P.N.ZOYTLOW

My condo time. It was an accident. Well, not that dramatic, more like something that could have been better thought out and carefully planned. I had recently left my adjunct position at Ballast College in Pecatonica Junction, Illinois, which was a few more years of my life in which I had found something to do, a distraction like most things in my life, from that restless search for the BIG WHAT. I might explain that later because, unlike my observational function in the novella Beyond the Scrim, I will allow myself onto center stage in this little chunk of autobio and tell you some stuff, too. And for those readers still determining who I am and where Ballast College might be, I’ve left a reference at the end of this little report. 

 I moved to Coco Glen because, after some years of itinerant academic life, I wished for a place to call home, one that would be both an investment and a place that would be a secure lock-and-leave should I choose to accept another offer to teach or what passes for teaching (you may know what I mean). Coco Glen Luxury Estates was a condominium community inland from the Gulf Coast. Real estate gets cheaper the further inland you go in Florida. Folks want to see the water! That was one of the arguments in Moby Dick, one of my favorites, until I tried to teach it at Ballast College and other places. 

Excuse the digression. What was gnawing at me was that I was not financially ready for the “later stages of life” and thought the anticipated boom in Florida real estate would create a healthy sum, which, together with an occasional teaching gig at some little college, would be all I needed. In some newsletters, I read that Florida would attract the usual retirees and politically and religiously conservative persons. All it took was a condo community near a mega-church and then sitting back and watching folks come down to the Sunshine State. 

As I have mentioned, Coco Glen Luxury Estates (hereafter CGLE) is waterless except for the half-acre lagoon, which serves as the centerpiece on the premises. Several miles to the south are the Morbee Wetlands, which some call the Little Everglades. A cinder-block wall surrounds the entire CGLE complex. There is no pool, but a heavily chlorinated above-ground hot tub is available for use in less torrid times of the year. 

I bought it for $57,000 (the usual 20% down and a thirty-year mortgage)

My unit was a one-bedroom, with one bath on the ground floor and a small patio. The AC and water heater were new. The appliances were not new, but they appeared to be well-maintained. But you never know. There were 60 apartments in total, divided into 10 buildings. 

The place was quiet–not too many small children, and at first, I wondered if there was a 55 and above rule. There was not, but CGLE attracted mainly retirees or near-retirees. I learned many had been

employed at the Morbee Lab two miles off. The Morbee Animal Research facility served several Florida corporations, mainly household or cosmetic product manufacturers, in a consortium arrangement. I should have remembered because several animal protection agencies had cited the place for unacceptable standards of care, from guinea pigs to small monkeys.

“Let all flesh keep silent,

Silent as the tomb

Too much small talk

Guarantees man’s doom.”

Those were the words I heard on the first Sunday morning at CGLE. I opened the door and saw several dozen adults, primarily seniors, grouped at the edge of the central lagoon in lawn chairs they had carried with them. No one seemed to be in charge, and other than a sad song, which was intoned thrice at various points in the “service,” there was no sound from the group. I am attracted to weirdness so I made a note to learn more about these Quiet Folk.

But what a stupid business! I closed the door most of the way to observe them without being noticed. So these were my neighbors, or at least some of them. Well, the place was quiet and seemed deserted most of the time. Two weeks after moving in, I still had not met more than the person who lived above me and the older woman in the end unit of the nearby building. Both seem friendly, if somewhat cautious. 

The couple upstairs had a dachshund named Billy. They were from Utica, New York, and had been in the furniture business until retiring to the Sunshine State. “Augie Botfleigh” was what I thought he said as he extended a limp hand. “Betsy Botfleigh, but I was born a Merganser,” said his wife. “Phil Zoytlow, from All-Over.” They stared, and Billie growled at my ankle. 

