I’ve officially moved into an apartment in Middle Valley. Nothing special, I looked long and hard for something convenient and inexpensive, and there wasn’t much available for a cheapskate, or should I say poor boy, like me. So I’m officially a Middle Valley resident again.
I was fortunate to find something right on River Road, away from the inexpensive apartments on the other side of the tracks. I’m actually well above it – on the third floor of an old Victorian house, way up in the clouds, it would seem.
The house, a large family home in its heyday, is now divided into five apartments, two each on the first and second floors, and then there’s my unit in the attic. Of course, it’s a walkup, so I’ll have to think about my energy expenditure each time I go in and out. Don’t want to be worn out making extra trips up and down.
I can sort of see the river from the back window of my apartment, if I’m up on my tiptoes. It’s not exactly a place to sit and ponder life.
So I head to the Riverside to see Cassie and get a glimpse of the river there.
I am happy to be back in this place as soon as I walk in. I can see Cassie pouring a beer and wave in her direction.
“John! Settled in down there?” She points to the tap. I nod to answer her question and to order a draft.
She floats down in my direction and places the beer in front of me.
I sip hungrily. “How’s it going? Word on the street is that you’ve got big plans going on here. I’d like to hear about them.”
She nods. “Yes, lots to do, lots of excitement. We’re well into discussions with contractors, finalizing renovation plans. Hoping to award a contract soon. It’s a very exciting time for us.”
“Congratulations!” I say.
Two hours later, I’m still not totally caught up, but I decide it’s time for me to take my leave. I turn to leave and in walks Susan Cotton, the TV reporter from New York City. She remembers me and says hello.
“Susan, nice to see you,” I say, extending my hand. “What brings you back here?”
She places her jacket on the back of her chair.
“Just here to get caught up on any developments around Mick’s murder and Paul’s trial,” she says, her voice rising as if asking a question. “What do you hear? And what brings you back?”
I nod. “Finished school and I’m working with Bernie on a few things.”
I suddenly feel the need to keep my mouth shut. She seems to have an agenda, so I do make the turn toward the door.
I proceed along the river to my place up in the clouds, very slowly, deep in thought. I am beginning to form a story in my head around the Riverside and its renovations, hoping to flesh it out within a few days. If it looks good, I’ll pitch the idea to Bernie.
I opt against sharing with Bernie that I ran into Susan at the Riverside. I watched her most nights when I lived in New York back when I was still in graduate school. I think she’s a terrible anchor, and I don’t have much use for her.
Jenny Page