"Oh, how lovely to be back at the Park Executive!" I cried aloud, waiting for the elevator, sure that someone would hear me around the corner from the open catwalks. I'd rather live on the first floor with the broad sweep of its wide deck, but the second floor, with a simpler, narrower catwalk, and all the other floors furnished beautiful views of the Intracoastal, Miami Beach, and the ocean beyond. I enjoyed my two years working in Amsterdam but I was happy to be in my own home again.
Except for Robert Donaldson, our own version of Ichabod Crane. I was walking Lucy the D.O.G. that Friday morning and waiting for the elevator. All of a sudden Bunny -- Robert's flighty cavalier King Charles spaniel -- peeked around the corner, his leash taut but disappearing behind the wall. Bunny desperately wanted to play with Lucy, but since Robert and I had a falling out back in '07, I'd joined his long list of prestigious enemies in the building. I think it happened because I painted my interior vestibule beige rather than white with black trim. Robert couldn't stand color, had to be white, gray, silver, or black. Now here wagged Bunny, straining at the leash, wanting to play with Lucy -- and Robert, invisible on the other end of it, invisible and miserable.
Of course I just had to make the most of the situation!
"Oh, hello, Bunny, how nice to see you! Bunny, come play with Lucy! Come and play! That's a good Bunny!" Robert's dog jumped up and down, straining even more on the leash until he got yanked back by the invisible hand behind the corner. The elevator doorbell rang, so Lucy and I trotted in. I doubted Robert would join me. Since '07 he'd refused to enter the elevator with me. It had become quite the game at the Park Executive to see long we could keep Robert Donaldson off the elevator. He'd made a long laundry list of enemies in the building and could rarely get on the elevator without one of them already being inside. Oh, what fun!
I walked down Collins Avenue and came back ten minutes later, Lucy peed and pooped for the day, a used bag of doggy poop to throw away. Robert -- dressed in shiny Versace black and gray, since he never wore color if he could avoid it, just black + gray + silver + white (but only rarely, dark was better) -- also returned to the building, dragging Bunny behind. First time I'd seen him since I'd come back from Amsterdam. The ghosts of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and Anne Frank egged me on, saying, "go ahead, tell him: 'Love the outfit, Robert, even if those patent-leather shoes clash with your opaque glasses, but oh, I'd just kill for that Versace! What is that around your neck anyway ... an ascot? How very British of you!'"
Wrinkles etched Robert's 56-year old bell-shaped face more firmly than ever despite the facelift he'd had back in '09. I'd heard about that through the grapevine, Robert walking through the lobby with his face wrapped, only his mail-slot eyes, Jimmy Durante nose, and scowling mouth visible behind the linen scarves and the bandages. Perhaps I telegraphed the catty Versace fantasy dancing in my head, since he started doing his little Margo Channing walk -- very Academy of Dramatic Arts, the New York school where he'd studied thirteen months in the '70s before getting kicked out for banging the director and telling his wife. Poor Bunny, he'd never quite learned the proper gait for the Margo Channing walk.
Deliverance came in the form of Papageno, my kelly green parrot, who screeched from the balcony above. Robert skidded left to right at the chalkboard-grinding sound. He cocked his head up to the left, resumed his very Academy of Dramatic Arts Margo Channing walk, and made a grand entrance back into the Park Executive.
It was lovely to be home again.
Except for Robert Donaldson, our own version of Ichabod Crane. I was walking Lucy the D.O.G. that Friday morning and waiting for the elevator. All of a sudden Bunny -- Robert's flighty cavalier King Charles spaniel -- peeked around the corner, his leash taut but disappearing behind the wall. Bunny desperately wanted to play with Lucy, but since Robert and I had a falling out back in '07, I'd joined his long list of prestigious enemies in the building. I think it happened because I painted my interior vestibule beige rather than white with black trim. Robert couldn't stand color, had to be white, gray, silver, or black. Now here wagged Bunny, straining at the leash, wanting to play with Lucy -- and Robert, invisible on the other end of it, invisible and miserable.
Of course I just had to make the most of the situation!
"Oh, hello, Bunny, how nice to see you! Bunny, come play with Lucy! Come and play! That's a good Bunny!" Robert's dog jumped up and down, straining even more on the leash until he got yanked back by the invisible hand behind the corner. The elevator doorbell rang, so Lucy and I trotted in. I doubted Robert would join me. Since '07 he'd refused to enter the elevator with me. It had become quite the game at the Park Executive to see long we could keep Robert Donaldson off the elevator. He'd made a long laundry list of enemies in the building and could rarely get on the elevator without one of them already being inside. Oh, what fun!
I walked down Collins Avenue and came back ten minutes later, Lucy peed and pooped for the day, a used bag of doggy poop to throw away. Robert -- dressed in shiny Versace black and gray, since he never wore color if he could avoid it, just black + gray + silver + white (but only rarely, dark was better) -- also returned to the building, dragging Bunny behind. First time I'd seen him since I'd come back from Amsterdam. The ghosts of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and Anne Frank egged me on, saying, "go ahead, tell him: 'Love the outfit, Robert, even if those patent-leather shoes clash with your opaque glasses, but oh, I'd just kill for that Versace! What is that around your neck anyway ... an ascot? How very British of you!'"
Wrinkles etched Robert's 56-year old bell-shaped face more firmly than ever despite the facelift he'd had back in '09. I'd heard about that through the grapevine, Robert walking through the lobby with his face wrapped, only his mail-slot eyes, Jimmy Durante nose, and scowling mouth visible behind the linen scarves and the bandages. Perhaps I telegraphed the catty Versace fantasy dancing in my head, since he started doing his little Margo Channing walk -- very Academy of Dramatic Arts, the New York school where he'd studied thirteen months in the '70s before getting kicked out for banging the director and telling his wife. Poor Bunny, he'd never quite learned the proper gait for the Margo Channing walk.
Deliverance came in the form of Papageno, my kelly green parrot, who screeched from the balcony above. Robert skidded left to right at the chalkboard-grinding sound. He cocked his head up to the left, resumed his very Academy of Dramatic Arts Margo Channing walk, and made a grand entrance back into the Park Executive.
It was lovely to be home again.
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