white envelopes.”
“And the same lease?” Gabe asked.
“Do you think I opened them?”
Gabe didn’t comment.
“I talked with the manager,” Vic went on, defensively.
“What’d she say?”
“Nothing – you know she hates me.” That was to Gabe. To me, he explained: “She thinks I killed her cat.” He laughed. “I was riding my bike. Damned thing dodged in front of me, then ran under a moving car.”
“I’ll talk with her...” Gabe began.
“Won’t get nuttin’,” Vic cut off. “She gets pissed if I even ride through her parking lot.”
Gabe later admitted that he’d gotten as little information as Vic had predicted. “Still, if they’re planning to tear down two buildings, we have at least a year.”
Which didn’t explain why – a month later – Gabe and his wife moved out.
“I told you we’ve been getting free rent,” he said as I helped load their borrowed truck. “The new owners want to cut that in half.”
“You couldn’t bargain with them?”
“We did! At first, they only offered two-fifty a month. For all we do!”
I wasn’t sure what “all” involved. There were weekly gardeners and a pool guy. The city picked up the garbage. For emergencies, we called plumbers or electricians.
“Where are you moving to?” I asked.
“Closer to work,” Gabe said. “That’ll be nice – not so long a drive. And we’re getting free rent and the apartment is slicker – white walls. I’m so sick of knotty pine.”
“Are we getting a new manager?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “And who cares! We’ve been here for eight years, and the stinkin’ Heldigger brothers can’t even say goodbye!”
His wife just looked at him. She’d been carrying boxes to the truck.
“What!” he shot at her. “We’ll never see them again!”
“Guess you’ll never see me again, either,” I said.
Gabe smiled. “Well, take care. And get married,” he advised. “Nice guy like you should have kids.”
I told him I’d think about it. But it wasn’t my priority.
Sally waved as Gabe and Dorothy’s truck left. Vic had vanished. Lonnie, the accountant, stood on the balcony, shirtless – his normal state – Yuck the boa around his neck.
“The new owners asked if I’d like to manage again,” Sally quietly confided. “But I’m too old.”
“I’m sure if you wanted to...”
“No, they’ll find someone else.” She looked at me.
“Don’t even think about it!” I warned.
“Good. It’s all so crazy now. People aren’t people anymore.”
“Do you think I can get my apartment painted?” Claire soon wondered. “It hasn’t been, all the time I’ve lived here.”
“Mine just was,” I confessed.
“That’s so typical. They paint when people move out. Great incentive.”
“I’ll miss Gabe,” Teri, the prettiest UCLA girl, told me. “He was always so nice.”
“And sexy,” added her roommate Annette, almost reflexively shrugging off Teri’s look.
“What if we have to move?” I asked.
“We only have another year of school...”
“...if we don’t mess up...
“And if we have to find a new place... so what?”
“You’ll break Vic’s heart.”
They both grinned.
Before the week had passed, four guys – all in their early twenties and all pretty good-looking – moved into Gabe and Dorothy’s old apartment. That gave the girls something to smile about. Two of the guys were brothers, the younger one our new manager. The unrelated pair were their bass guitarist and drummer.
“They better not practice here,” Claire threatened, as the band members pulled instruments from their van. On its side read: “PARTY! Rock! Jazz! Disco! Rap!” A phone number was freshly painted out.
And it was a party – in one small building, we had nine unmarried guys and eleven single women. OK: Sally was a great-grandmother, Claire no doubt preferred mature men, and the Hungarians might be otherwise engaged. And Vic seemed unmatable, I worked all the time, “Barry” was possibly a spy. That still left six bucks and seven potential brides. You didn’t even have to imagine the possibilities. You could just watch. But before this Rubic’s Cube spun, LA dissolved in riots.
“Are you all right!” my slightly-panicked mother asked on the phone.
“I live in the ‘burbs, Mom.”
“Then you’re okay!”
“I’m as far from danger as Ted Kennedy is from being president.”
“Are you’re sure?”
“About which?”
My father was on one of the extensions. “You’re being overly-caviler about this.”
“Dad, it’s horrible,” I said. “Buildings have been burned, and people everywhere are furious. But I’m fine. I live too far away.”
“But it’s awful.”
“Yes... terrible.”
“And it could happen anywhere.”
I couldn’t deny that. Still, once I assured them I was safe, my parents relaxed. After all, I’d been an adult for years.