The Time I Bought An Air Conditioner
Note From Ryan: This absolutely TRUE story contains a good deal of
profanity, a couple of crazy people, drug references, and exhibitionist
geriatric ladies. In other words, it's not for the kids. I wrote it the evening
the events occurred, back in July of 2004. Still one of the strangest evenings
I've had...
THE TIME I BOUGHT
AN AIR CONDITIONER
As I glanced up from my magazine, I noticed that the
tree outside my apartment was beginning to appear gray and indistinguishable
from the sky around it. This was a telltale sign that darkness would fall upon
the city sooner than later. If wanted to take a walk, I had to leave soon. The
daily walks had developed very naturally, in the sly manner that most forms of
exercise seemed to creep into my life. When Tori had visited me in the new
apartment, we were both eager to get out and explore the new neighborhood, as
well as to get a bit of fresh air. We also figured that a little bit of
movement and exercise, although initially feared by us both, would probably not
be detrimental to our health in the long run, either. As we discovered all the
interesting alleyways and storefronts that the neighborhood had to offer,
something must have appealed to my inner senses, because I now still enjoyed the
walks very much, even though Tori had gone back home.
Without delaying the nearly inevitable walk any
longer, I finally rose from the futon and put on my shoes. I grabbed my keys
and locked the door behind me. As I walked down the outside stairs leading out
of my apartment complex, I heard the sound of a woman shouting. The sound grew
louder as I walked further, but I was unable to make out what she was saying.
When I rounded the corner I saw that the source of the yelling was a neighbor
that I had only talked to once before briefly. Judging by her physical
features, she was probably at least in her 60s. Her gray hair was streaked
black in some places, and in others, an indeterminate, reddish color seemed to
stand out. The red, however, seemed to be a result not of nature, but of an
ill-advised encounter with a packet of hair dye. She wore large eyeglasses, a
loose-fitting gray sweatshirt, and tight black jeans. She was smiling as she
was yelling, and she smiled I walked by, but the lines on her face spoke of a
hidden sadness and her generally worn-out appearance hinted at stories of drug
use and other various youthful--or possibly adult--indiscretions. Her name, as
I was about to find out, was Celeste.
The only other time that I had talked to Celeste, I
had felt uncomfortable around her. I’ll admit that I am somewhat ill at ease in
many social situations, but when I talked to her she just seemed, well, weird.
Not that the weirdness I perceived was necessarily a bad thing; after all, when
living in Boulder, if you exclude the freaks and weirdoes, you’ll find that your
circle of friends is left with a very short diameter. In any case, in the
previous encounter Celeste had offered me a green dresser. She explained that
since they were moving out soon, she didn’t want to just throw the dresser
away. I told her I’d think about it and get back to her. About an hour later
that day, my brother Paul, who was visiting me, went down to my car to get
something, and returned with some sad news. Apparently Celeste explained—or as
he said, “rambled”—to him that someone had “up and stole” the dresser, and that
she was therefore sorry that I could no longer have it.
With this previous Celeste experience under my belt, I
at least knew that she talked loudly, and that she talked a lot, so I wasn’t too
surprised to see her yelling to the shirtless young men standing on the balcony
across the alley. I missed the point of their discussion, but I detected no
animosity from either side, so I kept on walking, minding my own business. I
heard one of the guys say to Celeste, “Hey, weren’t you the one that came over
here last weekend with that pitcher of beer?!” to which Celeste replied by
hooting loudly. Not wanting to interrupt this strange neighborhood bonding
session, and wanting even less to get involved in it, I hurried on past Celeste
and started walking up the alley that led to the park where I intended to walk.
I was almost certain that I was in the clear when all of a sudden I heard
Celeste shout in my general direction: “And how are you doing, pumpkin?!” I
turned around to look at her, but before I could speak she smiled at me and
said, “I mean ‘pumpkin’ as a term of endearment, of course.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said smiling. I resigned my
antisocial spirit and started walking toward her, still slightly fearing her use
of the word “pumpkin,” and wondering where the conversation was possibly
headed. “How are you?”
“Oh shit, I’m doing good. Hey, do you know these guys,
they’re our neighbors, they’re pretty nice,” she said quickly, gesturing to the
balcony where the young men stood barbequing.
“Uh, no, I don’t think I know them.”
“Well shit, they got this one dog—have you seen
it?—it’s a bull mastiff and it belongs to this girl in our building and it’s
just fucking huge.”
