When he died, I was house-sitting at my son’s house in Clifton over there in Cincinnati, Ohio (I live in Covington, Kentucky). I found out he was dead upon my return. Another tenant on another floor told me.
I liked Mr. Jackson OK. I didn’t really know him all that well, but he was polite to me and always courteous. That goes along ways in my book.
He had a girlfriend living with him. I’m just assuming it was his girlfriend—not at all sure. Mr. Jackson was white and older—maybe my age—60. She was black and younger—maybe in her 40’s. Sometimes, she would get loud, actually too loud. It never pissed me off too much because, like Mr. Jackson, she was always polite and courteous to me.
Mr. Jackson’s girlfriend or wife or whatever she was is gone. There’s no one across the hall from me now. A couple times, people have knocked on my apartment door wanting to know where Mr. Jackson’s “friend” is and want to say how sorry they are for her loss of Mr. Jackson, but I don’t know where she is. I kind of wish I did. I want to say I’m sorry too.
So that apartment across the hall from me will be rented to someone else, probably, in a matter of only a few weeks. With Mr. Jackson and his “friend,” I knew what I had and what I had was OK with me. Now, what I’m I gonna get? I hate the unknown.
(Photo from bjapartments.com)