I love my apartment. I didn’t expect to love it when I first moved in, but who ever expects love? I only chose it because it was cheap and I needed a place to stay quickly. When I moved in I was newly divorced and I was broke. So I signed a one year lease and took up residence in a little studio apartment on the third floor of an old ornate stone building in the Central West End. I moved in with my guitars, some hand-me-down furniture from my dad’s wife, and my boxer Grace.

There was one thing I liked about the place right off – it had a vaulted ceiling with wooden beams. I don’t know architecture or interior design, but I’m pretty sure the style is Tudor. It gives the place a chapel-like feel. I regard my apartment now as a kind of urban hermitage and I think the vaulted ceiling is the inspiration for that.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate the Spartan, minimalist quality of the space. I could afford a larger space at this point, but I keep talking myself out of it. I always come to the same conclusion – I really don’t need anything bigger.

In addition to my own space, I’ve grown to love the building as well. An endless parade of kooks and college students march through it year after year, most of whom I develop an affection for that always takes me by surprise. There’s Lissy, the German girl, who loves The Ramones, hates people, and is quickly becoming a walking Charles Bukowski poem. There’s Peaches, the hipster, who sports a handlebar mustache, and has a collection of skateboards lining the walls of his apartment. Yes, his name is Peaches. No I didn’t hear it wrong. There’s Jenna, the artsy grandma, who used to live in Hollywood and claims to have worked in the television industry. She now spends her time decorating what was once the crappy, crab-grass infested yard on the side of the building. She’s turned it into a wonderful little urban garden and supplies the whole building with free tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers.

My favorite, though, is Edwin. Edwin is a lonely, sick man, who is probably around 70 years old. He’s a rotund, African American man, who suffers from some kind of chronic respiratory ailment. He’s on oxygen. He’s also fiercely independent. I’ve learned to never offer him help, no matter how much he’s carrying, and no matter how long it takes him to get up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

Unfortunately, Edwin and I got off to a bad start. Toward the end of Grace’s life, she became increasingly incontinent. She often didn’t make it downstairs to the yard before she had to go. One day, she urinated on Edwin’s welcome mat. Wanting to do the right thing, I picked up the mat and left him a note telling him what happened. I said I would wash it and return it. Sadly, the mat didn’t make it, it died on the operating table. It was too old and worn out and it disintegrated in the rinse cycle. So, I left Edwin another note, telling him I would now have to replace the mat altogether.

A few weeks went by and eventually, I hate to admit, I forgot all about the mat. Edwin didn’t. I ran into him one day at the mailbox. When he saw me he marched up to me and said, very sternly, “You never did replace my welcome mat. You said you would. Your dog ruined it and I want a new one.” He glared at me and then stormed off.

I wanted to get angry at him and tell him he was an asshole, but I had to admit that, while I thought he reacted a little strongly, he was right. I needed to make good on the damage my dog caused. So the next night I stopped at Walmart and picked out a welcome mat that looked as much like his old one as I could find. (For the record, I almost never go to Walmart. I’m happy to say that, to date, that was my last visit to the evil retailer.) I came home and placed the mat in front of his door with a note that read:

With that, my conscience was clear. I made my amends and assumed I had heard the last of the Welcome Mat Affair. A few weeks later, I ran into Edwin again. This time, he was all smiles. In fact, he was giddy.

“Mike, I just want to tell you, I love my new welcome mat, Mike. Thank you so much!”

Edwin is one of those people who uses your name at least two times in every sentence.

He went on. “It reminds of, what’s that cake, Mike? It has chocolate and coconut, Mike. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“German Chocolate?”

“Yes, Mike! That’s it. It looks like a German Chocolate cake, Mike!”

I began to suspect that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him, that no one had ever said to him, I was wrong, I’m sorry. This opened the door between us and we became fast friends.

Well, sort of. It’s a rather one-sided friendship. Edwin likes to talk. In fact, he has a favorite topic.

“Do you read your Bible, Mike?” he asked me one day as we passed each other in the stairwell.

I hesitated.

“Let me ask you this, Mike. Are you an atheist, Mike?”

Again, I hesitated. Do I tell him that, no, I don’t believe in a God who has a human personality, who intervenes in human affairs? That I believe in a collective, transcendent reality of which we are all parts? Do I tell him I believe the Buddhist idea that birth and death are just notions, that we’re all mislead into believing we’re waves when we’re really water…Oh, fuck it.

“No. I’m not.”

“Good, Mike! Good!”

He then went on to tell me that God is real, Satan is real, and that there’s a place called heaven as well as a place called hell. He promised not to preach to me anymore, but encouraged me to read my Bible.

“Read your Bible, Mike. That’s where the truth is, Mike.”

I told him I might do that but made no promises. As you might have guessed, we have this same conversation each time we see each other, and each time he vows to never preach to me again.

One day, he said that God told him I was going through a difficult time, which, I have to admit, threw me off balance. I was going through a very difficult time. I had just come out of a very messy and painful breakup. How did he know that? The question itself was a momentary lapse of reason on my part. There are a couple of ways to explain his statement. First, there was a loud argument one night in the yard. It was disruptive enough that Jenna overheard it and asked me the next day if everything was ok. Neighbors talk. That would give Edwin some real information. But the most likely explanation is that everyone is going through something. I could have had my wisdom teeth pulled that day. Damn, how did he know? My aunt in Lady Lakes, FL might be ill in the hospital. Whoa!

I’ve often wondered why I allow this proselytizing from Edwin. If it were anyone else I would shut him down and tell him I’m not interested. It’s not that I’m hostile to Christian beliefs. I love my own Catholic upbringing and sometimes I even envy those who can believe, who aren’t bedeviled – pun intended – by the same unanswerable questions as I am. Nonetheless, it seems that most Christians these days know to avoid the hard, relentless sell – it just isn’t effective.

Regarding Edwin and his preaching, I think I allow it because of his reaction to receiving the new welcome mat. In that moment, I saw how lonely he is. He has so little. Every day he huffs his way up and down the stairs and spends nearly all of his time cooped up in his apartment, on oxygen, watching religious programs. The only thing besides his faith that he ever seemed to care about was a little ragamuffin dog named Sweetie. He dearly loved her, but she died several years ago and he’s never gotten a new dog.

So, I let him preach. It seems to make him happy and it doesn’t take too much of my time. I never promise anything. I just don’t have the heart to tell him that, based on his world view, I’m on the Rush Hour Express to Hell, No Stops, All Doors Open.