“Well, uh, no, I don’t think I’ve seen it. You say it
belongs to…“
But before I could finish my thought, a little red
hatchback drove up the alley and parked near us, and from the car emerged a
young woman, a yellow lab and, as if on cue, a fucking huge bull mastiff. The
arrival of all three apparently excited Celeste, and she began to holler and
shout again. She didn’t shout out of annoyance or fear of the dogs, like one
might expect, but rather like a farmer might shout if he was trying to perform a
secret call to drive his dogs insane and make them run around, which is exactly
what the dogs did. They ran back and forth between their owner and Celeste, who
continually tried to get them riled up. Being a fan of dogs myself, I rather
enjoyed the scene, and I smiled as I watched the two energetic canines bound
about. In the midst of all the commotion, Celeste began to talk to me again.
“Hey, do you want an air conditioner?”
“An air conditioner? Hmm, I don’t know. What do you
mean?” I asked.
“You know, an air conditioner. That air
conditioner, sitting in the window over there,” she said, pointing to an
apartment at the end of the building. “I’d sell it to you for 150 bucks, but you
know, I just don’t want to have to deal with the fucking thing since I’m moving
up to the mountains. You know, haul that piece of shit everywhere—I don’t need
that fucking hassle.”
“Hmm,” I said, “I had actually been considering buying
an air conditioner earlier in the summer, but now that it’s cooler, I wasn’t so
sure anymore.”
“Well, you know, I just need the cash, that’s all, I
just don’t have any money, and I don’t know what the hell we’ll do with it.”
“You know, could I think about it a bit and get back
to you, you know, maybe take a look at it later if I decide I’m interested,” I
said, determined to not be distracted from my intended walk. I had also decided
earlier in the weak that my monetary situation was a bit worrisome, and that I
should avoid possible impulse buys at all costs. When I made that rule, I had
had CDs in mind, but I figured the anti-impulse clause could extend to air
conditioners as well.
“Shit, you can come inside and look at it now. Come on
in and check it out,” Celeste said, already walking toward the apartments.
I tried to stammer a response that would indicate my
desire to keep on walking, but nothing coherent came out of my mouth, and
Celeste waved again for me to follow her. At this point, I probably should have
just trusted my instincts, which would have told me to move on and stay away
from this situation that could quickly become uncomfortable. However, I had
coincidently sold an old computer earlier in the day and had gotten more money
than I had expected, and perhaps that earlier financial victory was clouding my
decision-making process. Additionally, since I had yet to go on my walk, I
imagine that my brain was lacking in crucial fresh air that was needed to make
important decisions, and I heard myself say, “Sure, I’ll come in and check it
out.”
Even before the two of us entered her apartment, I was
hit with the unmistakably strong smell of stale cigarette smoke, and I realized
that there was a perimeter of approximately five feet around her apartment that
reeked the same way. As I followed Celeste through the front door, I walked
down a short hallway toward a lit bedroom. In the room, a large, shirtless man
was sitting on the bed in front of the window and watching TV. As he looked at
me and opened his mouth, presumably to greet me, Celeste’s jovial demeanor
changed instantly.
“Hey get the fuck out of the way, this guy here…” she
began to yell at the man, but she paused and looked at me. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan.”
She pointed at the man, “Ryan, this is Big Mike. Mike,
get the FUCK out of the way so that Ryan can look at the air conditioner.”
I had seen Big Mike before, since he sat out on his
porch at all hours of the day in a tattered armchair smoking cigarettes. Mike
looked slightly younger than Celeste, and he seemed a bit more put together in
general. But then again, that was all relative. Big Mike had always been
pretty nice to me and would greet me when I walked by and he was out smoking; in
fact, he had given me a small houseplant about two weeks earlier when I was
parking my car. I walked towards him, as well as toward the air conditioner in
the window behind him, and he stood up, moving backwards a bit so that I could
get closer to the machine in the window.
“It’s a pretty good unit,” Mike began, as he started
pushing some of the buttons. “It’s got about 11000 BTUs, which will cool a whole
room really well.”
“FUCK,” Celeste impatiently interrupted again, “Let
him see the damn thing.”
“I’m showing him,” Mike calmly but insistently
replied. As Mike attempted to demonstrate the various features of this
particular Panasonic air conditioner, Celeste interjected with comments or
questions directed at me. It was a very rapid-fire conversation on all sides,
and I instantly forgot much of what was said, but I remember that she perked up
when I said that I was from Fort Collins.
“Shit, so you’re from Colorado!” She said. I asked her
where she was from and she proudly replied, “Denver born, Ward raised.” That
comment instantly gave me a clue as to how she had gotten to her current state.
Although Ward was only a little ways up the canyon from Boulder, it might as
well be on another planet, if the behavior of its residents indicated anything.
