On Monday, Dad was feeling well enough for a short walk and decided to check out one of the coffee shops on Commercial Drive. The street had been the center of Vancouver's Italian community and had been known as “Little Italy” for many years. Now it had a more eclectic ethnic mix, but it still boasted many Italian restaurants, delis, and coffee bars.
After Dad had headed off with his walker, I used his car to drop Ben off at the pre-school he attended three times a week. I decided to do some grocery shopping before going home. I'd avoided buying too many things before the move, so we wouldn't have so much to pack. Now we were running a bit low on essentials. It was time to stock our new cupboards.
With the car loaded with supplies, I thought I'd use the underground parking garage Les had mentioned. I hadn't bothered with it during the weekend but now I grabbed the remote door opener Les had given me. The door moved as smoothly and evenly as everything else in this well-run building. Les had assured me that the parking spot we'd been allocated was close to the elevator. I appreciated that. It would be easier for Dad. And, as the mother of a young son, I was often carrying a sleepy boy, bulky toys, or bags of groceries.
I was driving slowly, carefully looking at the numbered parking spots, when I suddenly realized I was heading directly toward the bumper of the rusty motor home I'd seen earlier on the street. It was filling a parking space, jutting out further than any of the other vehicles in the parking garage. In fact, I was lucky there hadn't been another vehicle coming out because it would have been hard for two cars to pass in the space that was left.
The RV also spread out into the two spaces on either side, which were both vacant, either by design or because nothing larger than a bike could have squeezed in beside the motor home. I was driving past, still checking the numbers on the parking spots, when it dawned on me that one of the spots the motor home was occupying must be the one Les had assigned to me.
I climbed out of the car, peering under the bumper of the motor home to check the number painted on the floor of the garage. Sure enough, that was the one Les had written down for me. I checked the spot again. There was no way I could squeeze even our small Toyota into the space left by the motor home. The spot I had been given was right next to the elevator, which was great. But that meant that it had the cement wall of the elevator shaft on one side. Even though it was quite a wide space, designed so that a driver or passenger would have room to get out of the car and into a wheelchair, there was just no room for the car.
I headed back out to the street but wasn't lucky enough to find a space in front of the building again. I finally found a spot a block over and lugged my shopping bags up the street.
I was feeling the strain on my arms and vowing to work out more. When I reached the building, the office door was open. I stopped in the doorway to see if the staff were there. Ruth was slumped in front of her computer again, frowning at the screen. I set my bags down to rap on the open door to get her attention. She looked up and frowned at me the way she had looked at the computer.
“Yes,” she asked, “can I help you?” Her tone told me she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to, even if she could.
"It's the parking spot,” I said. “Les gave me the number of the spot but there seems to be a motor home taking up the space,” I said.
“There's a motor home in your parking spot?” She looked at me quizzically.
“Not in my spot, in the one next to it. But it's blocking my space.”
“Oh, well, if it's not in your space . . .”
“But I can't use my space,” I replied patiently. “Unless I got the number of the spot wrong. I just wanted to check.” Why was the co-op employing this woman? She always seemed completely clueless.
“Is there a problem, Ruthie?” Les's rubber-soled shoes were quiet, and I hadn't heard him coming into the office.
“She says there's a motor home in the way but it's not in her space. I don't know what she expects us to do.”
“I just wanted to check if I have the right parking spot—” I started to explain, when Les interrupted me.
“The motor home's in the parking garage again! He knows he can't do that.”
He was almost yelling, but I knew he wasn't mad at me.
He turned to Ruth. “Remember we talked about Aaron's motor home? I've told him he can't park here and Gwen's talked to him too. I'll write him an official notice, but can you put it on the agenda for the meeting tonight, Ruthie? We could probably use a refresher on the occupancy agreement. Everyone gets a copy of the rules, but they tend to ignore them if it's not convenient.”
“You got a reminder about the meeting, right?” he asked. “You should've received a printed notice, then a reminder by email.”
“I did get a printed notice, but I don't think I saw an email. But that's okay. I put it in my calendar.”
He turned back to his assistant. “Ruthie, didn't I ask you to add Rebecca to the co-op email list when she moved in?”
