"This is our apartment, this is a girl's apartment. It's pretty and it's purple."
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
