The Lady in 110

As I descended the stairs from the second floor, I noticed her down the path to my right.  She was in front of apartment 108, two doors down from my place, and heading my way—the lady from 110.  I quickened my pace and hurried into the small corridor containing the front doors to my apartment and apartment 105.  I pulled my keys from my pocket and, with one swift motion, unlocked the door and slipped inside.  I closed the door immediately, not wanting to look back and see if she had tried to follow me. 

I don’t often claim to be a brave man, but I’ll admit that my paranoia regarding the lady from 110 has become a little humbling.  I’m afraid to let her know which apartment is mine, though she has probably already figured it out.  So I comfort myself by thinking that if she doesn’t see me enter my apartment she can only guess that I live in either 105 or 106.  And then I hope that, if she ever gets hold of a shotgun and decides to bring about judgment on everyone who has disrespected her by avoiding eye contact or rushing away when they see her, she’ll guess wrong.  Sorry, neighbor, but I’ll be slipping out the back window as soon as I hear the first blast.

Of course I don’t really expect any of that to happen.  I don’t think the lady in 110 is violent, but she does appear to be somewhat unstable, which makes me uncomfortable.  Mostly, she talks to herself.  Or rather, mutters incoherently.  Once, as I came down the stairs from the parking lot to the walkway in front of my apartment, she surprised me by passing right in front of me.  She walked a few paces past me, then stopped her murmuring and turned around and looked at me as though she was going to say something.  She smiled, baring the three teeth in her mouth.  Then she chuckled and turned away, apparently deciding not to tell me whatever it was she had to say.  Over the next few weeks, I saw her in various places around the neighborhood while driving my car.  I tried not to make eye contact, but I could tell she was looking at me as I passed, and I couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking.

My most unsettling encounter with the lady in 110 came last week.  I was on my way to the laundry room, and had just stepped out of the corridor between 105 and my place.  I looked to the left down the path and there she was in front of the corridor that runs between 107 and 108, walking with her head down and muttering to herself.  As she looked up, I stifled an “eep!” and walked as quickly as I could up the stairs to the second floor.  When I got to the top of the stairs, I looked down and saw her grab the cigarette butt container that sits by the bench in front of 107.  It’s the type of container that looks like a skinny post with a hole on one side near the top for depositing butts and a bulbous weight at the bottom to keep it from tipping over.  She had picked it up and was bent over, swinging it like a club at nothing in particular.  She continued muttering incoherently as she did this, apparently oblivious to the world around her.  I shuddered and walked on to the laundry room.  When I came back, I walked slowly, afraid she might pop out from around a corner and startle me.  I looked around cautiously to see if she was still near my apartment, but there was no sign of her.

A couple of hours later, as it was getting dark, I took out the trash.  At my apartment complex, the dumpsters are halfway across the parking lot, in front of the laundry room.  I ascended the stairs from my place to the parking lot, dumped my trash, and headed back.  In the weakening light, I saw the woman from 110 shuffling across the parking lot in my direction, mumbling to herself as usual.  She was between me and the stairs that stand in front of my apartment.  I considered my options as I walked: I could try to breeze right past her and hope she wouldn’t do anything disturbing to me, or I could avoid running into her by going down the stairs in front of Matthew’s apartment, number 109.  Matthew makes me uneasy too, but not nearly as much as the lady in 110 does, so I chose the second option and arrived at home safely a few seconds later. 

I feel a little foolish now, letting my fear of this woman grow so large even though she has never done anything to me besides give me the willies.  Maybe I’m just a coward, and the lady in 110 deserves more pity and help than fear. But maybe it’s also good to be cautious around mentally unstable people as a self-preservation technique, even if it makes me feel like a wuss.