Dog's Green Earth

by Neil S. Plakcy

  4: Management Issues

  When Rochester and I arrived at Friar Lake, I saw Juan and Rigoberto hanging around in front of my office in the gatehouse, the small square stone building that had originally welcomed mendicant friars to Our Lady of the Waters. I realized I was going to have to get there earlier every day that Joey was out, because clearly these guys were not self-motivated.

  “What do you want us to do today, jefe?” Rigoberto asked.

  I had no idea. “Hold on, let me give Joey a call.” I pressed the speed dial for Joey’s cell while I unlocked the gatehouse. Rochester, Juan and Rigoberto followed me in.

  “Did they bag up all the leaves yesterday?” Joey asked as soon as I told him I had Juan and Rigoberto with me.

  “Yup.”

  “Good. Then check the maintenance schedule on the wall in my office. What’s today, Thursday?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Crap. I’m losing track of the days. Anyway, unless there’s a program coming in and they have specific work to do for you, on Wednesdays they hose down all the sidewalks, sweep out and dust the chapel, and empty the exterior trash cans and put new bags in. You don’t have anything coming up, do you?”

  “We’ve got a catered lunch on Friday for the president’s executive council, including the board of directors,” I said. “In the chapel.”

  We had repurposed the original high-ceilinged chapel, with its glorious stained-glass windows, original oak floors and stone walls, to be a reception center. We had movable screens to close off parts of the building—for example, if we had a cocktail party in the front section, we could hide the rear while the caterers set up for a dinner.

  “Crap. Walter will be there. He’s going to nit-pick everything. If I come over tomorrow afternoon, can you and I do a walk-through?”

  “Sure. I’ll ask the guys to start with the chapel in case they discover anything that needs more attention.”

  I had a master key to every lock on the property, so I walked over to the chapel with Juan and Rigoberto, Rochester trailing behind us, and opened it up for them. Rigoberto got a big vacuum cleaner from a storage closet behind the nave, and Juan pulled out a tall ladder and a bunch of cleaning cloths and window spray. I watched Juan position the ladder by the first stained-glass window and scramble up to the top and begin cleaning.

  It was important to me, too, that Friar Lake look perfect on Friday. Eastern’s president, John William Babson, had taken a chance on me when he hired me to manage the renovation process and then the operation of the center, and I never wanted him to regret that decision.

  That fall represented my first full year of programs. I had recruited faculty to teach sessions on everything from contemporary politics to new developments in cancer research. I ran evening events where we discussed classic books led by one of the professors from the English department, one-day workshops on personal financial management, with alumni speakers from banks and investment firms, and a weekend program on building your own bucket list of travel destinations.

  Some of the programs I put together bombed, like the debate between two professors about the future of zoos and wildlife preserves. Or maybe our target population was busy that night. It was hard to tell without doing more specific research, which was on my agenda.

  I was learning as I went. After each program I surveyed participants about the event itself and asked what else they would like to learn, and I was impressed at the variety of programs they requested.

  The seminars on financial management, investments, and retirement planning were perennial favorites, and I had one of those scheduled for the following week. I spent some time that morning following up with my speakers, sending reminders to participants, and doing one last quick email to recruit anyone who was still on the fence.

  When I checked my email that afternoon, Joey had forwarded a couple of messages from his boss to me, asking me to handle them. I had to fill out a requisition for cleaning supplies: the maids who kept the dormitory rooms tidy were running out of spray cleaner and rubber gloves. Walter wanted a check on the warranty status of all the mechanical equipment, which required me to go down to Joey’s office and look through his files.

  As I walked over there, I thought again about my father, who like Joey had been a whiz at carpentry and able to fix anything mechanical. It struck me that years after his death he still popped into my head so often.

  Since my father’s office was nearly an hour’s drive from Stewart’s Crossing, I’d never been there, but had always assumed it was as organized as his basement workshop. That was where the resemblance to Joey stopped, though. Joey’s office looked like the inside of a crazy clockmaker’s head. Bits of wood and wire littered a workbench under the window, along with dissected locks, broken and cracked tiles, and what looked like parts of a hose nozzle.

  Three huge piles of papers tottered on his metal desk, with smaller piles beside them, even covering the modern multi-line telephone. It took me most of an hour to dig out the warranty paperwork I spent another couple of hours filing copies of invoices, instruction manuals and business cards from vendors that had been stuck in every crevice. I worried that Joey was overworked. Or was he just poorly organized? Either case presented a problem for the future, something I’d have to address with him once his father was better.

  Keeping busy pushed thoughts of the association demand out of my head. It wasn’t until Rochester and I had left Friar Lake that evening that my thoughts returned to the issue of the sign over my garage. As we drove down River Road, past a mix of evergreens and the skeletons of deciduous trees, I was able to think clearly and formulate my argument.

