The Reluctant Lookout

My days of working for dad.

“Stand here, and if you hear anyone coming, whistle,” my dad said. But I couldn’t whistle. Singing was also suggested. We settled on crying.

That was my job. I was to stand outside in the courtyard next to the pool and the swaying palm trees in the beautiful California sunshine, and if anyone came home unexpected, I was to start crying.

When we moved to Southern California from Miami, we came with lots of stories. Somehow these stories equated to my father being over-qualified to manage the apartment building we had just rented. If he could handle high level security for celebrities like Frank Sinatra, and for upscale hotels like the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc, surely he could manage a 30-unit apartment building in Burbank.

And dad had time on his hands. Until things blew over with the Miami police jaw breaking situation, dad needed something to do while waiting for Sinatra to give him the green light to start working for him again.

Everyone at the apartment loved my dad. They all wanted to hear his stories and hang with us by the pool. It was like a party. On the 4th of July, my father put on a fireworks display poolside, complete with fire, that was so extreme and surely illegal, but more entertaining than anything the city had to offer. He also kept the pool overly warm, like bath water. One of the tenants joked that dad should provide soap but he didn’t care. He liked the water hot and he wasn’t the one footing the bill.

As manager, my dad had a large ring with every apartment key. He took care of keeping the place nice. He would skim the pool for leaves in the morning and with his dark glasses, could pay attention to all the important details. Somehow, he talked the naive Middle Eastern owner into hiring a roster of people who did the real work. A plumber, a handyman, and a gardener. Dad would let the plumber in, stand over him and watch him work. Everyone seemed happy. And we got the rent at our apartment as part of the deal.

When tenants would go on vacation, my dad offered to take care of their pet birds or fish. Usually it was me who took on the responsibility. As long as I knew about it, dad could count on me to remind him to go in and feed whatever it was that needed fed.

There was one time he didn’t tell me. A man and his wife were away for a week and on the last day, my dad remembered their exotic fish. He layered the top of the tank with a week’s worth a food. I came in the next day with my father to check on the fish. Dad told me they were really hungry and that’s why they were hanging out on the top of the tank. I figured they were dead but I wasn’t going to say anything. He told the couple that the fish were so upset they were gone that they refused to eat. Somehow, he got them to apologize to us for killing their fish and for traumatizing me.

There was a rhythm to the building and, when I paid attention, I could feel the flow. Each apartment had their comings and goings. It was like clockwork and somehow I believed my dad was responsible for this.

One of dad’s jobs, he told me, was to check on things to make sure everything worked in each unit. He explained that people needed everything in working order but they didn’t like the thought of anyone going in and out of their apartment. So, not to upset anyone, he had me stand guard at the foot of our short staircase where I had a view of everything. If I saw anyone coming, I was to start crying. My job was to make sure I lured them over to me to see what was wrong, and while I had their attention, he would quickly get out of their apartment. They would be none-the-wiser, but happy to have a fully functioning apartment.

It sort of made sense and I was too young to question or know any better. Months went by without a hitch. I’d wait outside, listen and watch the three entrances. There were two staircases out front, and a third one that came up through the recreation room and carport. He’d pick the quietest days. I’d see him go in and then come out a little while later. He never left with anything in his arms, just the big ring of keys clanging as he locked up and moved on.

Then it happened. A tenant came home unexpected. I let out a huge scream and started sobbing. I have no idea where it came from, but on cue, I started crying with such conviction that I should have gotten a Hollywood agent.

The man ran to my aide. I pointed away from his apartment at my apartment door and he walked with me toward it. Within seconds my father was there. Dad scooped me up and explained to the man that he was working and I must have gotten scared not knowing where he was. It felt weird but he bought it. We went back to our apartment, made some meatball sandwiches and never mentioned it again.

About a week went by and I was at my post again. I would continue my part of the deal on and off until we moved. I think dad got bored with whatever he was doing. I remember, around the same time, my mom slipped and fell on some newly crumbling stairs in the apartment’s walkway. Massages, a settlement, and a brand new BMW for my mother ended our time in our first apartment in Burbank.