Condo Conflict Ch. 06: No Escape?

Condo Conflict 05 garnered some 1's, I suspect because it was intentionally 'rough' to show Barry's anger toward his ex-wife's cheating. I'm sorry if you were offended.

No Escape?

The construction site was a hive of activity. A crane had been mounted in the centre of the building footprint, to be jacked higher as each level of the iron skeleton was assembled. Its long arm plucked steel beams from the large pile currently blocking the side street. Tons of other construction materials lay locked behind a heavy wire fence. Today there was something new too- a large sign bearing a full-colour rendering of the completed structure with this message:

COME HOME TO 201 PARKSIDE TERRACE,

THE CITY'S MOST PRESTIGIOUS ADDRESS

BUY AT CONSTRUCTION PRICES AND SAVE.

CONDOMINIUMS STARTING IN THE 500's

LIMITED NUMBER PENTHOUSES AVAILABLE.

OUR SALES PAVILLION WILL BE OPEN SOON

Santamundi Developments

I was standing across the street in the city park gazing at my condominium design taking shape. Officially I was working, but I was actually daydreaming. I could see myself standing up on the recently erected third level- the apartments with full length rooftop terraces above the old brick wall.

I imagined Monica close beside me, our arms looped around each others' waist, as we looked out across the street to the park. We had wine glasses in our hand, and the sun shone down upon us. For a moment, I felt like a king, with Monica my queen!

After that, as I watched the building gradually take shape day-by-day, I came to covet having ownership of a unit up on that level. It was a powerful thought, one that shapes my story. It came to symbolize my growing affection for Monica, but could it get me beyond the angst of my marital past? You can decide.

****

My name is Barry Warrington, forty years old now, and a professional architect for the past sixteen. My colleague Carole Langmere and I designed the structure that I'm staring at now, tasked with monitoring construction progress, watching it grow and take form for the past half year. It fills me with pride- the pinnacle of my architectural endeavours to date.

Before this, my life was unsettled. My initial designs for 201 Parkside Terrace had been flatly quashed, first by developer Emilio Santamundi, and then by City Council. It took outright rejection of his proposal for a tall, modern structure by Council to finally bring him into line.

About the same time, I began dating our area secretary, Monica, and I had mixed feelings about her. I admit that sex was initially foremost in my brain because I'd been divorced for more than two years, and had experienced a drought ever since. Emotionally burned by my ex-wife Cherise's lying and cheating, I didn't want to get close to another woman.

Another unsettling issue was my shapely and attractive design partner, Carole. I was drawn in equal parts by her fabulous physique and her sense of humour. As a result, I felt doubly conflicted about Monica, who had made it clear that she wanted a relationship which went beyond her sofa and bed.

Eventually, things became clearer. Our designs for the condominium were finally OK'd by Santamundi and approved by City Council. Construction began shortly afterward. Then, I encountered my ex-wife several times while I was monitoring construction of the condo, and it brought back a flood of angry memories. She doggedly sought my forgiveness, so I eventually gave in, just to get her off my back.

"Hi Barry."

Oh, no! As I gazed at my building, I heard my ex-wife's voice again. I looked back and saw that she was hand-in-hand with a rather nondescript man wearing big wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled and I heard him ask Cherise,

"Was he your husband?" and she bobbed her head.

He seemed ready to speak to me, but I merely nodded to acknowledge them. Then Cherise started to introduce him.

"This is my friend Merrick...."

But that was as far as she got before I dipped my head again, turned, and walked toward my car. No smile, no cheery hello, not a word. Nothing but a stony nod to recognize a page ripped from my past. Yes, this was impolite- downright rude in fact- but that was the deal I'd made with Cherise a few months ago, and I was going to stick to it. I did not want to be her friend.

My pact with her had freed me from the bonds of our dead marriage and all the emotional baggage I was lugging around. Confronting her in anger had purged me of any misgivings I still felt about my new relationship. Thereafter, there was a parallel trajectory between the rising condominium and my growing affection for Monica.

Life with her was sweet and I was fortunate enough to work with her too. Some would say that it is too much of a good thing, but at this point it didn't feel that way. We were a regular fixture in the staff lunchroom during the day because I knew she liked that. Sometimes I found myself thinking about the next stage in our life together.

