Stuart Court, Chapter Two

Prior to moving into Stuart Court, the imposing apartment house at the entrance to Monument Avenue, I decided to rent a carpet shampoo machine and do some other general cleaning while my place was still empty. I pulled up in the circular drive at the front of the building and unloaded the carpet cleaner, and before I could take off to find a parking space an elderly - but sprightly - black gentleman dashed out to my car and began lugging the machine into the building. I was alarmed, because he looked like he was a thousand years old, and told him I would carry my stuff in as soon as I found a parking space. He would have none of that, and so he hauled my things into the building.

Mark was one of several black employees at Stuart Court, and he usually worked nights and weekends. During the week, two women acted as hostesses. I quickly learned that I had entered a time warp at Stuart Court, and that many of the old women who lived there treated the staff like servants (or worse). Mark was accustomed to hauling packages inside for the residents.

There were two halves inside one unified front as far as the physical layout of the building. Basically, the building was actually two apartment towers with separate sets of elevators. All of the even-numbered apartments were in the northeast wing, while the odd-numbered apartments were in the southwest wing. The elevators were, incredibly, still hand-operated, so there were two hostesses by day. Rosa staffed my side of the building, and at night Mark handled the whole building. This arrangement probably worked fine until young folks like me moved in.

I'd come in late at night, half-lit, and ring the bell to get into the building. Eventually Mark would appear, half-asleep, to take me up to my floor. Mark told me that he was eighty-six and also worked a day job. I'm sure he was accustomed to sleeping at night at Stuart Court, with only the occasional interruption if an elderly tenant had to call an ambulance in the wee hours.

Dead on his feet, Mark would propel the elevator toward the sixth floor, usually overshooting the goal, then we'd lurch down too far, and I'd step up or jump off just to get on firm footing. I always felt bad about waking Mark up late at night, but that's just how it worked. I couldn't run up and down the stairs all the time.

It was nice having day staff available to accept packages while I was away at work. There was also a dry-cleaning service who visited the building at least once a week, and I could leave a check with Rosa for Mr. Collins, and she would place my clean garments on hooks in the mail room. At the time, I wore a lot of dry-cleaned clothing to work, and this was a real time saver.

After awhile, the old elevators were replaced with new automatic lifts, and the night porter was no longer needed. The day hostesses were kept, but residents got keys to the front door for the evenings.

As the older tenants were removed to nursing homes or cemeteries, the lifestyle at Stuart Court gradually changed. Sadly, the building was sold to a careless owner, and a few years ago this once-proud building was featured on the local news because of the poor condition of the building. The new owner did not seem to care that he possessed a piece of history designed by one of the lauded architects of luxury homes in the early half of the last century, William Lawrence Bottomley.

Below is an excerpt from a review of a book, The Architecture of William Lawrence Bottomley, by Susan Hume Frazer:
Refined country houses, gracious urban dwellings, posh Broadway cafés, exotic nightclubs, and a high-rise apartment building that, 80 years after its construction, is still considered the epitome of tony living in Manhattan, these are among the many achievements of William Lawrence Bottomley, one of the best American architects of the first half of the 20th century. During his 40-year career, Bottomley designed and executed over 180 commissions for his clients. An uncompromising perfectionist with refined taste, he oversaw virtually every facet of his projects, from interior ornamentation and decoration to the surrounding landscape design.

Car and Driver

Four people who didn't know each other very well were talking at a party. Jason, who had recently obtained a new car, was telling the others about how much he liked it. He had never had a car before, and was excited about his new sense of freedom. He described how his car did things for him that he hadn't even known it could do when he got it. To hear Jason talk, you'd think he was the first person on the planet to drive a car.

Mary listened to Jason, and thought about her own car. She had had it quite awhile, and as far as she was concerned she planned to keep it. Although she didn't speak of her car - she just let Jason talk - she reflected to herself about how safe and comfortable her vehicle made her feel. Even though it had a lot of miles on it, it seemed as good as new to Mary. She was very content, but Mary didn't try to talk anyone into driving a car like hers.

Sam hung on Jason's every word. He was driving a car that belonged to his parents, but had secretly been thinking of giving it back to them, and making his own choice. He knew this would cause a ruckus, especially with his dad, who always thought he knew what was best for Sam. The truth was that his parents' car just didn't have the right feel to it, but he hated to cause trouble in his family. Sam wondered whether Jason's car would be a good choice for him.

Bruce was irritated as he listened to Jason talk about his damned car. Bruce didn't think anyone needed a car, and he always got edgy when the topic came up. He had been injured in a collision between two vehicles when he was young, and had been a loud opponent of them ever since. It angered him to hear how easily car owners went places he could only reach with a struggle. Having had enough of the conversation, Bruce left the party in a huff.

Now read this vignette again, replacing the car with whatever you call your Higher Power.

Earlier this week, I had the duty of answering our local AA Hotline. I got a call from a fellow who said he needed help with his drinking problem. He wanted me to find a meeting near him. I told him about a few, and he asked "what kind of meetings" they were. I explained that one was a speaker meeting, another a discussion meeting, anf the third was a book study. He said he wouldn't go to the book study because they would talk about God.

Hmmm, I thought. It's actually likely that the word God would come up in any or all meetings at least once. Although he had said he had not been to a meeting, I asked him again if he had been to AA before. He admitted that he had several years ago, but couldn't deal with the "God stuff."

I reflected that I had felt the same way when I first went to AA. I was, however, in such despair that I went anyway. I had tried to quit drinking on my own with no success, and the progressive nature of the disease had brought me so close to death that I was willing to try anything. I figured I'd just go see what AA had to offer, and I'd deal with the "religious crap" somehow. Oddly enough, it wasn't a problem at all since AA's steps are presented as suggestions, and you work through things at your own pace. I was also relieved to discover that no one in the program tried to define what my Higher Power should look like.

The best thing I could think of to tell this fellow was based on my own experience with getting sober. I told him that I knew how he felt, that I had felt the same way, and that the steps in the program were suggestions for recovery, not commands. I explained a little bit about what life was like before I got sober; the promises to myself that I would not drink the next day, and the compulsion that drove me back to the bottle each new morning. The awful realization that I could not stop on my own. My fears about my future, and the near certainty of death.

Here's how I reasoned it out, I told him. I finally had to admit to myself that I could not stop drinking. This made me powerless over alcohol. Therefore, alcohol was my higher power. This was, frankly, too screwed up to endure. So I gave in and turned to AA. I went in with an open mind and complete willingness. I let go of my fears and relaxed, and that's all I needed to do. I advised him he could take or leave whatever he heard, but he should go to a meeting since he'd had the courage to pick up the thousand pound phone to call AA. This seemed to make sense to him.

I hope he went to a meeting. I rarely know what happens to people after I answer the hotline. I do my best, and then I must let it go. Sometimes I do see them in meetings, or I will hear about them from others in the program. Alcoholism is cunning, baffling, and powerful; it will use our fears of appearing weak to others, our fears of religion, our fears of losing relationships, and our fear of change to prevent us from getting help. Sadly, the noise of those fears keeps many from getting the help they need.