My Apologies to Nervous Jo

Hand-written notes were the preferred means of communication at the Bunkhouse. Cell phones remained a somewhat privileged commodity and personal laptops just didn’t exist in our laundry community.  Biff and I stood in line a handful of times at the local library waiting to send out some emails, but for the most part, technology referred to the pay phone in the lobby. Damn thing never quit ringing, and with no answering service, passing residents usually took a message and posted it on the appropriate door. Most of the missed call notices came from Nervous Jo, the resident coordinator who could never remember who lived where, and consistently left notes on the wrong door. Biff and I enjoyed a good laugh when we came home one day to a note that read, “Barry needs you to call him back, something about a bounced check.” She left all kinds of notes, my all-time favorite is the one that exposed our lack of privacy at the Bunkhouse. I returned home from work one day to find my own dirty laundry scrawled out in blue ink and taped to the door. “Obviously you need to wash your shower curtain,” the note read, followed up with a short how-to. I scratched my head and marched directly to the bathroom to see for myself—yup, dirty all right (and dirty it stayed). The next note perplexed us to no end. “The plumber fixed your sink last week!” it railed. “You will have to live with it as is!” Plumber? What plumber? What’s wrong with the sink? Another wrong door for Jo. It got so bad that Biff and I began hanging the notes on our wall, a trend that unfortunately blossomed around The Bunkhouse.

I felt bad for Jo. The woman appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown, and there we were, young stupid kids mocking her with our new wall decorations. I think she even commented once, or maybe she didn’t, I honestly can’t remember. Nonetheless, it was an awkward moment—one that still haunts me. Jo had stopped by one evening (I forget the reason why) but I remember she stuck around to chat. Nervous Jo was like that. If you caught her on a good day, she’d talk your ear off for thirty minutes either complaining about another Bunkhouse tenant or revealing that she found a dead rat in one of the mattresses. Catch Jo on a bad day and she’s calling the Park Ranger on you for burning incense in your room. Biff and I were engaged in one of our many Scrabble showdowns when Jo arrived. She stood in our living room/bedroom/kitchen unloading some sort of gossip or complaint in that shaky voice of hers, as though tears would soon make a debut. I remember trying to hold eye contact. Don’t let them stray. Don’t look away or nod or glance at the putrid green carpet. Hold on to that weathered face and those blue-gray eyes. Don’t let her see the mockery displayed above you.

Through foggy recollection, I envision Jo glancing at the notes, giving a quick chuckle and apologizing for the one about the plumber. I see it happening with growing clarity, replaying it over and over in my head until I’m convinced that’s exactly how it played out. When I step back, I’m not so sure. Funny how the mind works. I remember the panicked feeling, the fear of hurting her, of causing someone pain. I remember dreading the moment I’d have to confront those notes dangling above my head, but I can’t accurately recall the endgame. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe nothing was said and that’s why I can’t remember, either way, Sorry Jo.