A Vested Interest

Norbert "swims" up to me while I’m distracted by a low-flying Border Patrol helicopter. If I'd have seen him coming, I might have meandered to the stairs or shown my youth by lifting myself out along the pool’s edge, but it’s too late. I have no place to go. He’s out in the sun almost every day, but his skin is ultra-white, almost clear. With a German accent, he asks, ”Are you going to the meeting today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You should go.”

“Do many residents attend?”

Norbert laughs. “The early afternoon meetings are timed for maximum attendance—between naps and before afternoon cocktails.”

“It seems there aren’t many people down here yet.”

“This meeting is about money. The out-of-towners will all call-in. You should go. You have a vested interest.”

A vested interest? I haven’t thought about that. We’d bought our Florida condo months earlier because prices were depressed and the unit presented a decent, fixer-upper kind of value, but primarily because my co-deeder had just gone through a serious health scare—one of those wakeup announcements from the cosmos that we will not live forever. I suddenly realize that unlike the cost of discretionary improvements made to any house we’ve ever owned, we are now subject to the majority decision of a bunch of strangers. 

I think, at 1:10, I’m early for the 1:30 meeting, but a dozen of my real estate partners are already seated. Norbert is ahead of me, next to Joe, a nearly deaf senior wearing a U.S. Navy hat. The board chairman, an incredibly patient man named Ed, is trying to get control of the callers on the speakerphone, but there are several independent conversations going on simultaneously, and one woman who just keeps asking, “Hello?” An older woman in a housecoat sits next to me. I second guess my decision to attend.

In all fairness, older, younger, senior and youth are all relative terms. To give some perspective, in his sixties Ed is the closest to me in age. Norbert is Ed’s father-in-law. Housecoat is eighty-five. Navy Joe is in his nineties. I’m “young," in my early fifties.

The speakerphone and the room quiet after Ed calls the meeting to order. Navy Joe asks, “Why are we here?”

Ed holds up the itinerary, a copy of which is on Joe’s lap. “We’re voting on hurricane windows in the public areas. We’ve discussed it for two months.” 

A grumpy, scratchy-voiced man in the back of the room complains, “Someone’s in my parking space.”

Norbert’s head rocks back. “You have three spaces, Rich, and one car.”

“It’s still my space.”

“It’s important that your unused space stays unused?”

“It’s my space.”

“I’m not paying anything,” Housecoat declares. “I can’t afford this.”

Speakerphone asks, “Hello?” 

Norbert turns around, smiles at me, and says, “I told you these are a waste of time.”

I raise my palms. “Norbert, you told me to come, that I had a vested interest.”

Navy Joe shakes his head. “I didn’t get my paper.”

Ed dutifully works through the interruptions, explains the bids, and moves to have the residents vote on which bid to accept. 

Speakerphone asks, “Hello?”

“What will this cost me?” Housecoat asks. Before anyone answers, she two-hand waves Ed. “I’m not paying. I can’t afford this.”

Norbert laughs. “But you can afford a cook.”

Housecoat protests. “I don’t have a cook. What are you talking about?”

Navy Joe shakes his head again. “I didn’t get my paper.”

“Yes you did, Joe,” Norbert says, then stirs the pot with Housecoat. “Juanita.”

“Juanita’s my aide.”

“You don’t need an aide. All she does for you is cook.” Norbert winks at me.

Speakerphone asks, “Hello?”

Ed buries his face in his hands. “Can anyone identify who keeps asking, ‘hello,’ on the phone?”

Housecoat says, “That’s Miriam. She votes no on the windows, too.”

Saint Ed explains, “We voted last meeting to replace the windows. That vote was already held and approved. We’re just voting on which bid to ac—

“I didn’t get my paper.”

“Joe, you got your paper,” Norbert says. “You read it and then gave it to me. I've even read your paper.”

Housecoat yells to the phone, “Miriam, did we ever vote on windows?”

“Hello?”

Norbert looks at me. “I told you these are a waste of time.”

I smile, nod to Ed, and head for the door. A man stops me at the back of the room. "Are you parked in my space?" As I step into the hall, Navy Joe declares, “I did not get my paper.” Housecoat says, “I’m not paying.”

It’s two years and three condo board presidents later. I haven’t attended many meetings, but I’m glad the replacement windows are finally in. After all, we have a vested interest.