It was just Sunday noon and the excited voices outside my apartment followed by a sharp rap on each door meant emergency. Out of dread rather than curiosity, I opened my door.
Without taking a step into the hallway, I leaned left and looked to the sitting area across from the elevator where the two mahogany, oversized flower-cushioned chairs sat on either side of the matching, double-drawered buffet —in at least two inches of water.
To me, the set of furniture seems bespoke but its origin is murky in this 50+ year old apartment building for retirees. Many a resident, upon their death, donates furniture and belongings to what is known as the community. Thus, there are other equally lovely pieces—polished every week by the same woman for over 40 years—on each of the 12 floors.
I shut the door.
I needed to take a shower, ASAP, after I tucked what were once luxuriously soft towels, now faded gray and ecru but still absorbent, under my apartment door, with washcloths stuffed in the sides of the threshold.
Taking a shower may not seem intuitive in the time of an imminent flood but I had no idea how long we might be without water for we have had pipes burst before, and I knew the drill. This water event was particularly bad. Not only did it flood the second floor but the lobby and offices below, as “if the heavens had opened” is how it was relayed to me.
Nearly every floor has had its flood and subsequent fire alarm events.
About six weeks ago, the fire alarm went off and this time it was not a resident with a grease or oven fire but an alarm system too damaged from all the floods. It took 2 1/2 hours to finally figure out how to turn off the alarm system and keep it off—for that day.
No one evacuates for fire alarms or floods nor do the firemen come. We all know the drill. Mostly, these things happen in the midnight hour or some equally inconvenient time. Any alarm event after 3 AM and I make myself breakfast, spending the day with less light, more dark in a world of wet wires.
It’s an issue with the HVAC system but the maintenance team is optimistic because finally there are resources to replace the plumbing and electrical systems that have lasted five decades, almost.
I’m optimistic, too, for I love this old concrete and stucco building with spacious lobby, dining and living rooms—big enough for a baby grand piano and full pool table—in what is called Midtown, one of the oldest parts of Tallahassee.
Surrounded by live oaks and the occasional maple is our flower garden complete with crêpe myrtle, lemon, orange, and fig trees. Many garden plants have been left by former residents including flower bulbs from residents’ parents and grandparents. There is even a small fountain.
It’s true we are a community that loves its past be it bespoke furniture or bulbs of the amaryllis. It’s life in fire and flood.
The building was designed for retirees and so it has remained. It’s like hotel living that was a common in the first part of the 20th century. And every apartment is a room with a view. It’s a style of living now gone, only the furniture and structure last.
Sometimes a flood, sometimes a fire alarm.
That was how my time of rest began, that Sunday some seven months ago now. I felt so fortunate that day as the flood came within six inches of my door and no more, hence the gratitude and the shared optimism with the maintenance man, who would later get soaked as if he were a winning football coach. Three other apartments were flooded that Sunday and for the next 10 days, the drying fans roared 24/7.
For other reasons, he and I have seen each other as the replacement of the plumbing and electrical systems began in January and the work will continue throughout the year, daily it seems.
We refer to it as “the construction,” which it is and isn’t, but it’s the term the new administrator uses. It even has its own bulletin board and every week there is a schedule of what should happen and sometimes it does but to completely replace the lifelines of an apartment building—its plumbing and electrical systems—with residents in situ is not easy for workman or resident.
That Sunday flood was our final one but far from our last alarm.
To be continued….