The older woman from the next building was Mrs. Hapenstanz, who was quite deaf and, despite a pair of clunky hearing aids, had the habit of pointing to her ears when you met her, an explanation for why she never lost a puzzled expression. After I met her, she hung a small bag of bannock on my door with a note: “Enjoy this. Mrs. H”

Bannock? Who expects to eat bannock in central Florida? But that was a small potato question compared to my growing list about my new neighborhood and its presumed community. I am new to condo living, and I expected a commune experience. Still, since seeing other residents was exceedingly rare, the only evidence I had of them was the automobiles in the parking lot. All of them were American-made, mostly Chevrolet, and none had bumper stickers that could provide a hint of some sort. This was better than a blizzard of obnoxious political views, but on the other hand, their complete absence was disquieting.

Since there was no clubhouse or other focus for the community, I wondered if there was a place for meetings. Finally, after about five weeks, an envelope appeared on my door, a welcome letter with a few details. There was a property management (PM) company with a phone number, but no location was indicated. The monthly fee for a small number of services (pest control, mainly garbage) was $45.00. Expenses for emergency repairs (roof, plumbing, security) were assessed when needed. There was no reserve fund. At the bottom of the page was this:

“Residents who have lived at Coco Glen for more than three months may apply to be members of the Board of Directors when vacancies occur. At present, there are no vacancies. Residents are welcome as visitors but may not interrupt the proceedings until the designated question period. They may not, of course, vote.”

There is an old joke going around. A retired man sees his doctor, and the doctor has bad news. “In all candor, I have to tell you that the tests show

disturbing, if not alarming, levels of peregrinitis.” “How much time do I have?” asks the man in a quaver. “Well, hard to say, hard to say. I see on your records that you live in a condominium.” “That’s true.” Well, get on the Board of Directors, and time will move very slowly, even stop at times, and you’ll WISH you were dead at the end of a year!” This little jest often meets with a rueful chuckle when told. The reader may wish to know why I attended. As near as I can ascertain, it was a blend of curiosity, presumed obligation, and ……well, I don’t know what a third reason might be. 

Belatedly, I realized that I had confused, or confabulated, what I assumed a “condominium” community might be. Blame it on my undergraduate experience at a California university infested with young leftists of every stripe. Among these, the idea of communal living devoid of property ownership ranked prominently in their constitutions. Worker control of production, communal agriculture, neighborhood schools, child care, etc. Flexible rules on marriage and divorce. No more inequalities and decisions made for the good of all. These were old ideas, of course, but they bubbled to the surface occasionally. My college years during the 1960s were one of those times, and the failure of communal notions to take hold did not erase them from being cherished by an aging gent such as myself. Was I a naif as I succumbed to a communal dream at CGLE? 

Was I a “naif”? That was not a word I had applied to myself, though it is not too far off. My academic aspirations were naive, and certainly so. I don’t think I ever understood the culture of the places where I was an adjunct (read serf). At CocoGrove, I flattered myself, considering that the Board of Directors would be interested in my leftist suggestions for a more successful communal experience. I wrote out a proposal and made several copies to hand out. This was already a misstep, as such things were rarely welcomed. I would have had to have an ally on the Board, and I did not. The proposal was peppered with words familiar to students of socialism: steering committee, the politburo, directorate, five-year plan, plenary assembly, proletariat, etc. To add to the appeal of this heady mixture, I suggested removing the capitalist Property Management (PM) organization because they were the natural enemies of a commune.

Nothing came of this. I did not distribute my manifesto if that is what it was. Several things were clear from when I sat at a cramped table in the community center:

1. Having meetings on a weekday morning meant that only retirees could attend or be on the Governing Board, the GB.
2. The Board had five members and one non-voting member, the PM representative.
3. Interest in the GB depended on the issues at hand.

Most of the time, Coco drifted along and allocated money to whatever seemed to be the most pressing problem. My first meeting involved repairing a fence, deciding to plant several new shrubs near the lagoon, and so on. 

The Governing Board had officers in name only. Arranging meetings, collecting the monthly fees from residents), keeping minutes up to date, and expediting work orders were accomplished by the Property Manager (PM). The Coco GB was female and older, as was the PM. This may account for the hesitant, nearly tepid greetings extended to me at the first meeting. I was a youngish outsider. Would I be a problem?

This brings us to the crux of the story (sorry it took so long to get here).

