The Compound: Big Brother is Watching

So, Mrs. RoSA and I have a new apartment, which, of course, required moving into. (And more epic battles with the Swedes of IKEA. But more on that at a later time.)

As far as my list of "I like" activities, I think "moving houses" ranks somewhere between "being dragged to the bottom of a pond in the jaws of an alligator"* and "camping out to watch a Twilight movie opening night, surrounded by screaming teenage girls." Yup. It is a long, torturous process that requires manual labor -- something my callous-less, gentrified hands are not used to; and, quite frankly, something I look down upon.

*I watched entirely too much late-night Animal Planet at college.

We now live in a nicely landscaped, overly-secure, and regulation-heavy gated community that is inhabited by what I suspect are mostly old people (I say "I suspect" because I've hardly seen anyone actually wandering the hallways. They're all shut in their apartments watching "Murder She Wrote" reruns. Or possibly dead). I know that these apartments were very nice -- perhaps even elite -- at one point, as their front office has award plaques for "Best Community Association" for Northern Virginia; however, because the last award they received was from the early 90s, it kind of makes it feel like The Compound is the Uncle Rico of apartment complexes: desperately grasping on to past glory and taping itself clumsily throwing footballs. This is all a metaphor.

Anyway, the aged population, combined with the excess of security gates and security guards -- who are nice guys, but who are on constant patrol as if we were at war with the neighboring apartment complex -- make the apartment complex feel like a cross between an assisted living center and secure government facility.** These atmospherics are why I've begun referring to our complex as The Compound.

**Seinfeld standup referring to retirement communities in Florida: "I don't get these minimum security prisons. Are old people trying to escape? Are people stealing old people?"

The Compound adheres to the concept of "the Rule of Law" and order, which I am down with in principle, but they have taken it to an oppressive extreme. When I signed the paperwork to move in, they gave me a handbook of the association's rules, which are so many (the thing is thicker than some of the phone books that Shigeko used to fashion a makeshift booster seat for her car) and encompass every aspect of everyone's life ("No hammering after 5 PM or on weekends or holidays" <-- I kid you not, this is an actual rule) that I am probably unwittingly breaking some association bylaw by charging my iPod in my computer right now.

Sometimes I think to myself: "So this is what it was like to live in East Germany with the stasi..." The difference, of course, being that the stasi weren't waiting to kick down your door because you dropped your garbage in the trash chute between the hours of 10PM and 7AM. I mean, the association officials tell me all these rules are for our own protection, but doesn't that ominously sound like the type of rhetoric that totalitarian regimes use to placate the masses while they slowly take away their freedom?

The dormant iconoclasts in both of us now want to purposefully break as many rules as possible so we can be the rebellious young couple who all the old people wish they could be. Nothing radical, mind you. Just the standard guerilla tactics, e.g. not parking in designated spots, not sorting our recycling, capsizing cars and errantly tossing a molotov cocktail or two, etc. The funny/sad thing is that, no matter how many rules we purposefully break, we will always end up breaking more rules just out of ignorance. Or, as Mrs. RoSA just observed: "We're rebels without a clue." Our Broken Association Rules (BAR) Tally sits at a healthy and subversive 6. (That we are aware of.) Will keep you all updated as we continue to raise our fist and resist against Big Brother.

A Note From the Mrs:

By way of introduction, if any of you are wondering if I married Mr. RoSA just so I could get the chance to be a guest writer on his blog, you are wrong.  I married him to be the beneficiary on his life insurance policy, what else?

I do not think we are cut out for life in the Compound.  Spiky gates at the periphery and speed bumps every twenty feet; floral wallpaper and sickly sweet aerosol air fresheners in the hallway; invisible neighbors who are either too old to move or up to no good; one neighbor (either a bouncer or a chronic clubber) who leaves a potent trail of perfumed stench through the entire stairwell when he descends every night around 10pm; and ever vigilant security guards.

One of what I'm sure will be many experiences with the security guards occurred the day our couch got delivered.  I met Ryan, the slow-talking, gap-toothed, smooth-faced young security guard when I burst into the front stairwell, broom and dustbin in hand, after the deliverymen had managed to get the couch wedged and break the hall light into a million pieces.  There was our monolithic couch, hamstrung over the railing, and there were the small but remarkably agile deliverymen, slithering under the couch on broken glass, trying to extract overstuffed pillows. And there was Ryan--looming, watchful, considering.  He turned his discerning gaze towards me and immediately launched into a phlegmatic recitation of my infractions:

 

"You've already broken three rules.  [1] Their truck is parked out front, and they're blocking in about 4 cars.  Delivery trucks can never be parked in the front of the building. [2] Deliveries can never be made through the front lobby or front stairwell.  [3] All deliveries must be made using the elevator in the downstairs garage."

 

I chose abject humility as the best way to get out of this scrape.  I claimed ignorance, apologized, offered to pay for the light, promised him my firstborn child, etc.  He muttered a bit as he deliberated: "Have to assess the damage . . . write a report . . . she didn't know . . . not really her fault . . ."  

 

Well, Ryan will get cookies this Christmas from two Compound rebels who appreciate his magnanimous, roguish, kindred spirit:  "Just get them out of here really quick.  And don't worry about the light.  We have tons of extras."

 I guess the point of this entire entry, with anecdotal support from Mrs. RoSA, is that we really don't fit in here at The Compound.