****

"What would you think of living in my new building, babe?" I asked one weekend as we sat in a booth at the coffee shop closest to the condominium.

"You're dreaming, Barry. That place is for old, rich people, and we wouldn't have anything in common with them."

We had been strolling in the city park. I'd pointed out the big, illustrated sign to her in case she somehow could have missed it, then noted that the third level had just gone up. I stated that there were some lovely units on the left side, right above the old brick wall of the original apartment building on the site.

"Big solid terraces," I added. "Not narrow balconies."

"What do you mean, terraces?"

"A solid platform the length of the apartment, sitting on top of the front two metres of the units below. The third level terraces are big, more than fifteen square metres- about 150 square feet."

"Hmm. That's nice, but it sounds expensive, right?"

"Well, it won't be in the 500s, like the sign says. That'll get a small unit at the back on a lower floor, I'm sure," I told her.

"So why are we even talking about this then?" Monica asked pointedly.

"I just think it would be great to live here by the park, so close to downtown and all the shops. A unit with one bedroom and a den [a 'snug' if you're British] would suit us perfectly. The penthouses probably cost twice as much."

"It'll just be full of snooty people, all trying to outdo each other," she asserted. Then she tilted her head up and changed her voice to mimic a snob.

"Dahling, you really must go to the theatre tonight. Mortimer and I saw the most divine performance last weekend. It was just ma-vellous, you know. Simply stunning!"

I burst out laughing, almost spilling my coffee, drawing glances from nearby patrons. She was probably right. Maybe anyone moving into 201 Parkside Terrace would not be our kind of people. But just what sort were we anyway?

I was decidedly middle class, the upwardly mobile son of hard-working industrial blue-collar parents. They'd placed strong value on education and made many sacrifices to see that I went on in school to get a professional career. None of my older relatives had ever been given such an opportunity. I'm forever indebted to my folks for that, among other things.

Monica's background was different- rural and farm-based; hence, her love for that damn country and western music. She'd come from the West with her older sister after high school graduation, then attended college with a major in Office Administration. That accounted for her efficiency in keeping our section at Frank Smythe's architectural firm in perfect working order.

"There's no reason we couldn't live there, you know, Monica," I tried again. "I'm sure that career people our age, well my age" -for she is fifteen years younger- "think the place would be perfect."

"Sounds like you're sold on it, eh. So you're the half-million-dollar man are you?" she replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. But I persisted, trying to convince her.

"That aside, can you really tell me that you wouldn't like to live so close to everything in the heart of the city?" I challenged.

"Yes, I suppose we all can dream. No harm in that, except finding out that they don't always come true," she concluded, and that seemed to be the end of it.

On Monday I stopped off at the construction site on my way to the office. All was not well. I had been hearing on news media that the Trades and Labour Union was beginning a series of rotating strikes to call attention to the contract grievances of the Ironworkers. The union plan was to put up picket lines at all Ironworkers sites for a week in one city before moving on to another. Apparently, this was our week.

Traffic was snarled in front of the project as pickets walked the sidewalks, blocking entrances to the worksite. Trucks with material deliveries were backed up, unwilling to cross the picket lines. Other trades- carpenters, electricians, concrete workers- milled about, refusing to enter the work area. A half dozen police were on hand by the line, alert for trouble or trying to direct traffic around the congestion.

Added to the mix were the vans and crews of the news media, jostling for video, photos and interviews. I was not especially surprised when I saw a large, blustering, heavy-set man right in the middle of the crowd- developer Emilio Santamundi.

"Get back to work!" I heard him shouting, as if he could command union members to cross the picket.

"Ah, fuck off! Go to Hell!" was all he got for his trouble. I had to laugh at this human bulldozer meeting his match. What else did he expect?

He'd been a difficult guy to satisfy during the design phase, but now that I saw his condo taking shape, I felt a bond and I didn't want to see him come to physical harm. The way he was confronting workers, it was very close at hand.

Santamundi was a big man, but he couldn't take on a bunch of brawny Ironworkers blocking the construction entrance. They made a point of standing in front of him, daring him to try and pass through. The police were trying to wedge between the developer and the pickets, but he wasn't budging at all. It was a powder keg about to explode, and I had to do something quick.