This will not be a record of communal living. Not in the least. The sense of sharing anything at the Coco Grove Luxury Estates was absent. People lived in their dwellings and interacted only slightly, except for that peculiar religious group around the pond on Sundays. If there was a complaint or a suggestion, it came to the PM, who then shared it with us at the monthly meeting. Most of the time, the PM just took care of things, having learned to be suspicious of democracy when the efficient expedition of issues was handled unilaterally and then presented to the Board. All of this showed me something I had already learned in other places: socialism was not applicable in a community of weird older adults and the stray young family, who was there in a transitional capacity until they scraped together a down payment elsewhere. Conclusion: the residents were unaware of their proto-socialist situation, ignored it, and were pleased to be the creatures of the Property Management Organization. They were sheep.

Overall, Coco Glen had seen better days. The stucco was chipped, the paint was peeling, there were cracks in the sidewalk, and the shuffleboard area was uneven and unplayable. Palm trees dropped huge brown husks and dog waste not being picked up by all dog owners (and they were numerous). In short, most of the inhabitants of the 50 units were content in their homes and preferred to relate to the exterior of the buildings and the grounds with casual oblivion.

At my first meeting, the Property Manager, a short woman in her fifties with a blond wig and an anchor tattoo on her left arm, ran through a list of “resolved issues” from the previous month. It was disquieting to me that most of that issue concerned pest control. While the other board members seemed detached, I was unsettled. The pests reported were

termites, fire ants, mosquitos, raccoons, citrus rats, lizards (three kinds including iguanas), alligators, and Burmese pythons.  

I raised my hand. ” Excuse me, I’m new here, Phil Zoytlow.”

Someone murmured, “Hi, Phil.” They did not offer their names. 

I continued, “How many alligators and snakes were apprehended on the property last month?”

“We don’t keep those figures.”

“Do you have a budget sheet I could study? I’m playing catch-up on how a condominium works?”  

The woman to whom I directed my questions was portly and had a jowly face that brought to mind certain dog breeds. And braids atop her large head. Since childhood, I have found those “looks” disquieting and dangerous. In any event, there was no response. Had they heard me? I cleared my throat but noticed frowns on the faces of this Board trio. This called for a non-active approach. I folded my hands and listened to the rest of the meeting, which discussed repairs to a shuffleboard facility and the need to get estimates to do the work. There was a lengthy discussion of banning charcoal barbecues in favor of propane. 

About this time, I noticed a frail-looking, younger woman in the row of chairs set aside for resident visitors to these meetings. She was pretty but emaciated, the kind of suggestion of vulnerability attractive to some men. I guessed she was about 35. She wore tinted glasses, and her outfit, part military surplus and bib overalls, suggested something radical. Trotskyite? I felt a little nudge of hope. An ally?

 After the meeting, I was unsurprised to find her walking beside me on the curving sidewalk leading to the condos. During the meeting, I did notice that she glanced at me several times.

“I’m Gretch. I mean, it’s Gretchen.” She offered a fist bump.

“Phil.” Since she had not provided a surname, neither did I. Why confuse people with a curious name like “Zoytlow?”.

“You’re new here, I know. What did you think of the meeting?”

‘Not sure what I think. I came as an observer only. I don’t think I want to be a board member.”

“Good call.”  

She hesitated and then peered up at me, looked away as if to gather her thoughts, made eye contact again, looked into the distance, and finally resumed her examination of my face…And while she continued in this uncertain loop, I was using the time to prepare myself for whatever had to come next. Either she needed money, love, or some other favor, from fixing a faucet drip to protecting her from a vengeful husband. Cut to the chase: out with it! I tried not to sound too blunt or unfriendly. Could I handle friendly bluntness? Probably not.

“What do you want?” That is all I could manage. This did not encourage or discourage her. My question, blunt or otherwise, opened up her blockage.

She began, “I’ve lived here nearly a year and haven’t made any trouble. I pay my dues, try to be pleasant when seeing neighbors, and attend every Board meeting. I go to board meetings because when people fear air travel, they go to an airport to get used to the planes and reassure themselves that the worst does not happen. Usually not. In my case, I am trying to gather the courage to request a special variance from the Board to help me resolve a household problem.”

