Life In the Danger Zone (LynnK)

After a long, excruciating apprenticeship, I am now the official Dark Vortex of Construction Projects Gone Bad. This is an honor I would cheerfully relinquish.
Some of you are familiar with my next-door horror story, the Never-Ending Renovation of an historical building (dates all the way back to 1911), a former dormitory that should have been labeled Do Not Resuscitate. The restoration began in 2004. This picture was taken yesterday.

I do not expect to outlive this project.

“I guess you’re getting used to the noise by now,” someone said to me the other day. Weakened by sleep deprivation, I refrained from smacking him upside the head. But in fact, the neighborhood is being transformed in unexpected ways. Local mockingbirds in breeding season have begun mimicking backing-up truck beepers. And across the street, a house being remodeled now sports a prominent stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary. I expect she’s meant to ward off the Evil Demons of Faulty Rebuilding.

Meantime, the apartment directly above mine is under the hammer. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, whatever his age, will revert to eight years old when given the chance to demolish, well, just about anything.

And thus it is that the very nice maintenance man, “Gumbah,” and his trusty sidekick charged up the stairs like storm troopers to have their wicked way with hapless floors, ceilings, walls, and my peace of mind. Not to mention my tiny loo.

Into each life some rain must fall. In this case, the rain sounded like gravel as it hit the lowered plastic ceiling in the bathroom. After the second day, light from the fluorescent tubes above the ceiling could not penetrate the layers of silt, chipped paint, wood splinters, fragments of dry wall, and chunks of cement. I showered in the dark.

Then came the avalanche. And I can’t say I wasn’t warned. It’s reported that cats are able to detect early, otherwise imperceptible indications of an impending earthquake or volcanic eruption. In this case, I’m sure Lymond knew disaster was at hand. Poised at scampering distance from the Demolition Derby, ears pricked up, he was making low noises in his throat and shooting meaningful looks over his shoulder at me. “Did you hear that?”

Upstairs, the guys were banging and crashing and ripping up and laughing. Gravel-rain was falling. Business as usual. “It’s all right, “ I assured the watch-cat. At which point, all hell broke loose.

I learned that even when the sky is falling, inertia remains my natural state. It didn’t occur to me I should bolt for safety. Not so Lymond, who made it to the top of the cat tree in record time. I just sat there in front of the laptop, which I closed against the cloud of dust, and waited until the last few cement lumps hit the sink.


Finally, after everything else had fallen, silence fell. I dragged myself up, sauntered as far I could get into the bathroom, and looked up. Above me, through a hole the size of a jacuzzi, I saw Gumbah and sidekick gazing down at what they had wrought.

“I’ll expect I’ll be seeing the clean-up crew in a minute or two,” I said with a friendly smile. Never, ever, antagonize the maintenance men! Besides, I really like those guys. And sure enough, they quickly appeared with brooms and did the usual lousy job one expects from men who’d rather be wreaking havoc. But they did replace the sacrificial plastic panel, which will protect me and cat from falling debris for, well, who knows?

I’m not sure if there’s any connection between all the construction and destruction surrounding me and a sudden rash of computer problems. Maybe the cable company is messing up again. I suspect that’s the case. At home I can’t seem to stay on-line for any degree of time, which makes it hard to upload blog posts, so I’m sending this from a friend’s condo. She has wireless. It works. I have Time-Warner. Disaster takes many forms.

Update: Lymond de Sevigny wishes to thank StoryBroads’ commenters for their kind and understanding words after his traumatic week. He hopes they will inspire me to coddle him with Sheba cat food. Which, as it happens, I saw at Ralph’s yesterday. $1.49 for a teensy-weensy can! Don’t hold your breath, cat.