“Oh, sure.” She smiled, pulling out a blue file folder from her desk. I noticed the folder had a neat label with my name on it. “I have her address right here.”
“Did you add her to the list? It won't do much good in a folder on your desk.”
“Oh, okay. I'll add her to the list.” She turned back to her computer, putting the folder down and returning to what she'd been doing, not at all concerned that she had messed up in her job. It was no surprise that the members didn't attend meetings and work parties if they didn't get notices.
“Don't worry,” Les said, as if reading my thoughts. “I usually take care of that myself.”
“Well, thanks for clarifying about the motor home. So this is the right number of the parking spot?” I showed him the slip of paper he had given me last week.
“Oh, that's the right spot all right. Right beside the elevator. I wanted it to be convenient for you.” Les's normally cheerful face was grim. I wouldn't want to be the owner of the motor home.
The rest of the day was rushed. I had to finish a project for a client, so I needed to put in a couple of hours at the desk in the corner of my bedroom before picking up Ben at pre-school. It was a very different workspace from the bustling newsroom where I had worked before Ben was born.
I had wanted to work as a freelance writer and editor after Ben's birth, so I could spend more time with him. I liked being able to plan my schedule around him. I had developed a number of regular clients, and was busy enough some times. But the decision had seemed like a better idea when Dave and I were still together, with the benefit of one full-time salary. And the slowdown in the economy had just made things worse. My income was a little too precarious sometimes.
I had asked about returning to the paper, and looked for other jobs. But newspapers were struggling, and there weren't any spots available. I was still hoping some of my contract work might turn into a full-time job. I really liked being able to spend time with Ben, but I worried about not being able to pay the bills. At least moving into the co-op was a real help.
Before the meeting, I managed to find the occupancy agreement Les had given me and read through it again. The co-op's rules seemed reasonable—trying to guarantee that a lot of people could share a building in relative peace. No loud noise late at night, park only in your designated spot, report any repairs needed in your home to the office as quickly as possible.
I felt a bit better prepared when I headed downstairs to the meeting room. Dad was looking after Ben, so I was alone as I stepped into the elevator. I was a bit worried about the issue of the motor home being raised at the meeting. I didn't want to start off on the wrong foot with my new neighbors. And I'd seen how angry the man who owned it could get. But Les had said that the motor home had been a problem before.
A few people were drifting into the meeting room as I got there. A table had been set up at the front of the room and someone had placed chairs in rows. I was glad that this meeting was taking place so soon after I moved in. Les had told me that the whole membership only met four times a year. The board of directors and committees met more frequently but this would be my best chance to meet more of my new neighbors.
Gwen, the president, moved away from the front of the room and headed toward me. “I'm glad to see you again, Rebecca,” she said.
As the members started arriving for the meeting, I could see that the co-op was home to a population as diverse as Vancouver's. A young couple arrived, the woman carrying a sleeping infant. They looked very young, maybe still in their teens. The baby was adorable, with a crop of dark curls that matched his mother's, and the longest black eyelashes. His skin was a charming brown that blended his mother's dark skin with his father's lighter tone. I smiled at them.
A woman who looked to be in her eighties or even nineties pushed her walker ahead of her as she walked slowly to the front of the room. Two middle-aged women chatted together in Cantonese.
“My father's looking forward to meeting more of the other members,” I said to Gwen “but he's staying with my son tonight.”
“Oh, didn't anyone tell you? We pay for childcare so members can attend the meetings.” She glanced over at the young couple with the baby. “Anna and John know that very well but they aren't ready to leave baby Jordan on his own yet. You know how new parents are. I hope he stays asleep. They live near me and he can certainly make it known when he's unhappy.”
She smiled at the young couple in an indulgent way. “Anyway, we have teenagers in the co-op willing to do baby-sitting. The staff should have given you a list.”
I suspected that this was another one of Ruth's tasks that she had neglected. I didn't say anything, but Gwen saw the look on my face.
“Right, well there is something about the childcare policy in the occupancy agreement but I guess that's a lot to absorb all at once. Just ask Les for a copy of the baby-sitting list next time you're in the office. I'll mention it to him too. Distributing information to members is supposed to be Ruth's job but . . .”
