There was no telling when it would happen, just the assuredness that at some point during the day the bloodcurdling call of “Carl!” would echo through the halls of the musty apartment building I lived in during my sophomore year at Boston University. It didn’t matter if it was 2 p.m. or 2 a.m., you could count on it as sure as you could count on the sun rising over the Charles River.
“Caaaaaarl!” the voice would whine, steadily climbing in decibels.
I could be in the midst of studying, hanging out with friends or attempting to catch up on precious sleep, but upon hearing it, my body would tense up in anticipation of the crescendo that would inevitably follow.
“CAAAAAAAAAAAARL!” the female voice demanded (and I swear its potency made my bay windows shudder each time).
The dictatorial summon originated from the basement, and although my apartment was on the third floor, it felt as if it was right outside my door.
“What, Ma?” came the reluctant response from another part of the building.
“Get over here, Carl! Can’t you hear I am calling you?”
“I’m coming, Ma, I’m coming,” a blend of fear and irritation evident in the voice.
This would be followed by shuffles, bangs and muttered curses as, I assume, Carl made his way back to the aggravated source.
I never knew the woman behind the demanding calls, but I knew her son. He was my landlord, a middle-aged man of peculiar habits, including the tendency to steal miscellaneous items from his tenants, displaying them as prized possessions on his desk in his basement office next to the washer and dryer. It wasn’t until the end of my tenancy that I discovered a missing notepad inscribed with “Tel Aviv University,” the school I had attended the year before.
As disruptive as it was, being unwillingly caught in the daily crossfire between this grown man and his mother only reinforced how lucky I was. I was embarking on my second year away from home, and, while my mother lived miles away, our relationship was filled with love and a steady flow of wonderful conversations — far removed from the shouting matches unfolding like clockwork in the building that was my temporary home.
As the school year came to a close and I bid farewell to 223 Park Drive, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of Carl and his mother, forever entwined in their daily drama, while I moved on to brighter (and quieter) horizons.
There are all kinds of family bonds, and I can only hope that those two, in their own way, found some solace in their daily ritual. Though my mother is no longer here, I cherish the many wonderful conversations we had during that time, and forever hold the comforting and calming presence she was in my life.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com