Property Management

Property Management

           “Is this the property management office?” I asked.

           “That’s what the sign says,” the woman behind the cluttered desk answered. She continued rummaging through a mountain-slide pile of file folders.

           “I’m Woodson Donnelly,” I said, thinking she might be searching for my file.

            When, at last, she lifted her face, she focused on my forehead or my hair. Her hair was as white as my own. In fact, everyone I had seen since arriving at the front gates was snow-capped. Not a brunette or ginger or baldy in the place.

           A clear glass name plate was sitting sideways on the desk. I turned it around to see “Assistant Property Manager” engraved between two Art Deco fan designs. The slot where a card with the woman’s name belonged was empty.

           The nameless Assistant Property Manager found my file in a cardboard box on the floor beside her desk. “Are those all new residents?” I asked.

           “Every one,” she said with an audible sneer. As she reached down to retrieve the file, her white bangs fell into her face. She blew the hair away from her eyes and sat up with a file folder in each hand. “I’ve been looking for this one all morning. If you can hold tight for me, I will give this lady a quick call and kill two residents with one stone.”

           Anything to help this obviously overwhelmed white-collar worker, I thought. Still the phrase was odd considering where we were. The A.P.M. picked up a wafer-thin device from under a stack of papers and peppermint hard candy wrappers. My grandfather sucked on those red and white candy disks for his acidy stomach. The A.P.M. must have suffered similar symptoms, likely from her stressful job.

           She stepped away from the desk and turned her back to me. I could barely hear her voice as she spoke to someone on the device. “This is Camille in Property Management.” The rest was barely audible, so I focused on the room.

           The property office was an enormous room without visible loadbearing structures. Again, not too unusual considering where we were. It was filled with clusters of chairs, loveseats, and coffee tables in small conversation groups. Bright light through extra large glass doors gave a view of large flower bushes growing her and there beyond a stone patio. The plants were loaded with giant, white pompon blossoms. I guessed they were hydrangeas or possibly alyssum, certainly larger than any I had seen before and so voluptuous, the flowers completely hid the green foliage. They looked like clouds floating close to the ground. I thought, “I’m going to ask about those shrubs. I want the front of my manse edged in these cloud blossoms.”

           Camille returned from her phone call in the hallway looking more frazzled than before. She fell into her chair mumbling softly. When she looked up and saw me standing across the room in front of a white marble fireplace, she gasped, “Where were we?”

           “I just came for the keys and directions to my manse,” I said calmly, hoping my relaxed tone might carry over to the poor woman. For an operation this size, shouldn’t there be a stable of service providers? “One of your mansions is mine, remember?” I asked.

           “Mansion? Oh, you’ve been paying on one for a long time, I see.” She flipped through my file. “Finally retired, eh?”

           “Finally, yes.”

           Camille walked out from behind her desk. She stopped at a pair chairs – white with a blue, repeating labyrinth pattern. Between the chairs was a teak end table on which sat a gold Perzel diffused light table lamp. (I love Art Deco; sue me.)

           “Some time back, a long time actually, we came under a new administrative mandate, more focused on accountability and value stabilization through consumer participation in all phases of the community’s growth and development.”

           “Swell. What does it mean?” I asked. The desk lamp operated by touch and I had it flashing from my nervous tapping on the base.

           “No one gets a mansion on the first application these days,” she answered.

           “I’ve earned it. Paid in kind for all these years, per our agreement I might add.”

           Suddenly the dazzling white of the décor set me blinking. Camille pointed to a refreshment cart I had not noticed before. “Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?” she asked.

           “No, thank you. I just want an explanation, please. Also, the mansion I was promised.”

           Camille crimped the crease of her ecru trousers, pulling the fabric from mid-thigh to knee. Watching her hand move across the luscious crepe. Was her slight deviation from the bleached white monochrome her personal statement or a rebel act? It was worth my time to find out. “Go on,” I said.

           “In the beginning, this community was quite small, of course. The CEO set the highest standards and requirements for acceptance as a resident were rigorous. An applicant had to prove by word and deed that he or she was the right kind of person.”

           Camille rose from her seat. I watched her walk past the glass patio doors. She wore her white hair in a short bob, a sign of efficiency and not too “precious” my sister would have said. (God rest her sweet soul.) Camille moved to the refreshment cart and poured two cups of coffee. As much as I tried to avoid looking away from her, I caught some movement in the corner from the corner of my left eye. A breeze was blowing the huge white flowers so gently, like clouds.

