Rosie insisted on observing the gift-giving traditions, but she had been remarkably perceptive in her choices. Colleagues had already commented positively on the shoes that Rosie had given me for my forty-first birthday ten days earlier and which I now wore to work in place of expired running shoes.
Rosie claimed to enjoy surprises, to the extent of saying ‘surprise me’ when I sought her advice on which play or concert or restaurant to book. Now I was planning a surprise that would exceed all previous instances, with the exception of the revelation of her biological father’s identity and the offer of an engagement ring.
It is considered acceptable to engage in temporary deception in support of a surprise.
‘You coming, Don?’ said Rosie as she departed the following morning. Although Rosie was technically on vacation, she was continuing to work on her thesis at Columbia on weekdays, as the apartment gave her ‘cabin fever’.
She was wearing a short dress with blue spots that I suspected was a recent purchase. The belt, also blue, was wider than necessary to perform its presumed function of emphasising her body shape. The overall effect was positive, but largely due to the exposure of Rosie’s legs rather than the aesthetic properties of the costume.
I had switched from riding my new bike to accompanying her on the subway to increase contact time. I reminded myself: the deception is temporary and in support of a surprise; surprises are positive; Rosie had not revealed my birthday-weekend excursion to the Smithsonian. I stepped into the bathroom to prevent Rosie interpreting my body language.
‘I’m running a bit late. I’ll get the next train,’ I said.
‘You’re what?’
‘Running late. It’s not a problem. I don’t have any lectures today.’ All three statements were technically true, but the first was deceptive. I planned to take the whole day off.
‘Are you okay, Don? This pregnancy thing has thrown you, hasn’t it?’
‘Only by a few minutes.’
Rosie had joined me in the bathroom and was examining some component of her face in the mirror. ‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘Not necessary. In fact, I’m considering riding my bike. To make up time.’
‘Hey. I want to talk to you. We hardly talked all weekend.’
It was true that the weekend had been disrupted and that communication had thus been reduced. I began to formulate a response but, now that I was in deception mode, it was difficult to conduct a normal conversation.
Fortunately, Rosie conceded without further input from me. ‘All right. But call me for lunch or something.’
Rosie kissed me on the cheek, then turned and left our apartment for the last time.
Dave arrived in his van eight minutes later. We needed to move swiftly as he was required at the Cellar in the Sky to take delivery of the English ale.
It took fifty-eight minutes to pack the furniture and plants. Then I tackled the bathroom. I was astonished by the number of cosmetic and aromatic chemicals that Rosie owned. It would presumably have been insulting for me to tell her that, beyond the occasional dramatic use of lipstick or perfume (which faded rapidly after application due to absorption, evaporation or my becoming accustomed to it), they made no observable difference. I was satisfied with Rosie without any modifications.
Despite the quantity, the chemicals fitted in a single garbage bag. As Dave and I packed the remaining contents of the apartment into Rosie’s suitcases, cardboard boxes and additional polythene bags, I was amazed by the sheer quantity of stuff we had accumulated since arriving. I remembered a statement Rosie had made prior to leaving Melbourne.
‘I’m leaving all the crap behind. I’m hardly bringing anything.’ It was true that she had contradicted this statement by bringing three suitcases, but her intent was clear: moving was an opportunity to review possessions. I decided to discard anything not essential to our lives. I recalled some advice I had read in a magazine, waiting for the dentist, on 5 May 1996: ‘If you haven’t worn it or used it for six months, you don’t need it.’ The principle seemed sensible and I began applying it.
Dave accompanied me to the doorman’s office to surrender my key. Rosie’s would need to be returned later. We were greeted by the superintendent. He was, as usual, unfriendly.
‘I hope you’re not here to complain about anything, Mr Tillman. I haven’t forgotten about talking to the owners,’ he said.
‘Unnecessary. We’re leaving.’ I gave him the key.
‘What, no notice? You got to give thirty days’ notice.’
‘You indicated that I was an undesirable tenant who could be replaced tomorrow with a desirable one. It seems like a good outcome for everyone.’
‘If you don’t care about a month’s rent.’ He laughed.
‘That seems unreasonable. If you have a new tenant in the apartment, you would be receiving double rent for a month.’
‘I don’t make the rules, Mr Tillman. Take it up with the owner if you want.’
I was conscious of becoming annoyed. Today was inevitably going to involve a high level of stress, beginning with the abandonment of scheduled Monday activities. It was time to practise my empathy skills. Why was the supervisor consistently so unpleasant? The answer did not require much reflection. He was required to deal with tenants who complained about problems that he was powerless to rectify, due to his low status and the recalcitrance of the company that owned the building. He was constantly dealing with people in conflict. His low status alone put him at increased risk of coronary heart disease due to elevated cortisol. World’s worst job. I suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘I apologise for causing you trouble. Can you connect me with the owner, please?’
‘You want to speak with the owner?’
‘Correct.’
‘Good luck.’ Incredible. My simple exercise in empathy now had the superintendent on my side, offering his good wishes. He made a call.
‘I’ve got the tenant in 204 with me. He’s leaving—right now, today—you got it, no notice—and thinks he should get his deposit back.’ He laughed and handed me the phone.
Dave took it from me. ‘Let me do this.’
Dave’s voice changed. The tone was difficult to describe, but it was as if Woody Allen had been cast instead of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
‘My friend here’s got a problem with the legality of the air-conditioning system. Might be a safety risk.’
There was a pause.
‘A licensed air-conditioning inspector,’ said Dave. ‘You got self-contained units all over the building like warts on a toad. We don’t act unless we get a complaint, but then we’d be obliged to look at the whole damn building. I guess if my friend’s paying the rent for another month, he might just want to do that: make a complaint. Which could be very expensive for you. Or maybe you’d like to let him go now. With his security deposit.’
There was a longer pause. Dave’s face registered disappointment. Perhaps the ‘warts on a toad’ metaphor had confused the owner. Toads are presumed to cause warts, not to have warts. He handed me the phone.
‘You done?’ said a male voice down the line.
‘Greetings.’
‘Oh shit, it’s you. You’re leaving?’
I recognised the voice now. It was not the owner. It was the employee I frequently spoke to about problems that the owner was contractually responsible for but the superintendent considered outside his domain: the stability of temperature, the speed of the internet service, regularity of fire drills. Et cetera.