Garbo Towers

Chapter 1

Garbo Towers was an anomaly in the heart of a major city.

Situated at the end of a small cul-de-sac that backed onto a dense, steep ravine that divided the small residential section from a busy thoroughfare, Garbo Tower's two storeys squatted with regal nostalgia. Through a lacy landscape of firs, maples, oaks and willows, the pale yellow stucco shone brilliantly clean, perfectly balanced by the midnight blue trim and tile roof. Yellow tile stairs curved up from the front walk to the tall, twin front doors, sheltered behind a curved cement balcony that swept upward on a bias, mirroring the one on the floor above.

The building contained eight separate apartments, each with a discrete plaque on the entry door identifying a film star from the golden age. The owner and manager was Millicent Degrew, an eccentric octogenarian who, although never even close to stage or screen, lived as one who was raised in a theatrical trunk. Sunny days would find her attending her heavily treed garden, in a long summer dress and broad-brimmed sun hat, carrying a large, mauve watering can with a sprinkle nozzle.

A tiny white iron table and two chairs, sat beneath one of the few large Beech trees not actually near the beach where most of them grew, upon which rested an ornate tray holding a delicate china tea set for one. Millicent, or Molly, as most of the residents called her behind her back, would spend hours at the little table, reading from a collection of old movie scripts inherited from her late husband, Wallace, who also had nothing to do with the entertainment field other than collect memorabilia.

The residents of Garbo Towers were as diverse as their address. Ground floor front right, as you faced the building, was of course Millicent's, designated, naturally, the Garbo Suite. From her living room window she could assess the comings and goings of all her tenants, the postman, and the refuse collectors, since the only other exit was the rear fire escape door leading to the garden. Cars were shunned in the cul-de-sac and those with ownership had to make other arrangements for parking; visitors were permitted for reasonable periods only.

Ground floor left, Valentino's, was occupied by Stanley Whitehouse, a widower with a small Scottish terrier for companionship. He was a retired sail maker and yachting enthusiast. Stanley's days passed with endless labour over his boat models, broken only for the need to eat, sleep and walk Haggis, his terrier, and the bane of his overhead neighbour.

Down the Flamingo pink hallway, behind Stanley, was the Fairbank's Room housing the Dashers, a thirty-something couple involved in the technology boom and aptly named. Theirs was a lifestyle of rushed appointments, ringing cell phones and takeout meals. Gary was regularly witnessed high-jumping the neighbour's hedge on his short cut to the street where he parked his flashy BMW.

Geena, his wife, unlike Stanley's upstairs neighbour, liked Haggis and always managed a wave to him at the window, while she paced up and down in front of the building, busily yapping on her phone while awaiting her daily taxi.

Behind Millicent, in the Theda Barra Suite, Emily Crouse lived with her mother-in-law, Regina Hasslet. Other than an occasional hello when passing in the hall, nothing much was seen or heard of the two women. Speculation put Emily somewhere in her late thirties and Regina over seventy, but no one could confirm either number, or rather, no one but Millicent, who held her tenant's secrets out of sight but foremost in her mind.

On the really rare occasion when the residents gathered in the garden for a particular celebration, like Oscar night, which Millicent encouraged through the delivery of not to be refused, hand written invitations, Emily and Regina would usually just come out to their small patio and acknowledge the others with a tight wave and smile, not unlike passengers departing on a sea voyage.

Above Millicent on the second floor was the Gloria Swanson Parlour, home to twenty-eight year old, Brenda Carlisle a confident, pretty in a natural way, determined career woman. Brenda was a reader/editor for a publishing house and spent most of her time curled up on the tiny, window box balcony off the side of her bedroom, pouring over reams of manuscript pages. Her apartment was a comfortable clutter of souvenirs: stuffed bears and hand-carved totems from vacation spots, chunks of rock and bits of driftwood from strolls at the lake.Anything that caught her fancy found a nook in the apartment, and she loved nestling in the middle of her eclectic collection, wielding her blue pencil with the aplomb of a concert orchestra conductor.

Across the matching Flamingo hall at the front, above Stanley, was The Barrymore, occupied by Wally Spade, thirty-two, single, blonde, blue-eyed and tall—about as far from Barrymore as one could get and nemesis of Stanley's dog. Wally handled purchasing for a major printing company and was contentedly well paid, socially active, well perked and subsequently—in his mind—desirable.

Having failed in successive attempts to entice Brenda from across the hall for drinks in his apartment, Wally, defending his self imagined reputation, put it about that she was a lesbian; the effect of which was a compounding of his dislike by Brenda, and as well, the other residents.

At the rear, behind Wally was another single male, Alec Fletcher. Alec was comfortably housed in the John Gilbert quarters. Alec was a writer of short articles as fillers for a number of locally published magazines, an occupation that provided an income which just managed to allow him occupancy in Garbo Towers.

At thirty-nine, he was teetering on the edge of permanent bachelorhood. The few relationships he undertook all sort of faded to 'thanks anyway' finishes, none of them resonating with anything like his apartment's namesake might have enjoyed.At night when he did most of his writing he could hear the couple across the hall laughing or arguing, depending on the circumstance, and he sat back and listened with a twinge of sad regret.

The Morano's, Sebastian and Sophia, shared the Carol Lombard Suite, the only apartment with a view of the downtown, albeit between the branches of a mighty old Oak tree. Both were in their mid-forties. Sebastian was a short, curly-headed, muscular fireball, jogging wherever he went and insensitive to the other tenants when watching his beloved soccer matches on TV.

Sophia was a stereotypical Italian seductress, long dark hair that bounced on her tanned shoulders in rhythm with the sway of her ample hips. At the club where she worked as a hostess, management encouraged her to flaunt her best asset, which was her extra large bust, barely retained in the loosely tied peasant blouse uniform.

In all, Garbo Towers was home to an extremely varied group, completely detached from one another in every imaginable way and yet oddly, they were bound by the eccentricity of their surroundings and the exclusivity it represented.