  When I got back to River Bend, it was four-thirty, and I dropped Rochester at home and walked over to the clubhouse. The evening sky had shaded to a dark gray, and there was a steady stream of sports cars and SUVs along River Bend Drive. A breeze shook a few oak leaves on my head and shoulders as I walked down the sidewalk, which had a long horizontal crack in it. The crack looked like it had been there for a while, based on the oak seedlings popping up through it, which had been tamped down by lots of footsteps.

  At least half the parking spaces in the clubhouse lot were taken up by landscaping equipment. Since people were able to rent out the clubhouse for events or come over there to use the swimming pool or take yoga classes, I was surprised that Todd let the landscapers use so much of the parking spaces.

  But that wasn’t my problem; I wanted to focus on the sign my father had made. My simmering anger popped up again. Why was the association focusing on something as small as my sign, when it seemed like the whole neighborhood was falling apart?

  The front door to the clubhouse opened on a hallway that led straight through to the pool area at the rear. The gym was to the right of the front door, where a collection of workout equipment stood along the glass walls, so you could look out to the pool, the parking lot or the nature preserve as you lifted weights or used the treadmill. The open area in the center was used for yoga and tai chi classes, and a pile of mats rested near the door.

  The meeting room and the management office were to the left. Todd’s secretary Lois was at her desk, and Todd was in his office behind her, on the phone.

  Lois was a white-haired woman in her sixties, with red-framed glasses and a matching red beret. It seemed better to start with her rather than directly with Todd, because her sweet nature was matched by the bowl of chocolate candies on the desk in front of her.

  I slid into the chair across from her and introduced myself. Though I’d met her a couple of times, there were over seven hundred residents in River Bend, and I didn’t expect her to remember all of us.

  “I wanted to ask you about this letter I got from the association,” I said. “About a sign over my garage that’s been there since before I moved in.”

  “Yes, we’ve gotten a lot of complaints about those letters,” she said. “I’m sorry so many people have gotten upset, but we only work at the direction of the board of direc
tors.”

  “I understand that it’s your company that instituted the fine management software.”

  “Well, Pennsylvania Property Management purchased the license for the software, but the individual associations decide how it should be deployed.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “So far, River Bend is the first big community to use it. The revenue that has come in from people paying fines has been substantial, which means the directors are going to keep using it.”

  She sat back. “But you should really talk to Todd if you have a specific question.” She looked down at the phone where a red light had blinked off. “He’s off his call, if you want to talk to him.”

  I stood up and walked behind her desk. Todd had his head down, looking at something on his desk, and I rapped lightly on the door frame.

  “Hi,” I said, when he looked up. “Steve Levitan, from Sarajevo Way. Could I talk to you for a moment?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about a letter I got,” I said, as I sat across from him.

  “What kind of letter did you get? Landscaping? Home alterations? Leaving your trash cans out too long?”

  “Home alterations, I guess you’d call it.” I explained the situation. “That sign has been up since my father first bought the house. I don’t understand why someone’s complaining about it now.”

  Todd sat back in his chair. “Lois and I, and PPM in general, work at the direction of the board of directors. They tell us they want to increase association revenue, and we do what we can to accomplish that. There have been some complaints as well that these letters are targeting people who live in their own properties, rather than homes that are rented out. But I will be reviewing all the letters in the next few days to make sure we impose these rules evenly.”

  “I understand levying people fines for not observing rules, like leaving trash cans out, or not picking up after their dogs. But this kind of nit-picking doesn’t sit well. Is there anything I can do to get the sign approved?”

  “Do you have any pictures of the house at the time your father bought it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent. Pull those out, along with any other relevant information – the time he bought it, the time you inherited, and so on. There’s a Design Committee meeting tonight here in the clubhouse, so get here a few minutes before eight o’clock to get yourself on the agenda. Present your documents and if the committee approves the sign, you’ll be in compliance, and no fines will be assessed.”

  As I walked home, I thought that meeting had gone much better than I expected. I understood Todd’s position – I’d be in a similar situation when the president’s executive council came to lunch at Friar Lake. I hoped there wouldn’t be any problems that caused either Joey or me to be called on the carpet.

  5: By Design

  That night after dinner, I went through the thick set of association by-laws that had been given to my father when he closed on the townhouse. I found the section on design modifications to houses.

  “’Homeowner shall have the right to petition the Design Committee for any modifications to the Home’s exterior,’” I read out to Lili. “Any such modifications not submitted or approved shall be considered to be in violation of these By-Laws.”

  “Sounds pretty clear to me,” Lili said.

  “But wait. ‘Association shall have a period of one year to contest any violations and be authorized to collect fines as spelled out in these By-Laws. If a period of one year passes without contest, the modifications shall be considered approved.’ I’ve certainly been here longer than that.”

  “Well, there you go,” Lili said. “It pays to read these things through. I’ve had to nearly memorize the faculty collective bargaining agreement in order to mediate problems that come up with my staff.”

  At a few minutes before eight, I walked over to the clubhouse, picked up a copy of the agenda and signed my name to the list of those who wanted to address the committee. There were already ten other homeowners in front of me, and I joined the crowd and sat down.

