Mr wiggles and his driver

  by Chuck Choate & Marian Denton

I freely admit, here and now, as I have admitted to my friends and family, that living here for the winter in this high rise, highfalutin, rootin-tootin, beachfront condo, is well above my social status, and beyond my pay grade. Nevertheless, it is the path I have chosen for six months of the year, to get me out of the snow and cold.

As with any new adventure, there is a learning curve, especially when one steps out of one’s social status (and comfort level) as I have done.

For instance, during the first few days and weeks “in residence”, (that is what THEY call renters like me, Owners are called OWNERS, emphasis on the “O”), I would put on a clean pressed shirt to go out and get the newspaper, or pick up the mail. I learned to do this out of necessity, so as not to have my fellow dwellers glare at me during accidental encounters on joint elevator rides.

Additionally, I quickly learned not to speak first, and to lower my gaze, so I didn’t frighten these poor souls, in case the giant ogre (me) had to actually speak. These things I have learned well while developing my communication skills with my fellow dwellers (in residence or Owners).

There are many nuances to learn about communication and status here in Oceanfront Condo Land. Here is one;

The first question, after a greeting to a new or unknown resident is, “What floor are you on?” This greeting/status query is not limited to pushing a button on the lift. No sir. It IS the first question of greeting after one’s name. The higher the floor the more social status one has (the higher you live the more money you have). Up is expensive. The elevator numbers stop at floor numbered 19 with floor number 20 not being numbered but bearing the title, PH for penthouse.

There are the same number of apartments on each floor, ten. That includes the 20th floor, oh wait I’m sorry… the penthouse floor.

What further defines your social status is, which of the ten units, you occupy. One through five being the most sought after, due to their direct views of the beach. Also, number one and number five, being corner units, have wrap-around balconies.  Numbers six, seven, and eight being the, “oh I see…” social level, (I know you are curious, I’m in 308) and poor, poor units nine and ten being the, “why did you bother” units. And truthfully, in all fairness, units number nine and ten have a breathtaking view of the west facing parking lot. True, they can hear the surf, and smell the ocean, but that’s as close as poor numbers nine and ten get to a view.

I also learned early on, “the dog lesson”. The dog lesson begins with, only Owners are permitted a dog. If a human is with a dog, the human is an OWNER (remember emphasis on the “O”). 

Most dogs here are itty-bitty yippie things. Owners transport these tea cup demons around in, I shit-you-not, dog carriages. A dog carriage is much like a baby carriage, only smaller. Very rarely do I see a K-9 on its feet walking. 

I have read, heard, and observed that in some instances dogs and their humans eventually begin to look alike. We have all seen the hair care product commercials to this comic effect.

Here, in beachfront condo land, another more sinister anthropomorphic transference has happened. I have observed that these tiny demons also act like their humans.

In yet another attempt by me to not terrify the condo home-owners association, I have purchased a bag of high dollar dog treats that I swear, smell just like steak. In fact, they look like tiny steaks. My goal being to demonstrate to the demon hoard that regardless of its human’s thinking on the matter, the giant ogre ain’t so bad ‘cause he has steak bites.  

This rarely works. These little demonic creatures are mostly not interested. Nevertheless, I carry one or two demon treats in my pocket whenever I go out, just in case.

Fast forward five months…

I no longer care one whit about whether my shirt is pressed, wrinkled, three days old, or oddly stained. I need my newspaper. I want my newspaper. I shall retrieve said newsprint.

I do not care what floor you occupy, nor do I ponder from which unit you view the universe. Just push three or get out of my way and let me do it, my coffee awaits.

It matters not at all to me if you are an “in residence” renter  or an Owner (remember the “O” rule). 

I don’t care.

Now we have arrived at this morning.

First and most importantly, coffee, onboard and working. I think I shall live. Second coffee, the Keurig is snarling and spitting. Kona dark blend is dripping. The cave smells like heaven. 

Now, out to get the Stewart Daily News and return just as the nectar of the gods is steeping.

My return to the lobby placed me in front of the lift and behind a small senior citizen lady with perfect hair and couture that screamed money. 

Next to her was a late twenties man/boy dressed in white shirt, black tie and pants, dress shoes and a livery hat. All items perfectly monochromatic. ( I realized later on, that was a bit odd but, in my defense, I had coffee waiting. )

The man/child was leading a be-jeweled, leashed, mini-demon. This  tiny demon was wearing a be-dazzled mini-vest. The leather leash was also bedazzled from collar to handle. So much so, that I believe the bejeweled collar/leash contraption weighed more than the micro demon. 

When the lift door opened, the demon refused to get in. This mutiny forced man/child to drag micro-monster onto the elevator.

I obeyed the rules and bowed my head so as not to upset the penthouse button pushing old lady. The man/boy looked at me and asked my floor (obviously NOT the PH). I told him three please. Mrs. Thurston Howell III, (Lovey to her friends), gave a hardly noticeable guffaw which prompted the man/person to look at me apologetically.

I rolled my eyes and gave him my best blue-collar shrug.

Since he and I had now communicated, I asked him, as I was reaching in my pocket, if the demon would like a steak treat?

These are his exact next words.

“Ma’am, can Mr. Wiggles have a treat?” Nope, I am not kidding, that is exactly what he said! 

Now it was my turn to guffaw. Mr Wiggles’ human did not feel the need to grace us with a reply and no matter, because lickety-split we arrived at the steerage class, “Oh, I see” third floor.

The lift puts everyone out at the front facing walkway.

As I made my way to lowly 308, I looked over the rail and sure as god made little demon treats that look and smell like steak, there was a shiny black limo as long as a fire truck parked next to the building in the “NO PARKING FIRE TRUCKS ONLY” spot.

Mr. Wiggles comes from money!