Wednesday, April 23, 2008


I often spend part of my afternoon in the building's lounge. I don't want to wander too far afield during the hour housekeeping cleans our apartment. Sometimes I go outside; but I'm often working on my computer: one easy elevator ride is better than packing everything up and carting it across town. Additionally, since Monday, it has threatened rain every moment (though actual moments of rain were few and far between), so my heavy lounging excuse seems all the more watertight. Yesterday's trip to the lounge was more surreal than most. Entering, I noticed that maintenance was fussing over the corner where I usually sit. I always sit over where I can see the park traffic through the windows. There, the little round table is an appropriate height for the swanky lima bean loveseats. I wasn't disgruntled about sitting elsewhere for one day, but the act of altering my normal course brought the situation to my notice: oh, they were cleaning my seat. I kept watch throughout the next hour. They cleaned my chair without pause. They scrubbed the undersides of the cushions, the seat back, the very arms of the thing--backbreaking arduous hand-labor. One of the lounge attendants (my favorite: he says "my leisure" instead of "my pleasure" whenever I've thanked him) asked me if the noise was bothering me. When I said no, the steam vacuum machine was turned on, and they gave the dirty loveseat a sonic once-over with that. Eventually this was too loud, so I left. The reason I'm reminded about this: today, very much the same scene played-out over the cleanliness of the chair I'd had to use yesterday. Is it me? I haven't seen them work on any of the other eight loveseats or seventeen chairs--just my two. Sheesh. [Cavin]

Then, a 0 sided conversation ensued...

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