I tried to put aside any prejudices I might have had against mountain freaks and
continued the conversation, and Mike continued to demonstrate the functions of
the air conditioner. Celeste continued to interrupt the demonstration. At one
point she randomly interjected a question that I wasn’t sure how to answer: “Do
you smoke pot?” Thinking that she was offering me some, I replied, “Uh, no
thanks, I’m OK.” She didn’t seem too disappointed, though, because she then
partially lifted up her shirt, revealing a large tattoo of a marijuana leaf on
her flabby belly. Her eyes bulged and she laughed with joy as she grabbed and
shook her belly, commenting, “This thing is probably older than you, I got it a
long time ago!” The slightly awkward conversation continued for a few more
minutes, but I began to feel more comfortable. Although Big Mike and especially
Celeste were surely insane, they seemed harmless. After a few minutes, though,
I felt a desire to leave the stale-smelling room, so I said I’d think about the
air conditioner and get back to them. Celeste became sad all of a sudden and
said, “Hey, we just need a bit of cash, like I said. I can even go to 75 if you
want. We just gotta get rid of it.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not even sure if it’ll fit in my
window. My apartment has a different floor plan than yours.”
“Well shit, that’s no problem,” she said as she
hurriedly opened a cupboard and produced a tape measure. “Measure it and then go
up to your place and see if it’ll fit.” I took the tape measure and resigned
myself to the idea that my walk might be postponed until further notice. Big
Mike and I determined that the unit was 22 inches wide, and I then left to go up
to my apartment to measure the space in my open window. When I tried to do
that, however, I discovered my window was very close to 22 inches wide, but due
to the curve of the tape measure, I was unsure how close to 22 it was.
Figuring, though, that the windows in the building must be identical, I went
downstairs and told Big Mike and Celeste that it would probably fit, although I
couldn’t be certain.
“So how about just 100 bucks for it, then,” said
Celeste. “It’s a good unit and you’ll be praising us when it gets really hot
again next summer.”
I had thought about what to do while I had measured the
window in my apartment, and I had surprisingly come to the conclusion that an
air conditioner might not be such a bad investment, after all. Plus, the
relatively high-tech unit was in really good shape. “Sure, I guess I’ll take
it,” I heard myself say. “But I don’t have the money with me now. I was going
to go on a walk, so I can stop at my ATM when I’m out there and come by later
tonight.”
“Shit, I can go with you—there’s an ATM just across
Broadway,” Celeste said. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t want to pay
the fee at that ATM and besides, I really wanted to get out and get some fresh
air. I was surprised that she still seemed undeterred in her desire to
accompany me to the ATM while I got my money, as if I were going to do something
shady if she didn’t come with me. I tried to assure her, though, that I’d only
be gone about an hour and that I’d come directly back to their apartment once I
got the money.
“But you’ll still take it, right?” she said, somewhat
nervously. “I mean, I could go down to 75, but man, we bought it for 450 two
years ago.”
“No, it’s OK, I can pay 100,” I said. “I just don’t
have that kind of money on me now. I’m not going to rip you off or anything,
and I’ll pay 100, but I need to get it first.”
“So it’s sold American?” she said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“100 sold American,” she replied. I wasn’t sure exactly
what she meant, but I realized that she was still nervous about the sale, so I
told her that yes, I’d take the air conditioner.
“Aw Mike,” she said, “Isn’t Ryan a nice guy?” But
before Mike could reply she kept on talking. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
I usually have trouble talking about my beliefs, and I
didn’t feel like this apartment was the place to regale a pair of strangers with
stories of my personal faith journey, so I simply said, “Yes.” Right answer.
“Oh thank God!” Celeste said. “You are a good kid,” she
said, patting me on the shoulder. She led me outside and before I left she
repeated again that they really needed to sell that air conditioner. She also
gestured towards her apartment and told that when I got back, I was not to give
the money to “those fuckers in there.” I assured her once again that I’d take
the unit and give the money right to her. With a tenderness that surprised me,
she then smiled and gently touched my left cheek with her hand, repeating again
that I was a nice kid.
As I walked downtown towards the bank, I felt my mood
begin to elevate quickly. It was a mild night, and the cool air provided a bit
of relief from the heat that had oppressed my small apartment earlier in the
day. Although I was still unsure how prudent it was for me to actually buy a
used air conditioner that I could honestly do without, I was still a bit
excited. At the very least, I figured, I’d have an interesting story to tell.
I hurried to the bank and then I made my way back to the apartment where Celeste
and Big Mike were waiting for me. After happily greeting me at the door,
Celeste went into the bedroom and yelled at Big Mike, “Get UP you shithead,
Ryan’s here to take the air conditioner.”
As the three of us began to maneuver the unit out of the
window, a short man that I’d not seen before peeked his head into the bedroom
door, and Celeste began to yell at him. “Get the FUCK out of here,” she said,
chasing after him into what I assumed was the living room. “You want me to beat
your ass, is that it?” Then, from an adjoining bathroom that I’d not noticed
earlier, I could hear a toilet flush. Another new man walked out and smiled at
me. “That’s Bernard,” said Celeste. He and I shook hands.
