Stairway to Heaven

It's no secret to anyone that's been to my apartment that my guilty, if not bittersweet, pleasure is my six-floor walk-up. Yes, it's a total pain in the ass on days when I'm loaded down like a pack mule. And it's not exactly booty-slimming. But the payoff is when I have visitors.

As soon as I buzz them up, I immediately crack open my door and turn down any music that's playing in the background. I grab my beer, settle back against the wall and just listen, a grin slowly blooming on my face. Oh, most of my friends are younger and they're steadily stomping until floor three. But something interesting happens at floor four. Those stomps become plods. The timing between each consecutive footfall gets longer and longer. By floor five, I can hear their hand slapping the rail and deep gasps for breath. By the time they finally make it up the final flight to my door, they usually have a look of pure hatred on their face. Oh, they're not that mad at the stairs. They're mad at me. Because by that time my grin has become a series of guffaws.

But I also love the strangers you encounter on the way up and down the stairs as well. I cannot remember any of their names and I barely know them. Some float by like ghosts with secrets they lock behind their doors. But the ones I do know are interesting characters indeed.

In the basement is Carlos, our building super. I took to him immediately after I'd been here two weeks and caught him outside decorating for Halloween. Now, Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday and any friend of cotton webbing is a friend of mine. Noticing how I was doing an excited little pee dance, he asked me if I wanted to help. Next thing I knew I was on his step-ladder hanging a gigantic rubber bat from a light fixture. This year we want to find a gigantic spider so the bat has company.
On the first floor are a group of Mexicans who smoke weed constantly. It cracks me up that good old Mary Jane is the first smell to hit you when you walk in my building, in part because I think it's so bold. I commented on this one day and they just laughed and offered me a hit. I didn't accept, but every now and then when I pass by I shout, "Immigration!" and pound on the door. Oh how they laugh! At least when they aren't in a state of wild-eyed paranoia.

On the fourth floor lives a very old, but colorful gay man. He wears khaki safari suits with ascots and a sailor's cap. I'm quite certain he has no boat to speak of, but the simple fact that he looks and acts like a cross between the Skipper and Gilligan is enough to make me love him. When he passes by he always tips his hat, and no matter how antiquated or silly the gesture seems, it always makes me feel like a passenger about to board a luxury cruise ship instead of the Minnow.

Finally, on my floor lives the cutest straight guy. He's literally tall, dark and handsome in that classic Hollywood way. But what's even better is that he always goes out of his way to engage me in conversation when he sees me. He moves beyond the simple "hello" and always asks where I'm headed. This usually sparks a conversation that lasts all the way down the stairs until we get to the front door. Here, he always shouts, "Let me get that!," takes two quick steps to get ahead of me, rushes to open the door in time and holds it while I walk through (taking my time, I might add). While I try to keep myself from swooning straight to the pavement, he just shrugs, smiles and wishes me a great day. I always do seem to have a great day after that, too. But judging by the looks she gives me when she's with us, his girlfriend never does.

A friend of mine recently pointed out that my apartment is only 350 square feet. But to me, it's not the size of the apartment that matters. It's the uniqueness, the character and the environment it sits within that makes me fall in love with it. And with all these fun stairs to climb on the way to my Empire State Building-views, it's no wonder I named my apartment, "La Vela del Cielo"...or "The Candle of the Sky."