Week One

THE COWBOY

“Them dodgers looking great this year, right?” he asked me, without an introduction. I turned around and didn’t need one.

His name was Cowboy and now you also know what he looks like. But I’m not being coy. I don’t remember the name by which he introduced himself, simply because immediately after it, he said, “Everyone just calls me Cowboy.”

“As will I, when I tell all my friends about you,” I said aloud, continuing my long-tradition of forgetting how private thoughts work.

He’s in his early 40’s most likely, with boot-cut jeans to accommodate his worn cowboys and a faded belt buckle the size of a dessert plate (the ones you might use to put your hotpocket on or butter when the butter dish is in the dishwasher). He had a cowboy hat. He had a sleeveless shirt. He had long, blond hair with the shine and visual texture of a plastic dusting brush. He had a visible gold-tooth and, I feel comfortable assuming, several non-visible ones.

He commented on my dodgers hat and asked me if the cubs would ever win the pennant.

I know little about bears but I know cubs are baby bears and I figured they probably wouldn’t win much of anything, so I said no. Clearly I know very little about baseball as well. It was a lucky shot, though. Similar to baby bears, the baseball team ‘the Chicago Cubs’ will likely never win the pennant and there’s a thing about that, so, Cowboy and I bonded in that regard.

Both of us neglected to acknowledge the 88-key electric keyboard, coming in at about 40 pounds, that I was unloading and, subsequently, holding un-assisted for the duration of our first encounter. This was quickly remedied, however, when Cowboy asked me my age:

“You’re…what? 15, 16?”

“Oh. I’m 23.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You look so young. I’m 47.”

“You don’t look a day over 46!” I said, in what I assumed would be an appropriate joke.

“See ya ‘round.”

He walked away. I’ll ignore the slight concern I have over the fact that Cowboy’s interest in conversing with me dissipated after learning that I am an adult, because Cowboy was friendly, kind, personable and a great first encounter at my new home. I don’t know if Western hospitality is a thing but Cowboy exhibited it well; a fact later affirmed when I passed by the security-booth at the entrance of our complex. There was Cowboy, chatting it up with the security guard, whose name, I’ve decided, is probably Harold.

THE CASTING DIRECTOR

After unpacking and organizing my new room and helping to make our small 2-bedroom a comfortable “home” (I contributed a candle that goes on the coffee-table), I decided to take a walk around the complex. I passed by several groups of people, whom I judged as younger than myself. I can only assume they all judged the same about me. Judgers.

I entered the North clubhouse which, I found out, is visually the exact same as the South clubhouse. I don’t know why I’m telling you that.

The North clubhouse was having “Kids Karaoke” and you could smell the puberty from the entrance. A beautiful rendition of “Waiting on the World to Change” emanated from the great room. But in the lobby, I passed a young man, of about 11 or 12 years. Sitting on the lobby’s couch with his mom propped up on the chez lounge to his right, he asked, “How’s this mom?”

He riffed a few bars of, what I can only assume was the KidzBop version of, “Bitch Ass N*ggaz” by Dr. Dre.

Okay, so I didn’t hear what he sang. I feel comfortable forcing you to forgive the liberties I’ve taken with this narrative in the same way everyone was just “chill” when Aunt Vivian from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air just magically transformed between seasons. Kay?

I moved through the building to scope out the pool. There were pre-teens smoking weed and talking about unimportant pre-teen things. Existential crises, the dilemma of social security, which 2016 presidential candidate would best represent their interests….these are things young, unimportant people talk about. I moved on because I had important, adultier things to worry about such as finding out the entrance for pizza deliveries and seeing if the pool at the South Clubhouse was less occupied because I don’t want the cool kids to judge me while I swim.

At the South Clubhouse, I decided to dip my feet in the jacuzzi. There I observed a rather large, presumably Jewish man approaching his late 50’s who was surrounded by a group of giggly European women. You’re imagining him with a gold chain and big black glasses. That’s a hurtful, caricatured stereotype.

The fat Jewish man wore a gold chain and had big black glasses. He adjusted them, pointed his chin upward, and asked loudly:

“What are you? A Model?” he asked me from across the jacuzzi. I’m actually not making this part up. In certain, dimly-lit environments, I have occasionally been observed as a man somewhat clean and human in appearance. This is always a welcomed departure from my usual perception as a male Rachel Maddow with a hangover.

“Me?” I indicated with a pointed finger to my chest, “Oh no. I’m looking for jobs. I just graduated.”

“You an actor?”

“No. I’m looking for something…retail I guess.”

“Ah. Well, I’m a casting director from Minnesota.”

Perhaps it was the way that the inside of his nose seemed to have its own ecosystem or how his tongue never really seemed to stay in his mouth, but, unlike Cowboy, the casting director from Minnesota did not make me feel very welcomed and comfortable. Instead he made my feet feel really hot.

In retrospect, that was probably the jacuzzi. Regardless of the cause for the discomfort though, I knew it was time to go. So, utilizing my steamy, red feet, I walked out of the pool area.

TWO KAYLA’S AND A MASON

Later in the week, my roommate and I decided to dip in the pool and relax in the jacuzzi for a bit. After some enjoyed moments of quiet conversation, a louder group joined us in the jacuzzi. Two girls and one gentleman. The girls, adorned with swimsuits, plopped right in the pool, sipping from their bent straws placed in plastic cups, while the gentleman, fully-clothed, sat in their proximity.

They asked our names. We asked theirs.

Both ladies were called Kayla. The Gentleman’s name was Mason. They are actors, recently moved here to “make it”. When asked what type of acting jobs they’d like and what roles they aspire to play, Kayla #1 responded, “Anything I can get paid for.” She said this with the confidence of someone unaware of the wide range of things for which one can be paid.

Kayla #2 responded, “I like really dramatic stuff. Really heavy. Like Lifetime movies.”

Mason chimed in. “I used to be an actor. I did so much work, made my money. But I got out of that game when I joined the Navy. Now I got hurt, so the government sends me my check and I just get drunk everyday. I’m chillin’.” For someone who professed himself a SoCal native, he had an unexplained southern drawl. But I suppose frequent and transparent drunkenness sometimes sounds like that.

Our small talk remained small. I said all the right things for the first bit…such as, “You’re here to act? Well, this is the right place for it.” I nodded when they talked, even tried listening.

Of course, I needed to figure out the ages of these people. But you’re not supposed to ask an actor their age. So I did the “complete this sentence” version of that questionnaire.

“So y’all just graduated from…high school then? And moved out here?”

“Oh my lord,” Kayla #2 put her hand to her heart, “He thinks we’re in high school.” I never found out their ages except Kayla #1 has been in college for 2 years.

As to why I assumed they weren’t far from high school age: let’s just say actions speak louder than appearances. Mason neglected to reveal his age as well, but assuming his age before he acted and then entered the service, we guessed he was probably a safe 24 or so. Both Kaylas and Mason have declared us their new friends and have provided a great deal of insider info for us newbies to the complex. I can be certain they shall appear in this saga again, in circumstances, I can only hope, are more dramatic and compelling…like Lifetime movies.

That’s WEEK ONE.

X-Cessive Bandit