{"id":74938,"date":"2014-08-05T13:36:19","date_gmt":"2014-08-05T17:36:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=74938"},"modified":"2014-08-05T18:33:19","modified_gmt":"2014-08-05T22:33:19","slug":"mad-etc","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/08\/05\/mad-etc\/","title":{"rendered":"Mad, Etc."},"content":{"rendered":"

A panda painting, small-claims court, and the perils of communal living.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"Panda-Brookfield-Zoo-2\"<\/a>

From a 1937 advertisement.<\/p><\/div>\n

Of the many collectives in West Philadelphia, the Mitten was widely held to be the ideal model. Founded by six young progressives from the Inter-cooperative Council in Michigan, it hosted workshops on social justice and fundraised for local nonprofits. And it was a staple of the queer-arts scene: punk bands played in the basement and drag shows filled the living room, with performers grinding on audience members and audience members grinding on banisters. In the adjacent lot they had grown a lush garden with six raised beds and a chicken coop.<\/p>\n

When I first moved to Philadelphia, I was eager to join a house like this one\u2014but brimming with collaborative energy, they were in high demand, and the ones I found lacked the character and spirit that\u2019d drawn me to communal living in the first place.<\/p>\n

I was impatient, though, and took a room in Cedar Park, aka \u201cUniversity City,\u201d at an A-frame Victorian with a huge mulberry tree. The quaint facade hardly matched its sterile interior: overhead lighting reflected off marble countertops, the white walls were bare, and there was La-Z-Boy furniture in suburban quantities. This collective included five members, young professionals who, surprisingly, spent the majority of time away from the house, staying often with their partners. A math teacher, a product engineer, a classical vocalist and a software designer\u2014they were mild and even a little shy. But one of the members, Jeff, maintained a particular enthusiasm for the house. He spoke in an affectedly deep voice, noticeably straining as he described the order of things: regular meals \u201ckept costs down\u201d; adherence to the chore wheel \u201ckept everything running smoothly.\u201d He appeared to be the oldest by a significant difference; his skin had a jaundiced tint, and his goatee was visibly grayed. A baseball cap covered his bald head, and in his beige clothing he nearly blended with the plush chairs in the living room. <\/p>\n

Wandering the house one morning, I noticed a decorative theme: a series of paintings in which different animals\u2014horses, peacocks, pandas\u2014were foregrounded by a green watercolor mist. Most of these hung in the hallway, but the one featuring pandas was leaned against the wall near the recycling bin. These pandas floated in a green haze, grazing and chewing at obligatory bamboo. The rightmost panda appeared to be returning from a pleasant jaunt, with a subtle smile forming in the corner of its mouth.<\/p>\n

In the kitchen one afternoon, I found Jeff opening a bottle of San Pellegrino. \u201cHey, roomie, check this out,\u201d he said, retrieving a bottle opener from the drawer and demonstrating a \u201cfun fact\u201d: women and men hold bottle openers differently, he explained, women by the handle and men by the head. \u201cFunny, these \u2026 scientific differences between sexes,\u201d he muttered, moving to the sink, where he ran hot water over the opener. \u201cGotta wash this now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Details of Jeff\u2019s life seeped in sporadically through the thin walls. His software team, for instance, was struggling to find sponsors. As a result, he\u2019d filed for unemployment. I often overheard him talking on the phone, complaining about the conditions of the house: cooking responsibilities had been ignored and silverware had been improperly washed. Later, I began to receive text messages about the caps on various condiments. \u201cThe olive oil was loose. I almost spilled it all over,\u201d he wrote, \u201cmad, etc \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

The collective\u2019s atmosphere was tense, so I struck up a friendship with my neighbor, H\u2014, who wore pencil skirts and had big frizzy, flowing hair. She\u2019d invite me in for whiskey, poking me hard in the sternum for emphasis. On Halloween, she invited me to a costume party and came over beforehand to paint my face. She asked how I was finding the house. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I said. \u201cBut it would be nice to decorate a little more.\u201d<\/p>\n

I must\u2019ve had one too many whiskeys\u2014moments later we were dragging the panda painting out from behind the recycling bin. Using the paints in her bag, H\u2014 added a party hat to one panda and a monocle to another. The formerly grazing panda was made to eat a cupcake. Because I lacked artistic skill, she helped me give one of the pandas a convincingly dimensional party hat. I began to picture Jeff returning home and, discovering the alterations, flying into a rage, so I hid the painting behind the door to my room.<\/p>\n

The disappearance of the painting went unnoticed for six months. Siting at my desk one Sunday, I heard heavy footsteps coming toward my room. In walked Jeff with two scowling police officers, their sleeves rolled back to reveal thick, faded tattoos. The door was pushed aside to reveal the dusty, nearly forgotten pandas. The first officer observed the painting with a furrowed brow. \u201cParty hat wasn\u2019t on there before?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, officer,\u201d Jeff confirmed, \u201cno, it wasn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

The smaller, mustachioed officer interrogated me. \u201cWhen was this painting damaged?\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought about it. \u201cSix months ago?\u201d<\/p>\n

The officers turned to Jeff. \u201cAnd you\u2019re calling us now<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeff clenched his jaw in impotent rage. He barked at the officers to do their jobs.<\/p>\n