  Through the glass window, I could see Todd Chatzky at his computer with a headset on, as if he was either listening to music or participating in a conference call. I wondered why he was in there instead of out in the main clubhouse at the meeting.

  The four members of the committee sat behind a long table at the front of the room. I looked at the agenda, which listed the members by name. By process of elimination the sole woman was Kimberly Eccles. I recognized Earl Garner, in his wheelchair, which left two other men: Oscar Panaccio and Vern DeSimone.

  Panaccio’s name sounded familiar, and while I waited for things to begin I opened Eastern’s website on my phone and discovered that Panaccio was a professor of sociology. A quick search revealed that he lived in a house on Bucharest Place, at the other end of River Bend from mine. That meant the other man was DeSimone.

  One by one, my neighbors stood up and made their cases. One man who owned a single-family house had painted his front door black. “My house is for sale, and I’m trying to maximize my value.” He put on a pair of narrow glasses and read from a sheet of paper. “I’m quoting from Money magazine, June 20th. Zillow found that on average, houses with black or charcoal gray front doors sold for as much as $6,271 more than expected.”

  “That’s not the point,” Garner said. “The association design guidelines are very clear. Every front door must be painted white.”

  “I’ll paint it back as soon as it sells,” the man argued.

  “Request denied.” Garner looked down at the list and called the next name.

  “You all are a bunch of assholes,” the door man said, and he stalked out.

  The rejections came quickly, with little discussion. A woman with a profusion of orchids hanging from the oak tree in front of her house was chastised and allowed to retain one basket in her front yard. Kimberly Eccles suggested she move the rest to her back yard, where she could still enjoy them.

  A man with a damaged garage door was given sixty days to have it replaced. A woman who had put ornamental stones around the oak in her front yard had to remove them.

  Todd Chatzky came out of his office as the woman was leaving, and pulled up a chair beside the committee table. His eyes sagged as if he was very tired, and sweat stained the underarms of his gray and white houndstooth check shirt.

  “Sorry to be late, but Pennsylvania Properties is working on some big changes to the way we operate, and I had to sit in on a long conference call.”

  “That’s never good news, when you people start to stick your foot into things,” Panaccio said. I was glad I’d never had to take a class with him or serve on a committee at Eastern with him.

  Next up was Drew Greenbaum. “I’m here on behalf of my mom, who’s in the hospital right now,” he said. “I’ve been going through her bills and paperwork and I found this series of complaints from the association.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “My mother is eighty-give years old, and you guys are harassing her over a bird feeder in her front yard.”

  “What’s your point?” Earl Garner asked. “Take down the bird feeder and you solve the problem.”

  “You’ll drop the lawsuit?” Greenbaum asked.

  “Hold on. There’s a lawsuit?” Oscar Panaccio asked.

  Greenbaum nodded. “It’s more than just the bird feeder,” he admitted. “She’s been sick, like I said, so she hasn’t been able to keep up the property to your standards. The house needs to be painted, one of the second-floor windows is broken, and there are some loose roof tiles. The fines mounted up and last month the association put a lien on the property for the amount of the fines.”

  He fidgeted in his seat. “I’m hoping you can cut us some slack because my mom has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so she probably didn’t understand the notices she got. And you guys have left a piece of sidewalk near her house broken, and she fell there.”

  “Don’t threaten us with a liability lawsuit,�
� Garner said. “I’m an attorney and there’s no way you can win unless you have video of her falling. You have that?”

  Drew frowned. “Nope. But come on, I need to sell the house so I can put her in a memory-care assisted living facility, but I can’t sell it with the lien against it.”

  “Then pay off the lien,” Garner said.

  “With what money?” Greenbaum was exasperated. “My mother lives on Social Security and I’m unemployed.”

  “This isn’t a matter for the design committee,” Garner said. “Talk to me after the meeting and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “I’m starting to feel like whole purpose of this committee is to screw over our residents,” Kimberly Eccles said. “This is a terrible situation. Can’t we do something?”

  I smiled. Maybe there was hope for Drew, if the committee would act in a reasonable manner.

  “You don’t want to set a bad precedent,” Panaccio said. “You make one exception, then everyone else wants one, and the whole community goes to pot.”

  “It already has,” DeSimone said. “I know where that lady fell. I reported it to Todd six months ago. We’re nit-picking people with flowers when this whole place is falling down around our heads.”

  There went my idea of the committee acting reasonably.

  “We’re getting off track here,” Todd said, in a sharp voice. “If you have safety concerns about the property, those need to be brought before the safety and security committee. When this issue first came up, that’s where I directed the question. I can’t spend the money to hire a contractor for a problem like that without authorization from the board, and the way the by-laws are written the safety committee has to make the recommendation to the board.”

  “And did they? I don’t remember that,” Eccles said.

  “I’ll have Lois check the minutes tomorrow,” Todd said.