“Such as?” Here, I imagined something that required a structural change in her unit, like installing gym equipment or solar panels. Maybe a water bed, something most condo communities forbid. I decided to take a stab at it since she was so hesitant.

“Garbage disposal plugged?.”

She looked at me with some irritation. 

“Cockroaches?” I had seen some of the geckos feasting on them. She began to sob unexpectedly, and that is the worst kind of sobbing, as we all know. I put my hand on her shoulder and said

the accepted cliché: “there, there,” while I considered my role in somehow precipitating this uncomfortable development. And what if she began to blubber and wail miserably? What then? However, after less than a minute, she regained her composure and asked me if I had the time and if I would consider walking her to her door and sharing my thoughts on what I found at her place. What could I say? I was afraid of another episode of lachrymosa if I refused.

She had a unit directly behind mine, on the other side of the building. So we were neighbors! We no longer talked until we reached the door, at which point she signaled me to be silent. Even before the door opened, I smelled a sharp odor like a zoo building in summer. She opened the door enough to get her slender hand in to reach the light switch and then asked me to look. I quickly looked over her head and saw a portion of the living room. My senses were alert. The odor of something feral increased, but it took a moment to adjust to the act of seeing. In the meantime, my body was pressing against hers, and I felt her increasing this pressure. Her bodily warmth was apparent despite her overalls and added to the sensual and olfactory bouquet, which I was beginning to enjoy in a primal way. Then, just as I began to realize that there was something, as yet unseen, in that apartment, she shut the door and turned to me. She was only inches away. She appeared stressed; I put my arms around her. She leaned her forehead on my shoulder and began to press against me again, and the benefit of the doubt I wanted to maintain about her motives began to erode. I was starting to weigh some options. Finally, she spoke.

“I am so sorry to put you through this, but it appears she is angry, and it may take a while for her to calm down. I want her to be at her best when you two meet.'” 

Her voice was muffled, and her mouth was pressed against my arm. It was awkward, and I hoped to extricate myself from her and the situation. I had had enough weirdness in my recent years of academic postings. And besides, what if she decided to bite me?

Then she stepped back and murmured, “Let’s call it a night, Phil. I think my judgment is off today. Thanks, though.” And with that, she opened the door just enough to slip through. The door clicked shut, and I heard a deadbolt engaging. An instant later, the door opened a crack. ” May you live with ease.” Her voice was clear, and I reassured myself that she would be alright. 

Poor woman. I never saw her again, but as a visitor to the Board meeting the following month, I heard she had moved out, and her condo was up for sale. More details came to me from a story in the Ocala Organizer, a mediocre little paper that focused on odd news, locally or otherwise—for example, a three-part series on the Albanian royal house, members of which had settled in Florida. 

But back to Gretchen: There had been visits from the Florida Departments of Wildlife Management and Public Safety. A Morbee Animal Research Center van had also paid a visit late one evening. As the story went on, Gretchen (Gretch) managed to land a clerical position at the Morbee Center and was in the habit of liberating research animals. White rats, rabbits, and finally, several rhesus monkeys. She had intended to board them until she could find homes for them in towns along the Gulf Coast. When that did not work out, she would drive south to the Everglades and release them in habitats she assumed to be suitable. It was partly a clandestine for-profit business and a pro bono exercise in animal liberation. Most of these liberated creatures were not recovered by the authorities. What she intended my role to be in all this remains a mystery.

The affair caused some lousy publicity for Coco Glen Luxury Estates, and I waited a few years until I could put the condo on the market without a loss. In the meantime, I arranged several adjunct teaching jobs further north. That was that—my condo time. It was quite sobering to learn how uphill it is to convince people that a modified communal organization might serve their best interests.

I thought of the quip the doctor had offered his terminally ill patient: get on a condo board. He might have broadened it to say that, curiously, both pleasantly and unpleasantly, time stands still when you live in a place like Coco Glen Luxury Estates. But what the hell? 

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I made reference above to my short novella on Ballast College and the time I spent there in the early 1990s. This may be found, together with other writings, on my blog at www. pnzoytlow.com