           When Camille returned, I asked for her name. I knew it, of course, but I wanted her to understand that I was interested in more than the keys to my mansion.

           “Oh, goodness,” she said. “I forgot to wear my name badge, again. Well, there’s a fine I’ll be paying.”

           “I won’t tell a soul,” I smiled.

           “My name is Camille.”

           “I’m Woodson, but you already know that.” We shared a tiny laugh. We sipped our coffees, not ready to return to our business conversation.

           “I did not answer your question about your mansion,” she said.

           “It can wait, can’t it?” I shrugged. I must have looked like a flirty old far to her. “Please go on,” I added.

           “The CEO had a kind of old-fashioned view of the community when he designed and built the first houses. Mansions, luxury apartments, even stylish ranch houses for those who favored country living. All he asked was that applicants pay down on their future homes by doing good, being honest, and saving part of their earthly treasure for their future home. You have done very well, Woodson.” Camille blushed. Against all the whiteness, her cheeks glowed with color.

           “I took a peak at your file,” she continued. “In former times, your escrow account would buy a beautiful mansion with all the amenities.”

           Camille paused. I could not tell if she was embarrassed to go on or frightened. I set my coffee up down on its saucer and reached for her hand but stopped myself. I did not want to do anything that might put her in a bad place with her bosses.

           “Explain how I can pay more for my mansion, now. I have complied with every clause in the contract.”

           Camille inhaled slowly, calming herself. “As you must have guessed, this community does not operate on a currency for goods and services basis. It never has. Under the current business model, you can ‘pay’ for things you want by downsizing your expectations and doing more with less, all keeping expenses low for the company.”

           I pulled back. I was confused and feared Camille might be playing me for a fool.

           “If there is no currency, what does management ‘save’ by my sacrifices?”

           Camille hesitated before answering in a soft, conspiratorial tone I very much liked. “They usa kind of ethereal money. You can’t buy anything with it, but the company big wigs have mountains of it. Keeps them happy, I guess.”

           “So, no mansion for Woodson, is that your final answer?” I tried not to raise my voice, but my throat was constricted from frustration. I was now a tenor.

           Camille rose from her chair and picked up our coffee cups. She carried them to her messy desk and set them on top of a pile of files. Not a good idea, but I didn’t want to upset her further. She pulled open three drawers before she found what she was looking for. As she walked toward the patio doors, she pinned a gold name badge onto the lapel of her jacket. “Camille, Intake Associate.”

           I met her at the patio doors. We walked outside to the sweetest air I ever recall breathing on Earth. Camille began a sort of pantomime, pointing to the left and then the right. Anyone would have thought she was giving me a talking tour of the community, but she said nothing. I played along, nodding, following her hands as she pretended to point out something.

           I saw thousands of mansions stretching over green lawns. In another direction, high rise apartments buildings with large patios and an entertainment area on the roof. Camille looked behind her into the office before stepping off the patio steps into the lawn. She lifted her chin, and I looked as far as I could beyond the apartments to rows of probably a million tiny houses.

           When I looked at Camille, she smiled insincerely but beautifully. “What you see now are the newest homes.”

           I stood on my tip toes trying to see where the little houses ended, but there was no end nor a horizon. They just went on and on forever.

           “The tiny house next to mine is vacant. I could fudge the paperwork a little have it assigned to you.”

           I had no response. Having Camille as my neighbor wounded wonderful, but the tiny house not so much.  

           “This is heaven,” Camille said softly. “You earned your mansion by living a good life on earth. It was the old CEO’s plan. He wanted to bring his ‘children’ together to share his beautiful community forever.”

           “What happened?” I asked.

           “The CEO is very old. In the beginning he set the highest standards for his community and demanded absolute loyalty from the residents. With the passing of eons – long before I arrived, you understand – his demands for unquestioning obedience eased. He came to enjoy a discussion of ideas, to appreciate other perspectives. He did not feel threatened with questions or even opposing points of view.

           “He said, ‘People of faith must be allowed to question, to prove to themselves what they believe.’ Some residents thought he had become soft, even senile.”

           “Who were they?” I asked.

           “Rich guys, mostly. While almost everyone was enjoying paradise, they convinced the old CEO that he had to made Heaven a for-profit enterprise. We were all blindsided.”

           Camille paused. She looked back into the office, checking if someone was checking on her. When she turned back, sure that she was not being watched, she took my hand. I smiled and kissed her fingers. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s better than the other place.”

           “I hear mansions are a bitch to keep clean.”

           We dragged chairs out into the cloud garden and stayed until the stars joined us. What a view.     

(1893)