the last seven years

March 2021

For the last seven years, I have been the mercurial, albeit loyal half of a very comfortable relationship. He’s an older man, a property owner, and boasts a life of international travel and idiosyncratic hobbies. My greying counterpart wears the quiet badge of a steadfast life, early-rising and overconfident in his ability to fix toilets and pipe leaks. I might have walked out on a prettier man for his tendencies to only partially complete a bathroom renovation, but Michael is my landlord, and he lives across the hall. 

“Have you been to Ravinia Park for an outdoor concert?” he’ll ask me as I’m taking out the recycling. I still haven’t been to Ravinia. In fact, I haven’t made it after any of the dozens of conversations we have had about Ravinia. I’ll shake my head, my sinuses swirling from the humidity. He won’t notice that I’ve begun edging toward the door, and launches into his pitch. 

“It’s the oldest outdoor music venue in the country, ” he’ll say, excitedly. “People pack picnics, and wine, and spread out on the lawn to enjoy whatever concert is playing that night. You can drive, but most people take the Metra. It will take you right to the front gates, so you can avoid parking entirely.” 

I’ll think of all of the things I have yet to accomplish this weekend, and the laundry list of inconveniences that would accompany a Saturday night Metra ride. As I do at least three times every June, I will promise to make it a priority this summer, and sidle into my kitchen. I watch him putter with his tomato plants, and feel a certain softness settle in my chest. In reflection, I’m always angry at myself for acting so impatiently in the moment. 

Michael is 72 years old this year, and lives life with quiet and careful enthusiasm. He is a loyal member of an amateur radio club, pours his afternoons into learning photo editing software, and takes startling trips to India for month-long meditation retreats. His volunteer resume is astonishing, and his capacity for service is unremitting. Michael maintains the comfortable routine of an established bachelor, but public records suggest he may have been married once. I’m too shy to ask him about his wife. 

The building I live in has belonged to Michael’s family since 1930. It is charming, poorly insulated, and mouse-ridden in the early months of winter. The man has lived in his inheritance for nearly his entire life, cooking quiet dinners and maintaining the ornate wallpaper in the front hallway. The apartment appliances are almost as old; his refusal to replace the ancient refrigerator speaks to an unending fidelity he maintains for the things his father left him.   

My best friend and I moved to the corner of East and Harrison as sophomores in college. After a short introduction, we were thrilled to discover that he had agreed to rent to our wide-eyed and minimally employed selves. The entire building wrapped us in a sense of security, and we liked knowing somebody was watching out for us across the hall. 

Without so much as a credit check, the apartment was ours. We danced in the tiny living room and slept on twin-sized mattresses that were confined to our bedroom floors for the first twelve months, just content to have a place of our own in a city this large. Assuming the role of a paternal watchdog, Michael checked in regularly, obsessing over the thermostat, worrying if our guests were parked in a way that would avoid his snowblower in the morning, and disapproving of our tendency to flaunt a shameless life with the windows open.

While we were young, and admittedly comforted to receive such careful attention from our fussy neighbor, it didn’t take long to notice small eccentricities piling up outside of our back door. While unassuming and kind, Michael was very particular, and moderately neurotic.  He would call the police to investigate unaccompanied bags left on the back steps, and insisted we only use the “Medium Heat” setting on the communal dryer, because “it was the best setting.” 

Our porch conversations, though infrequent, would always touch on the same topics: exercise classes at the Loyola Center for Fitness, the air conditioning units he intended on installing six weeks deep into a Chicago summer, and how emptying the lint trap on the dryer would result in drier clothes. 

Yes, I empty the lint trap. No, he doesn’t remember.

I’ve been worrying about him the last couple of years, the way you worry about a lonely grandparent. While usually a bit absent-minded, he forgets things more often now. In a sad sort of irony, bags are left unattended on the back porch. His back door is left open. He misses appointments he has scheduled just a few hours prior, and doesn’t always notice that the rent has been paid. His ability to handle minor maintenance requests has waned; I’ve taken to fixing things myself. 

One winter, after yet another run-in with a rodent in my kitchen, I called my landlord with a need for traps and an extra hand. I had cornered a large mouse underneath the refrigerator, and figured that we could avoid a gruesome death tonight if we worked together. Thirty minutes passed as I waited for him to open the back door to help me usher the creature out with a broom. 

Finally, a knock.  As I was expecting our hero to arrive with a fresh set of mousetraps, my shock couldn’t have been more pointed towards the pet carrier that was quickly ushered into my kitchen. 

“No need for mousetraps,” Michael proudly announced. “This cat will handle it!”

I watched my landlord in amazement as he coached the very confused kitten around my unit for the better part of an hour. “He’ll find it soon!” Michael assured me, as the kitten jumped up onto the piano.  The mouse was long gone. 

I’m telling this story to my family over Christmas, when I decide to text Michael an update on my return date back to Chicago. I’ll be back this Tuesday, I advise, in case he finds the sudden activity in my apartment to be cause for concern. Immediately, he writes back: Do you want me to pick you up from the airport? 

My landlord is the type of man who will never hesitate to offer to drive a stranger to the grocery store, the local coffee shop, the airport. I typically just declined his repeated offers, blushing in embarrassment with the color of independence that only a twenty-something can maintain with a straight face. 

That December, however, I felt a little differently. After seven years, it had finally occurred to me that while my landlord all-too-often forgot about the hole in the ceiling that needed patching, or the lease documentation he intended on renewing, or the exact time I expected him to fix my toilet, he never once forgot to be generous. In fact, Michael remembered how to be kind more often than anyone I had ever met. 

I think about all of this while I wait for him at O’Hare. I think about all of the packages he’s left at my door, and all of the interesting newspaper clippings he’s forwarded to me via email. I smile at the memory of him surprising me with dinner, after a day of volunteering for the Chicago Marathon. I think of the soup and the medicine he has offered during my worst sick day, and feel immeasurably grateful for how long I’ve lived across the hall. 

Almost too suddenly, Michael pulls up to the curb and lifts my bags into his car. I thank him, as he lurches into the appropriate lane and nearly causes an accident. We finally settle into a comfortable silence after missing the first exit; I sit quietly and cradle my jet lag, hoping we get home in one piece.

“Do you like folk music?” he finally asks, with effort. This is new, I think. I lean forward in my chair, and find myself a little eager to answer. 

“Yes, actually,” I try to say slowly, not wanting to interrupt a mind at work. “I’m a bit of a fanatic.” I wonder if, after seven years, folk music is the middle ground we have found in which to relate. I envision quiet evenings of conversation as Richard Thompson spins on the turntable, and think of all of the questions I would ask in confidence. Who has Michael known? What was his family like? How much has his quiet life changed since he first remembers dusting the banister in the front hallway? Would he even remember? 

“Well,” he breathes as he comes to a halting stop in the middle of the turn lane. I grip my armrest as he puts the car in reverse and maneuvers where he intended, barely glancing in the rearview mirror. “The largest folk festival in Illinois is held in Geneva every year. I think you would enjoy attending. Perhaps you could bring Brenda?” 

Brenda is not Brenda. Brenda is Dylan, my best friend and former roommate. She occupied the unit for four years without as many run-ins with the man, and paid the price by losing general name recognition. 

“I’m sure she would love that,” I say softly, and smile at the man I have silently treasured for seven years.  “We always love an excuse for an outdoor picnic.” 

“Well, if you love picnics,” he beams as we pull up in front of the apartment, my entire upper body relaxing into the headrest as he shuts off the engine. “Have you ever been to Ravinia?”

Illustration by Justine Ussia