A man about my own age approached us then. He smiled warmly at me and introduced himself as Jeremy, the vice-president. He was tall, with wavy chestnut hair and a short beard of a slightly lighter red. He was wearing a thin blue sweater that matched his blue eyes and emphasized his broad shoulders. I hadn't really looked at men since Dave and I had split up, but I found myself enjoying talking to him.
Then he asked Gwen a question about the evening's agenda, and they got into a detailed discussion about the meeting. I left them to find a seat.
I noticed the Asian woman who lived in the apartment next door to me. I smiled at her and said hello, but she just ignored me. I looked about the room for someone familiar.
Dave's colleague, Cara, was just coming in. She had been friendly enough. I intercepted her near the door.
“Hi. It's Cara, right. We didn't get much of a chance to talk when we met. I just moved into 505. What unit do you live in?”
“Why do you need to know that?” Her voice was sweet and she was smiling, but it didn't seem a friendly smile. “Want to keep tabs on Dave? Really, Rebecca, you have to give up on him. He's not coming back to you, no matter what you think.”
I was stunned into silence for a moment. Then I could feel my face flush. “I think you might want to ask Dave about who left whom,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “and you might want to ask him why.”
I turned away from her and saw my neighbor, Mariana, just taking one of the chairs. She gestured to me to join her, and I sank gratefully into the folding metal chair beside her.
“How are you doing?” I asked. “No ill effects from the yard work? I was worried we'd tired you out doing all that raking. And having that man yelling at us was certainly unpleasant.”
"I'm fine,” she assured me. “I'm just sometimes surprised I can't do as much as I used to. I guess I'm getting old. And we're all used to Aaron. It's just that I thought . . . but it's been a while. I really hoped . . .” She shrugged and her voice trailed off. “How about you?” she asked, shifting in her seat. “Are you settling in okay?” she asked. “Meeting the other members?'
“I was trying to talk to our neighbor,” I said, indicating the woman who lived on the other side of us. “But she always just ignores me. Doesn't she speak English?”
“Oh, Naomi speaks English as well as you or me. It's just that she's mad at you.”
I looked at her in surprise. “I've barely spoken to her . . . just to try and introduce myself. What could I have done?”
“Oh, not you specifically. She would have been upset at anyone who moved in. Her daughter applied to move into the co-op. Naomi thought it'd be really convenient if she could move in next door. Naomi looks after her granddaughter a lot. But it's just her daughter and the little girl. They need a two-bedroom. They wouldn't have got that apartment, even if you hadn't moved in. Naomi should get over it. I'm sure a two-bedroom will be available soon.”
“But couldn't they have moved in anyway, even if the apartment was too big, to be close to Naomi?”
“Oh, the co-op's quite fussy about that. Because the housing is government subsidized, they try to make the most of it. Even long-time members are supposed to move to a smaller unit if their children leave home. I'm in a three-bedroom myself. But I think I told you my son and his family are planning on moving back to Vancouver. They'll be living with me, for a while anyway, so Les isn't pressuring me to move.”
I remembered reading about that in the occupancy agreement I'd looked at before the meeting. There was a section on over or under-housing, explaining what Les had been talking about when he told me that we “qualified” for a three-bedroom apartment. You were over-housed if you had fewer people living there than bedrooms in the apartment, under-housed if there were more people than bedrooms. The policy explained that the co-op would try to house people in an apartment of an appropriate size.
“Well, I guess the policy makes sense,” I said, “but I don't understand why Naomi is so mad at me.” The president called the meeting to order just then, so I didn't get an answer, but I vowed to make friends with my neighbor.
Les had joined Gwen and Jeremy at the table at the front of the room. They started by briefly introducing me as a new member. A few people smiled at me but others just looked at me blankly. From what Les had said, I had expected a friendlier group. But I was starting to realize that this wasn't quite the community Les had promised.
There was a printed agenda, but Gwen asked if anyone had any other business to add. Several people put up their hands, but she called on Cara first.
“I'd like to talk about getting a dog,” Cara said.
“The co-op allows one pet per household,” Gwen said. “You can have one if you don't already have a pet. We don't need to discuss it.”
“But, I do. I already have a cat. But my daughter wants a dog now.”
“Well, that would be against the co-op's policy,” the president replied patiently.