“Nice to meet you,” Bernard said with a slightly
teutonic accent. He then moved closer to the window and helped Mike and I
further remove the air conditioner. Celeste began to admonish Mike loudly,
though, yelling at him that his back was fucked up and that he should get the
fuck out of the way. She brushed him aside and seemed to try to lift the unit
by herself, and then Mike began to tell her to take it easy. Finally, we
devised a carrying system wherein Bernard and I would carry the beast of a
machine, and Celeste would clear the way and prop open the doors for us. We
weaved our way out of Celeste and Mike’s apartment and heaved our way up the
staircase to mine. We placed the air conditioner on my floor. Celeste pulled a
lint-covered post-it note out of her pocket and announced that she was going to
write a receipt for me. Bernhard seemed eager to go back downstairs and
continue smoking cigarettes, so he shook my hand again and slipped away, leaving
Celeste and I alone in my apartment.
As she began to write the letters “I.O.U.” on the sticky
note, I told her that I had the money right now, and handed it to her. She
seemed slightly surprised, but she happily took the bills from my hand. She
still sat at the dinner table, though, and continued to ask me questions.
“You’re a nice guy, and you deserve a good girl,” she said. “Do you have a good
girl?”
Surprised at the question, but somewhat proud of my
coming answer, I replied that I didn’t have a girlfriend right now, but that I
was diligently trying to win the heart of a girl. I told her that the one
unfortunate thing was that the girl in question lived in Florida, but at least
I’d be visiting her in a few days.
“Well you get her and bring her ass back here!” she
happily replied. As I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I told her
I’d certainly try to do just that. Then, out of the blue, she asked, “You wanna
do a line?” I looked at her and in front of her on the table sat a little
origami-sized piece of paper with white powder inside. “Aha!” I thought: I now
had yet another insight into the peculiar behavior of my newfound friend. I was
taken aback by her offer, but after the other random inquiries of the evening, I
was a bit more prepared to answer this one:
“No thanks, I’m pretty clean these days.” As if there
had been a time when I wasn’t “clean”; as if there had once been a Ryan Sitzman
that was a heroin-shooting, motorcycle-riding, hell-raising son of a bitch who
kicked puppies and didn’t look both ways before crossing the street.
“Well that’s good for you,” she said. I could see
through her large glasses that her eyes had begun to water. “I do drugs,” she
continued, “but I’m an OK person. Spent seven years in jail, but that’s only
‘cause of a vendetta. They were always trying to catch me.”
“Who?”
“Boulder County Sheriff. They couldn’t get me for years
and years, but finally they did. Now I know what torture is.”
“What did they get you on?” I asked surprised. “And you
got tortured?”
“Well, they caught me with about 100 pounds of weed and
all sorts of other drugs.”
“Shit,” I replied. “But they tortured you?”
“1000 women without a cigarette—that’s fucking
torture.” I smiled a bit and chuckled at her comment. She continued on,
saying, “But now I’m just getting fucking old. I couldn’t hardly walk a year
ago, ‘cause they replaced my hip. But now I’m almost off the morphine—no, I
guess I am off the morphine—and I can fucking walk all over the place!”
“A hip replacement sounds mighty painful…” I began,
unsure what to say.
“Wanna see the scar? I don’t care--I’m fucking proud of
it,” Celeste said, standing up. And before I could tell her no thanks, I’d
rather not see your scar, she unbuttoned her pants and pulled them halfway down
her thigh. She ran her hand along an unsightly purple scar around 8 inches
long.
“Uh, wow!” I said, hoping those would be the magic words
that would get her to put her pants back on. Apparently the words worked,
because she pulled them back up and re-buttoned them. Without sitting back
down, she must have suddenly decided that it was time to go back home, which she
then formally announced aloud. She headed to the door and shook my hand and
told me again—although this time it was more of an order—that I should go to
Florida and bring that girl’s ass back here. With that, she left.
For the next two hours, I struggled in vain to fit the
air conditioner into my window. Every technique that I used to try to make it
fit failed, and water from somewhere inside the unit spilled and dirtied my
apartment floor. I contemplated strategies, tried them, watched them fail, and
I cursed. I hurt my back trying to lift the behemoth onto the window ledge. I
winced as I got close to the machine and sensed the stale cigarette smell that
seemed to radiate in all directions. And finally, I admitted that machine had
overpowered man, and I laid the air conditioner on the floor of my balcony: a
smelly, electronic, beached whale of an appliance.
I went back inside and turned on my computer. A
chagrined smile came to my face as I thought of Celeste and Big Mike, and I
imagined them passed out in bed after having already spent my money on some sort
of narcotic. I placed an ad in the classified section of the local paper for a
used air conditioner, at the bargain price of only 100 dollars.