I like to think that I was raised properly, and my parents
passed along a number of traditional, old-fashioned values. One of those principles included “knowing the
neighbors.” Mom and Dad were always
cordial with the neighbors, and my mother always made a point of greeting new
residents to our street. I’ve tried to
continue that practice, and after moving into Park Lane Apartments, I tried to
follow their example and introduce myself to others.
While I would classify many of the Park Lane residents as
“characters” (see my previous post about Baby Clown), Padmalaya will be the
focus of today’s entry.
When I first met Padmalaya, I was immediately charmed. A diminutive Indian woman in her early 60s, Padmalaya
speaks with a crisp British accent, but she quickly put me at ease when she
told me that I could call her Patty.
Within seconds of meeting Patty I announced that if she ever
needed anything, she could ask me.
Unfortunately, I spoke to soon, because shortly thereafter, I realized
that Patty was loco.
After making my offer of assistance, Patty immediately asked
where I was from.
“Oh,
I’m from Pasadena,” I replied. “I just
moved up to the Bay for work.”
“No. I don’t mean that. Where are you FROM? I am a US citizen.”
While slightly annoyed that Patty needed to know my
ethnicity within seconds of meeting me, I decided to withhold judgment. I responded saying, “Oh, my dad was from
Egypt, and my mom’s family was from England.”
Patty,
clearly intrigued, paused. “Oh, you’re
Egyptian! But are you a CITIZEN? I am a citizen.”
My frustration with Patty was growing, and I wondered why
she kept repeating that she was a citizen.
Did she fear that I was an INS nark?
Or worse, was SHE an INS nark
who suspected that I was in the US illegally?
I decided to laugh off her question and replied, “Oh, I was
born in Orange County, and I’m a citizen, alright!”
She smiled, but I could almost swear that a glimmer of
relief flashed across her face. Feeling
awkward after my interrogation from La
Migra, I made an excuse and headed off to my car.
I had nearly forgotten about Patty until three weeks ago,
when I heard a knock on my door. I
assumed it was Davey, my goofy neighbor from across the hall, and I quickly
opened the door. At first I didn’t see
anything, but then I looked down and I saw a five foot Indian woman smiling up
at me.
“Hello,
Mark. You said you could help me? I have some bags in my car that I need you to
get.”
Honestly, I frequently make offers to help people, but no
one’s ever taken me up on them, so I was slightly taken aback that Patty
followed through! I quickly collected my
thoughts, though, and I followed her to the car where I retrieved six plastic
bags of Ensure.
Patty and I walked back to her apartment, where she fumbled
with her keys and opened the front door.
As I crossed the threshold, I was shocked.
Patty was a Level Five Hoarder.
As I scanned her living room, I was overwhelmed by the piles
of boxes, papers, and mounds of clothing.
I couldn’t make out an empty surface, much less a place to deposit the
bags of Ensure.
“Uh,
where should I put these?” I murmured, trying not to stare.
“Oh,
just put them at your feet. I’ll unpack
them.”
After muttering some pleasantries, I escaped to my
apartment, perplexed by this turn of events.
Since then, Patty continues to resurface in my life, and
apparently Walgreen offers frequent specials on Ensure, because I’ve schlepped
loads of bottles to her apartment. I’ve
also seen Patty at church, but I tried to avoid making eye contact throughout
the service.
My neighbor Davey always has a bemused expression on his
face when he sees me with Patty. And I
confess that I would not have chosen Patty as a friend, but we’ve developed an
understanding, and we “get” each other.
Plus, she’s also a Cal alum.
Go, Bears!
