“You can see I’m fine. I didn’t say anything about the stupid car because I thought it would bother you, okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
Ainsley raised both eyebrows.
This time the drive seemed to take forever, even without the whole Top 40 sing-along. It was close to sunset when we finally pulled into Jost’s parking lot. There were windows open in several apartments and more cars in the lot than the last time we visited. I could smell a charcoal grill. Good signs. The “All Stressed Out and No One To Choke” bumper sticker showed a certain amount of ambient hostility but who am I to criticize?
“You want to come in with us?” I asked Jenny over my shoulder, “or wait here in the car?”
“Car.”
“Fine.”
“Okay,” Ainsley added.
I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t making fun of us. I slammed my car door before opening the back hatch.
We’d packed cameras, of course. Ainsley had loaded the car without a repeat of the we-sleep-with-equipment speech. At least the boy retained new information.
“Let’s carry cameras to the door this time.” I pulled my press card out of my messenger bag and clipped it to my shirt.
We aren’t supposed to be class snobs in the good ol’ U.S. of A. but there’s a certain segment of the population that still got so tickled at the thought of seeing their faces on television, they’d say or do just about anything to get there. Perhaps even give a lady a tour of an apartment that might normally be considered off limits.
I could see Jenny was busy not watching us from the car.
It took two rings before we got an answer.
The intercom buzzed. “Whozzit?”
“Looking for the building manager?”
There was a long pause and then the electric click and hum of the lock release.
No one came out to greet us but I gravitated toward the only door in the hall that had a buzzer button. Someone had posted a line of notices down the door that included a shiny Volunteer Fire Department sticker and Solicitors Will Be Shot on Sight.
I could hear voices coming from inside the apartment, raised over the sound of the television.
“…they want?”
“…the hell should I know?”
The door popped open and a fine native specimen in a Chicago Bears T-shirt announced, “I’m the manager. What d’ya need?” He had a round face, belly and shiny spot on top where the hair was missing. He’d make a terrific contrast to our first interview, Farmer Lowe, and even better one to Old Mr. Jost, if I could ever get the Amish man on film.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Maddy O’Hara from WWST and we’re working on a story about someone who used to live in this building. Guy named Tom Jost?”
“Television?”
“That’s right.” I smiled. Moments like these always feel a bit like I’m holding out the dog biscuit with one hand, while the net dangles behind my back in the other.
“You want to put me on television?” he said with a grin. He sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest
“If you aren’t too busy.” More smiling.
“Hold on a minute.” He shut the door in our faces.
Ainsley set the camera case on the ground and scratched his head. In a bad-news tone, he told me, “Uh, Maddy, I didn’t bring enough lighting to shoot an interior interview.”
“What?”
“Sorry. You said it was a picnic. Picnics are outside. I can do docudrama style.”
“‘Docudrama style’? That’s two, College.”
He rolled his eyes up to heaven hoping for a second opinion.
“Maybe we can shoot the manager on Jost’s patio.”
The sound of a ball game on television mingled with the voices inside.
“…no shit?” a woman’s voice asked.
“…clean fuckin’ shirt?” answered our Fred Flintstone with the potty mouth.
“Not as if lighting is going to make the difference for this guy,” I had to concede.
Fred re-emerged a few minutes later in a clean knit shirt, with very unfortunate horizontal stripes, and the word Manager embroidered above the pocket. He’d clipped a carabiner full of keys to his belt loop that gave him a jingle as he walked.
“Tom’s place is right down here. You want to see inside?”
“That would be great.”
“Cops were here last week but they didn’t say nothing about it being off limits. I can let you in. No problem.” He had one eye on Ainsley’s camera box. “Am I gonna be on TV?”
“I was hoping you might agree to let us interview you if you’ve got a minute? We’d like to ask a few questions about Mr. Jost.”
Ainsley unsnapped the case and had the camera on his shoulder ready to roll faster than I’ve ever seen.
“Did the police remove much from the apartment?”
“Nothing to take,” he assured me. “Guy lived like a hermit. Cops walked through. Took some pictures, a few personal papers. That was it.”
“Did you know Tom?”
“Yeah, sure. I manage this building so he had to come through me for everything. Keys, light bulbs, shower clogs, I do it all. I think he had one clog, once. Odd guy. Nice enough, sure, but something about him. Wasn’t right, you know?” He tapped his temple with his finger. “Guy was a firefighter for the city though. You knew that, right? I’m local VFD myself, so when this guy calls saying there’s a fellow fireman looking for a place, I’m gonna help him out, you know, Amish or whatever.” He unlocked the door and waved us through.
Jost’s apartment was as spare as I remembered. Ainsley set up with a flood lamp attachment, which would probably look crappy, but was the best choice given the circumstances. I walked around pointing out the pick-ups I wanted: the lonely bed, the uniform fresh from the cleaner, the photo of Tom and Rachel at the carnival.
“Tell me more about Tom.”
He crossed his arms above his gut and propped himself against the table, the picture of authority. “Well, he was real quiet. Never heard him coming in, going out. Most of the people in this building, I know when they come and go. Not Tom. Never drank beer, either, and I offered plenty of times. Never took me up on it. Then, there was the problem with the animals. Couple times, I had to give him warnings about that. No pets allowed, you know.”
“What about the dog sign out front?” Ainsley pointed out.
“That’s a guard dog.”
Ah. “What kind of pets did Jost keep?”
“They weren’t pets. They were pests. Baby birds that made a nest in the firehouse and had to be fed like every commercial break, you know? No one in the firehouse would take them so he did. Shit like that, pardon my French.” He glanced at the camera. “Sorry.”
A woman with straw-colored hair and freshly applied lipstick popped her head around the corner. “Honey? Mrs. B is on the phone.”
“I’m busy here,” Fred replied.
“She says it’s an emergency.” She whined at him, but smiled at me. “They never leave him alone. Especially on weekends.”
Fred heaved a gusty sigh. “This’ll only take a minute.”
“No problem.”
I was afraid the wife would stay to supervise but Fred pulled her into a hotly whispered argument on his way
