Betwixt

“So, are you with the Building Department?”  The prospective landlord on the other end of the phone is getting squeamish.  He wanted to know what I did for a living and adding splendor to this part of the world seemed a little vague so I went with the formal job title.  I never lead with that, cause there’s rarely a positive reaction. 

So too, this phone call.  The real estate mogul just a few billion shy of Trump doesn’t quite know what a city manager does so I give him the thumbnail.  Supervise a fair amount of people.  Try to choreograph progress.  Take arrows to the chest every now and then.   

“Well … two things” the guy says.  “First, this may not be a nice enough place for you”.  I assure him I’ll be spending so much time at the office (swanktastic by move-in day)  there’s no need to worry.  “Second … the structure isn’t … exactly … well … permitted.  Will that be a problem?” 

Thanks so much for playing.  There will be some lovely parting gifts.

Adventures in real estate continue.  The dead mice (not quite as worrisome as the dying mice).  The always on the golf course real estate brokers.  The waiting lists.  The Reverend doing the Lord’s work in Africa, who just needs me to wire him the money before he can send me the keys to look at the apartment.  The zoning regulations, painstakingly crafted to be absolutely certain nothing changes.  Ugh. 

Assessing the situation at the coin-op laundry, bleak comes to mind.   Or, maybe that’s just the laundrorama vibe this Sunday morn.  Could there be a more visual cue to being between stops on life’s journey than a U-Haul box serving as laundry basket?  Before classes were invented (the tiniest sliver of human recorded time) we'd beat the soil from our loin clothes on the communal rocks along the banks of a meandering river.  Now, quarters are required.  Many, many quarters.  Still, the communal ties bind.  I offer to purchase a Bounce sheet from my fellow quarter master, but he'll have none of it, handing me a stack that'll suffice for a month.  How does this square with the ICMA Code of Ethics, I wonder silently among the clatter.  What I need not wonder about - what is visually obvious - is to be king of the laundromat, you need only arrive two cycles before you’re down to the absolute last thing you can wear in public.  I’m comfortable with prince status, this drizzling morning.         

Don’t take the first no.  It’s a rule.  And so, while the semi-sorted rinse and spin through their cycles, I’m down the street taking measurements.  The Use Permit application requires a site plan, so the setbacks and building elevations are being measured to submit a not quite engineering level plan.  More like AICP planner, with a measuring tape.  There’s a vacant building, with dead and dying mice, that’ll remain vacant until someone does something.

That someone might be me.  The West Broadway Urban Village Plan has a vision of a vibrant and community-oriented downtown, with goals that include live-work units, pedestrian friendly streetscapes and supporting and encouraging the development of vacant and underutilized lots.  Turning a vacant building into a live-work unit with a loft-style occupancy and an evening and weekend hours workshop seems a great start to me, but doing so requires approval of the Planning Commission (and a broker to get back to me before the end of the day tomorrow).  That’s Plan A at present. 

The light rain has abated for a moment and, while the dress shirts tumble dry for their next round of arrow catching, I notice a rainbow over Broadway Avenue. 

Plan A, Plan Z, or some letter in between?  Found a lucky penny in the dryer, but lost a sock.  It’s too soon to tell.