I’ve been writing about this building a bit because I’ve been a bit uninspired as of late working behind the bar. I maintain a daily writing regimen but am starting to veer a bit toward a book I’ve been planning for the last six months entitled Nocturama about a man (who suffers from voyeurism, ha) with a family living in the current financial environment while just having jumped into a job managing a building. It sounds pretty boring described in that way but there’s some crazy twists and turns as well as a mixture of some sci-fi in there. He ends up working on a drug so he never has to sleep again but this cause him to go insane. Ever since I started working on the cocktail book and the blog I haven’t had much time to write fiction, which is my favorite, and once I hit 365 blog posts I’m going right into it. Here’s a strange one: I listened to one album with each book I wrote. Yes, the same one daily until the book was finished. Over and over. Anyway I’ll continue to keep up on the blog once a week on Sundays and do a big one about new cocktails, ingredients, techniques, etc. but it’s beginning to show some signs of wear trying to blog everyday about the bar. There’s a possibility the grind is getting to me a bit and I’m experiencing a bit of fatigue and need a vacation, although this is true, I still write everyday in the morning while on vacation due to OCD as well as a crazy fear I will be a bartender and working at Rustic when I’m in my 60s. Anyway, The Building parts I’m including in the blog for whatever reason will be used for Nocturama and I’m trying to rework that muscle a bit and figure it all out so this seemed like a good, safe place to do it. It’s tough as hell to go from a blogging mindset for almost a year and then back to fiction but struggle is good, it supposedly changes your DNA. I’ve also got this damn cocktail book eating away at me. I’ve got some pretty heavy ADHD where I tend to focus really hard on a project, finish it, and then start something new right away. My latest rejection caused the fatigue of the whole ordeal to amp up a bit but it was only my second one and I got really deep, very close to publication. I still need to iron out a few things with the book anyway…It’s always a time issue and like I said, I have a hard time both finding the time to write and focusing on the proper subject. When I have an idea I want to attack it immediately.

We were giddy first entering the apartment which the ladies at the office continually corrected us to call “unit” because the building was originally built to be sold out as condominiums. To me, the different monikers were trivial, but the office ladies were staunch about us saying unit and not apartment which always brought an involuntary snicker to my brain. I also cared little because, for me, these details didn’t really matter. Apartment. Unit. Whatever.

Jo, my son, and I met the current interim building manager, Fred, at the top of the front steps. He was doing the company a big favor and taking care of odds and ends before we were able to step in. The old building manager, a woman named Bobbi, had left in the night. She had given no notice…Simply disappeared. The ladies had glossed over that one a bit. We were so enamored by the possibilities of not having to pay rent I think we did too.

Fred let us into the building. A dated lobby but still elegant, an impressive entrance compared to our most recent place. Technical metalwork. Polished stone floors. A baby grand piano in one corner. The lobby was elevated above the garage and we took the elevator up to the first floor where the door opened to an exotic courtyard with a big brass fountain. Our new place would be #104. We followed Fred and he explained they were painting and the interior would be a mess but we could still get the general gist of what we were moving into.

Plastic and masking tape gave the appearance of some sort of serial killer vibe in the place. The stink of fresh paint on the walls. Fake hardwood, an odd yellowish worn color, lined the entire place except for the bedrooms. The other stark detail was the color of the kitchen cabinets. Dark blue.

“Will they be painting the cabinets as well?” Jo asked.

“No,” Fred said.

I could see the gears whirring in her head underneath the plume of blonde hair. I didn’t care about the color of the cabinets but knew there was no way she would stand for it. She traced the flooring with her foot, moving the plastic around, peering underneath.

“And the floors?”

“Floors are staying where they are,” Fred said. “But new carpeting will be installed.”

“Carpets?’

“In both bedrooms.”

She visibly bristled.

“Can we get some sort of credit toward new flooring if we don’t want carpet?”

“I’ll have to check with the office.”

New flooring? How much would that cost? Thousands probably. I started doing the math in my head. We had already ordered new couches because our dog, Charlena, a seventy pound pit bull, had, over the course of many years, ruined our old couches just through the act of using them as a bed. There would also be the move which would cost money. I calculated at least fifteen grand just to move into this place. So much for moving here to save money.

On the way home we discussed the flooring. A toddler plus an older dog equaled the need to have floors put in.

“Plus,” Jo said, “think of all the nasty shit they use for the carpeting. All the glue , adhesives, whatever else kind of crap they put in there.”

I nodded my head.