Your First Apartment

You pause outside the Amtrak Station in Madison. Shielding your eyes against the late afternoon sun, you look around. You quickly get your bearings and start out. Despite the large duffel bag on your back and heavy suitcase in your hand, you make good time. The directions you were given were good. Soon you arrive at your destination, a four story brick building. The blockish structure is weathered, but in fairly good condition. The lowest level is a bar called The Tapper. Ignoring the sign that says you must be 21 to enter, you push the door open and walk in.

“Hey!” the woman behind the bar calls out when she sees you walk in, “You need to be 21.” You stop and look her over. She seems pretty average. She stands about five and a half feet tall. Her double D cups sag slightly over the slight paunch she carries. Her face isn’t unattractive, but the streaks of gray in her light brown hair and the wrinkles about her brown eyes and full lips prevent it from being considered beautiful.

“I was told you had an apartment for me to rent.” you answer. Her face lights up. A smile appears on her face as she hurries from behind the bar.

“You must be John!” she exclaims as she vigorously shakes your free hand, “I’m Mary. But most of the students here call me Ma.”

“Ma…” you repeat ponderously. It has a certain ring of appropriateness about it. She appears to be in her late forties or early fifties; about the same age as most parents of college age students would be. You get the feeling that she is both compassionate and loving. But from the way she greeted you, you have no doubt that she could be very strict when necessary.

“Come on, let’s get you settled in.” she suggests as she leads the way towards the back of the bar. “Jason! Watch things for a moment.” she calls out. A tall young man comes in and steps behind the bar as you follow Mary through the door in the back of the bar. Mary heads down a dimly lit narrow corridor.

“This is my apartment.” She says pointing the first door on the right. “If I’m not in the bar, you can find me or a note saying where I went here.” She identifies the doors on the left as the storeroom for the bar and the stairs to the basement. “There’s a washer and a couple dryers in the basement. I’ll have to clean out one of the storage bays for you.” You can’t help but notice she says nothing about the heavy iron door on the right as she turns to the left at the back of the hallway and heads up the stairs. You take a quick look out the door at the end of the hallway and see a raised platform that allows trucks to unload in the alley beyond.

“This way.” Mary urges as she starts up the stairs. Although they creak slightly and the bulb on the landing is not the brightest, the staircase seems solid and safe. Shifting the suitcase in your hands, you follow the older woman. “The rules are simple. First! Don’t do anything that will risk my losing my liquor license. And second. Don’t tear up the place. Break one of these and you’ll be out on your ear. Understand?” You nod, but open your mouth to ask a question.

“****, fighting, and underage drinking will also get you the boot.” Ma says, beating you to punch, “I also expect you to be courteous to the other tenants. Bar time is 1am, so late night parties aren’t a problem. However, I usually don’t get up until about ten in the morning. So I expect you to keep it down when you leave in the morning. Here we go…” Ma opens a rather plain door. You quickly memorize the number.