“I just want to talk about it,” Cara said, her voice trembling a little. “Can't we just put it on the agenda?”
I saw Jeremy lean over to Gwen and say something to her softly.
"All right,” she said, sighing loudly. “I'll add it to the agenda.”
Several other people said they had announcements about community events they wanted to make at the end of the meeting. They were added to the list, and then Gwen moved into the meeting agenda.
After approving the minutes, the financial statements, and other routine business, we reached an item called “parking issues” on the agenda. Les got to his feet.
“This isn't an item I'd normally talk about in a meeting,” he began. “But I've tried to deal with this issue with the member, without reaching a solution. I thought it might help to bring it up here. It's about the motor home.”
The man I had seen coming out of the motor home jumped to his feet. I hadn't noticed him sitting a few rows in front of me.
“This is completely inappropriate,” he shouted. “I told you I'm going to move it. I've told you over and over again.”
“Aaron, you keep saying you're going to move it, but it's still here. It's too big to leave on the street in front of the building. It takes up too much space. We've had complaints from the neighbors. And now it's in the parking garage where it's blocking other members' parking spaces. I've tried to explain the problem to you, Aaron, but you don't seem to listen. I thought it might be helpful for you to hear from some of the other members.”
There were nervous mutterings from some of the members, but no one spoke up.
“See,” the man screamed, pointing his finger at Les. “No one else minds if I park there. It's just you setting up rules like a little dictator. I've told you and told you that my son wants to use the motor home on some land he has. It'll be great for us to use in the summer. He'll move it later on. It doesn't seem to be bothering anyone else.”
The man sitting next to him touched Aaron's arm and said something to him. But Aaron ignored him. He was spitting as he yelled at Les. He kept shaking his fist at the manager. If he had been standing closer, I'm sure he would have punched him.
Everyone in the room was sitting in silence. I guessed they were either too shocked or too afraid to say anything. Gwen coughed nervously but didn't intervene.
I hadn't planned on saying much at my first meeting. I had wanted to get used to the co-op and understand the issues before taking an active part in the meetings. And I didn't really want to take on the large, angry, red-faced man. But his tirade against the manager seemed out of line.
I raised my hand a bit and got to my feet.
“Um,” I started. Very eloquent start to my first co-op speech. “Um, hi. I'm Rebecca. As you know, I just moved in. And, the thing is, I can't use my parking spot. The motor home takes up half of it and my car won't fit. I don't know much about how the co-op works but it seems to me that I should be able to park in my spot.”
I sat down, my legs shaking. Mariana reached over and patted my hand.
“Nicely done,” she whispered.
The man had turned to glare at me when I got up. Now he started yelling at me.
“You!” he shouted. “We all know whose side you're on. And we know why!”
“That's quite enough, Aaron,” Gwen interrupted. I wondered why she hadn't said anything before. Surely, verbally abusing the staff of the co-op was unusual. But the co-op members were acting like this went on all the time. Most of them looked uncomfortable, but no one looked as shocked as I was at the man's behavior.
“I've had enough of this,” Aaron said. He pushed past the other people in his row and left the room. The man who had sat beside him—a short, thin man with wispy blond hair—got up and hurried after him. Gwen sighed again.
“The co-op policies are quite clear on what size of vehicle the parking garage can handle. We've heard from Aaron and Rebecca. Does anyone else have any comments they want to make?”
Now that Aaron had left the room, the other members were much more outspoken. Several expressed outrage that the motor home had been around for so long. Anna, the young woman with the cute baby, got to her feet.
“I think the co-op should send a letter to Aaron telling him to remove the motor home by the end of the week. And we should have it towed if he doesn't.” There were mutters of agreement.
“Do you want to make that a motion?” Gwen asked. “Uh, would my name have to be in the minutes?” Anna asked in a soft voice.
Gwen sighed again.
“That's generally how we handle motions.”
Then no.
I was starting to get the picture here.
“Is it always like this?” I whispered to Mariana.
“Pretty much,” she whispered back. “Some people know how to get their own way, either through bullying or making emotional appeals. Most of us just want to live here without any trouble, so we just try to avoid conflict, whatever the rules say.”
“But doesn't that cause problems?”
Mariana smiled. “Yes, that can cause problems.”
I raised my hand.