Without thinking about it, I rushed into the melee to get him out of there. He recognized me right away, and I was able to draw him away from the people he was arguing with.

"Hey Barry, what the Hell's going on here anyway? Nobody's working and I'm losing money. Help me get these guys into the building and back to work!"

"It's not going to happen," I said firmly, my voice raised. "You have to get out of here before you're arrested! Come with me for a coffee. We'll talk about it. Then we can come back if you want. There are some things I need to ask you anyway. Come on!"

I pulled at his arm and to my surprise he came my way, muttering about all the "goddam buggers who would rather stand around than work." I led him through the crowd and on to the shop. I'd been there so many times recently that the barista recognized me.

"I'm buying. What'll you have?" I said.

"Thanks. Medium double-double."

"The usual," I stated, and the girl just smiled.

"You must come here a lot, eh?" he noted as I directed us to a booth in the back.

"I've been keeping an eye on construction for Frank. This is convenient."

"Frank's a good guy," he confided. "Fair and square. Think he'd like to buy one of those penthouses? Probably has lots of money."

"Yeah, he might," I replied, assuring him that I also felt my boss was a good man.

Then I started into my little lecture.

"About what's going on today. The union is strong and you can't cross their picket line without trouble. The cops don't want anything to happen either. I'm sure you don't want your reputation ruined by getting arrested for disturbing the peace. Lots of reporters are on hand, so people would see you on television and in the papers. You don't need bad publicity. This will just last a week anyway, then the strike will move on to another city."

"Goddam those bastards! This'll cost me thousands!" he fumed.

"Maybe you can absorb your extra costs somehow, like increasing the prices of some of the high-end units. Not now, but when you have model suites to show wealthy buyers."

"Yeah, I suppose I could do that. Or cut the commissions I pay the salespeople...."

"I don't know about that, but it's a better idea than getting arrested on the picket line."

Emilio laughed a bit, and I could see that he had calmed down. We sipped our coffee for a while before he spoke again.

"What did you want to ask me about, or did you just say that to get me outta there?"

I had to think fast.

"Actually, it was about the price of a unit up on the third floor facing the park. You know, there are two of them with terraces out over the front of the brick-faced condos below."

"Sounds like you're interested, right?"

"Curious, that's all."

He pulled a soiled, folded paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table between us. After examining it for a minute, he pointed to a line of type.

"Those two are one bedroom and a den, about eight hundred square feet plus the terrace. Construction price is 799, and a hundred thousand more after it's finished. Unless I jack the prices up like you suggested," and he laughed at his own joke. I smiled, waiting for him to continue.

"You interested?.... I like you, Barry. Sure, I was rough on you sometimes, but you helped me out today. Kept me out of trouble."

"Thanks. You could have been hurt or arrested," I reminded him.

"Hey, tell you what. I can knock fifty off the price for you, down to 749. But that'd be the one on the inside, closer to the entrance. The outside one has more windows, easier to sell. That's a 900 000 dollar condo for under seven-fifty. Firm. I can't do any better. What do you think? You drew the plans, so you already know what it's like inside."

"I'm interested- a bit. It's a great location and about the right size. How much up front?"

"Now there's the thing. I need money to pay my bills as this place goes up. And I'm losing it fast with this fuckin' strike. So, you'd need to put up a hundred thousand. All legal and everything, of course. No risk. Still interested?"

"Maybe. When do you need to know?"

"We're bringing the sales trailer in just up the street in a few weeks. We're not selling 'til then, so I can hold this for you that long. Let me know one way or the other."

"Thanks. I'll take a serious look at it and get back to you, Mr. Santamundi."

"Emilio, Barry. Emilio."

I guess I was one of his friends now. Or was this just how he did business? We finished up our coffee and walked back to our cars. I was pleased to see that he got in and drove away without going back to the tumult in the street.

****

I didn't mention my conversation with the developer to Monica because I was still wondering if this was what I really wanted to do. It was a lot of money, especially upfront, and I had never been one to act on impulse. That's how I was about investing in anything, even a new coat.

