Board Approval
by Daniel Marshall WoodDespite what the tourism map says, you are not here. You are a second-class person, soon to exist no longer. That’s the reason I’m here, quite simply. You’ll be gone after attention to a few more details.
Not sure what this is all about? Allow me to provide background on the both of us.
You are a paranoid, disheveled pathetic excuse for a human being. Your life has no meaning. You are merely occupying space. For the past thirteen years you‘ve lived in a rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment in a sought-after Queens neighborhood. Your next-door neighbor, Gertrude Patten, has been in her two-bedroom unit over twenty-five years. The two of you are the last holdouts in a building that went condo a decade ago.
All the apartment owners, as well as the building’s converter, despise you. By not paying a monthly maintenance you’re a drag on the financials. Your apartments are what real estate agents term “estate condition” – their euphemism for total wrecks. Even in Queens, the combination of your apartment with Mrs. Patten’s is worth well over half a million in this hot real estate market. The condo board salivates at the juicy infusion to its coffers once you’re both out of the way.
That’s where I come in. The board president surreptitiously secured my services to “look into certain matters.” I’m new to this field, but confident the board will approve of my results.
Through my network of – affiliates, shall we call them? – your miserable life has been surveyed, investigated, taped, scoured and nitpicked. Of course, your computer has been commandeered. That’s the best way to take control. And your blog has been most useful and revealing.
You’re all but a modern day hermit. Your bleak life has morphed into an existence of avoiding others and venturing outside your mind-numbing cocoon only when necessary.
Your former modest income from computer software applications dwindled from inattention. Once your parents died and the estate left you enough to scrape by, you scraped by. Funds arrive by wire transfer each month.
Your body matches the filthy living space. When was the last time you stepped into that grungy shower to degrease yourself? As if there’s anyone around to notice. Or smell. On those rare occasions when you risk going to the trash chute the hallway is assessed through the peephole. The slightest indication that another human will share the space sends you scurrying.
Since you live in New York, almost anything can be delivered – pizza, Chinese, videos (sci-fi and porn for you, I see), groceries. Cleaning or laundry, but that’s been months. Sex could be delivered, too, but you’re not into that scene.
Unfortunately for you, a few of the smaller shops don’t take credit cards. For that you must emerge into the dreaded and unforgiving world you’ve shut yourself from. You will yourself to cross a street to obtain cash from an ATM.
For weeks you monitored street activity near the bank. Videotapes and personal scribbles were analyzed for traffic patterns. Now, whenever you are in dire need of funds you descend quietly at 3:14 in the morning. That’s when you found the least auto and pedestrian volume – after the subway’s expulsion of late-night revelers and before the 3:22 increase of early-shift workers.
The rest of your day is occupied with your latest obsession. Last week – like a cat’s sudden and unexplained change of its favorite sleeping spot – you ended your collection of every 1957 Studebaker ad and reference you could discover.
Your current obsession? Determining the height of the diminutive and sharp-tongued Beverly Leslie character who spars with Karen Walker on “Will & Grace.” Why? For some peculiar reason you think it’s a tidbit the world should know.
The actor’s biography didn’t list his stature. Repeated attempts via letters as an adoring fan failed to unearth the statistic haunting your mind. Searches on multiple websites did not reveal the figure. Your minute analysis of taped episodes compared Beverly’s height to that of Will, Grace, Karen and Jack. Suspicious of the actual height statistics you’ve come across on this quartet, you resorted to verification by computer modeling. High heels on the women – and occasionally, Jack – cause you extreme distress.
Now it’s time to end this useless existence. Your suicide attempt last fall makes my job even easier – thank you.
Like you, Mrs. Patten’s long-term existence greatly troubled the board. Do you realize you haven’t seen Mrs. Patten or heard any sounds from her apartment in almost two weeks? Not that you really care. You’d prefer she not exist.
And she no longer does.
Mrs. Patten was the first person I’ve “seen to.” She didn’t suffer. It may surprise you that I didn’t want Mrs. Patten to feel any more pain that what she had already brought into her own little existence. The board will have no concerns. As long as you’re both out of the way, they’ll be happy.
When the maintenance man discovers Mrs. Patten two days from now, it’ll appear as if she suffered a heart attack. Convinced the old harvest gold range had a gas leak, Mrs. Patten had opened the windows. It’s electric, but she was a bit off-kilter, anyway. The cold February air slowed decomposition so there was little odor. Mrs. Patten is all but petrified by now. Her cat escaped through a window, and is now adored by a loving family three blocks away. Mrs. Patten left no heirs. Much easier that way.
Your exit time is almost here. Unbeknownst to you, an email was sent yesterday from your computer to the FBI. Though there was only an undertone of terrorist proclivity, several burly stone-faced agents will visit your apartment later this afternoon. They’ll find you dead at your computer, remorseful of your unpatriotic intentions. Your suicide – this time successful, of course – will be hushed up. Understandably, the board wants no bad publicity.
The only person who might pay attention to your demise is your estranged half sister, who will rejoice in the monthly increase paid to her as the sole surviving member of the family trust. At its next meeting the condo board will celebrate the passings of both you and Mrs. Patten with Champagne. So you’re my second person. I can proudly use you and Mrs. Patten as references. Society will no longer be burdened by your existence.
A lovely young couple, Michelle and Stanton Lowenthal – she’s related to the board president – will be buying the apartments in a specially arranged deal. The two units will be combined and renovated into a fabulous sun-drenched three-bedroom two-bath with balcony and eat-in kitchen. The Lowenthals will be so proud of the tasteful colors and Crate & Barrel furniture they choose for their first home. Their twin daughters will now each have a bedroom – and the white kitten they were promised.
In New York, it’s all about real estate. You were in the way of people with vital, appealing lives that deserve to take over the space you’ve been merely occupying. If they could, I think the Lowenthals would thank me for my intervention. You should, too.
©Daniel Marshall Wood
Daniel Marshall Wood leads a double life – as proprietor of Edgefield Bed & Breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, and as an executive assistant in New York City. He has written several mystery short stories (one at HandHeldCrime) and a book on how to start and run a B&B.; Daniel leads another double life as an identical twin to the five-minutes-older David Michael.