A few days later, Monica was excited about a supper invitation from Carole and Frank. We were the only ones invited and Carole had mentioned it was about wedding planning. To Monica, this meant that we would be standing up with them during whatever type of ceremony they were planning.

We had never been to Frank's house before. It was in an upscale older neighbourhood, a large, brick two-story, centre-hall plan. We immediately took note of the For Sale sign on the front lawn. Obviously, the newlyweds had no plans to remain at this address. That became the first topic of conversation after we arrived. The answer came as a surprise.

"Santamundi made Frank an offer we couldn't refuse on one of his new penthouses," Carole said.

"A special deal- just for us, right?" Frank mugged. "He cut a hundred thousand off the construction price, provided we pay 200 thousand upfront. That's how he operates, using early sales with big deposits to help build it. I think he needs some cash right now."

"That sounds like a good deal. I mean he can be such a tough guy to work with," I remarked.

"Yes, that's how he presents, but somewhere inside that gruff exterior the man has a decent heart.," Frank said. "He likes loyalty. Help him out and you have a friend for life. I think that by the time the building is finished, the two penthouses will be worth just south of two million each. I checked it out carefully before we decided to buy and we think it's a good investment."

"A heart of gold... maybe, but on the outside the man's still a sexist pig!" Carole remarked with disgust.

Frank's judgement meant a lot, and it occurred to me that if I bought into the building, my boss and his gorgeous wife would be our neighbours. And she did look stunning tonight! Her shapely body was poured into a tight blue dress that showcased half of her sumptuous breasts. I had to be careful that Monica didn't catch me looking!

"So, Carole, you'll be moving into a brand-new place after your wedding?" Monica posed. She was eager to bring the topic around to wedding planning.

"Let's talk about that over drinks and some hors d'oeuvres in the lounge. Follow me."

The view of Carole was every bit as good from the back, her hips swaying as she took those long, confident strides toward the sofa and chairs. We could see by the furnishings, paintings, and carpeting that Frank and Carole would not be struggling to buy a million-and-a-half-dollar penthouse. I figured that the house alone would easily sell for close to that.

Before supper, Carole laid out some of the basics of their wedding plans. They hadn't selected a date yet because they wanted to move directly into their new condo after returning from a week-long honeymoon, destination still undecided. The ceremony would be held at Frank's church, then there'd be a private dinner party afterward, probably with about twenty-five family members and close friends.

I knew that Monica was eager to hear what she wanted most to know. Finally Carole satisfied her.

"We hope that you'll be up there with us- Maid of Honour and Best Man? You were the first ones to know about this and we'd be so pleased if you'll do it."

Then Monica was beside herself, screaming "Yes. Oh yes!" as she jumped to her feet and ran to hug Carole. Frank and I were more reserved, a warm handshake and "Of course. Thanks for asking," would suffice.

At that point the conversation split into two groups. Monica was eager to hear any details about Carole's wedding plans, especially the dress. Meanwhile, Frank and I adjourned to some nearby chairs and returned to the earlier talk about 201 Parkside Terrace.

"Have you considered buying a unit yourself, Barry? I'm sure Emilio would cut you a deal since you did most of the design work from the beginning. He told us that after the sales trailer was open, he wouldn't hold our penthouse unless we committed to it."

"I think that comes in the next few weeks, based on what he said to me recently."

"Oh, has he been pushing you for a unit too? Always a salesman, that guy. Always a special deal, 'just for you', of course."

"I haven't talked much with Monica about it yet because she thinks only rich snobs will be living there."

"Right. People like me and Carole, you mean?" and we laughed.

"Actually, that might change her mind," I noted.

Monica and I had a very pleasant evening with Carole and Frank. We considered them best of friends and there was a lot to talk about. I watched how the two of them interacted, so close and comfortable. It made me think about my own relationship with Monica, growing stronger as the condo reached higher. I realized that I was at a good point in my life right now.

Weddings usually have a powerful impact on women. It was late, so we quickly slid into bed and took it from there. We kissed for a long time and whispered in the dark, assuring each other of our strong affection. Soon our desire rose higher and we progressed to gentle caresses and delicate places. Monica's skin felt soft and warm to the touch, and she responded to me with a growing intensity.