\u201cSir,\u201d they said, \u201cyou better calm down and talk to us outside.\u201d<\/p>\n

Outside, another police vehicle arrived. Jeff had called for the sheriff, a short, frog-faced man with a protruding stomach. \u201cI want your badge number!\u201d he yelled from the porch.<\/p>\n

Displeasure swept over the sheriff\u2019s face, down to the loose skin gathered around his collar. \u201cYou know, I don\u2019t like it when someone asks for my badge number, because it usually means they\u2019re gonna complain about me. Now, I\u2019m already in a bad mood because you wasted their time\u201d\u2014the two officers held their belts in austere, identical postures\u2014\u201cand now you\u2019re wasting mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeff insisted that the necessary evidence was in my room. \u201cArrest him!\u201d he demanded. But the sheriff explained that I wasn\u2019t obligated to divulge any information. I could simply say the matter was \u201cbeyond my knowledge.\u201d He turned to me and asked, \u201cWho destroyed the painting?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s beyond my knowledge,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

Later, Jeff attempted to explain the severity of my actions. Years ago, after months of courting, Jeff had finally convinced a special someone to join him for dinner at his favorite restaurant downtown, Kingdom of Vegetarians. They shared a mutual fondness for the decor: \u201cWe were \u2026 mystified by those paintings.\u201d To commemorate the date, she made him a miniature replica of the pandas. After the relationship ended, Jeff struck up a deal to purchase the originals from the KoV owner.<\/p>\n

Though the story didn\u2019t exactly clarify matters, I understood that I had touched a nerve. Jeff gave me three options to rectify the situation. I could either (a) clean the painting myself; (b) take the painting to an appraiser and pay the estimated value; or (c) get my \u201cartist friends\u201d to create a new panda painting in the appropriate style.<\/p>\n

I promised to pursue one of these routes, but my remorse ebbed with each passing week. I avoided Jeff while trying to move out as quickly as possible. We only crossed paths once, at which point I assured him that a near-perfect replica was on the way. Meanwhile, a room had finally opened at the Mitten, and I took it.<\/p>\n

By the time I had settled into the Mitten, things were calm. I received occasional threatening emails from Jeff, but this problem was solved when I wrote a filter to trash them automatically. One morning, I found an envelope bearing the insignia of the court television show Judge Joe Brown. <\/em>Inside, a letter addressed to me read, \u201cYou probably already know you\u2019re being sued.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\"photo<\/a>

One of the negatives of Jeff\u2019s panda painting.<\/p><\/div>\n

The next day, a thick bundle of papers came through the mail slot. Stapled together were accusations of vandalism, printed copies of email correspondence, and a lengthy appraisal from an arts conservator in Manayunk, who wrote that the painting\u2019s \u201cclassic\u201d style priced it at four thousand dollars. In the final pages were negative scans of each panda, the lush mist reduced to a dark void.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

H\u2014 and I met at the downtown office of Community Legal Services, just above Wendy\u2019s, its waiting room full of sullen faces. The director, Richard F\u2014, read over my papers with an expression of sharp annoyance. \u201cC\u2019mon!\u201d he said, waving me down the hall with a dismissive hand.<\/p>\n

At his desk, surrounded by degrees and copious family photos, Richard\u2019s initial surliness subsided into a relaxed humility. As I described the events, I omitted the details concerning my own alterations of the painting, instead focusing on the damage dealt by an unnamed \u201cguest.\u201d Richard encouraged this version of the story. \u201cIn no way should you be responsible for another party! All you have to say is one thing: prima facie<\/em>,\u201d he assured me,\u201cthe evidence is insufficient.\u201d I mouthed prima facie<\/em> silently as Richard reviewed the papers.<\/p>\n

The following month I rose before a judge in small claims court, sweating profusely in a drab gray blazer. Jeff described his side of the case, regularly referring to me as a \u201cvandal.\u201d On this matter, it appeared that the judge wasn\u2019t convinced, but I fell out of his favor when Jeff raised the issue of \u201chouse rules\u201d\u2014i.e., the rule against damaging property.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you agree to this rule?\u201d the judge asked.<\/p>\n

Such a rule seemed to be common sense. \u201cThat\u2019s a rule I generally follow\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you agree to this<\/em> rule?\u201d the judge repeated.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut this is a rule that I follow in any case, I\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes or no?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, now, I am a fan of Antique Roadshow<\/em>,\u201d the judge said, \u201cand there are quite a few diamonds in the rough out there.\u201d For a moment he struggled to remember the details of an episode. Then he promptly ruled against me.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

Richard was irate. \u201cAppeal!\u201d he said. \u201cFile it!\u201d I did. Before the appeal date, the court encouraged us to meet with mediators. Though Richard was opposed, I thought the perspective might be helpful. Later that week, we found ourselves\u2014Richard, Jeff, two UPenn law students, their professor, and myself\u2014in a humid mediation room above the downtown municipal court. The professor observed from the corner while the rest of us gathered around a small table.<\/p>\n

Jeff told his story, this time evoking even more sympathy\u2014at several junctures in his retelling, the mediators sent appalled glances in my direction. Finally, he leaned forward with a threatening pulse in his brow. \u201cEven if you successfully appeal,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ll just take you to a higher court. You\u2019re going to pay for the damage.\u201d This cold, stubborn statement was convincing enough. I was reeling. The little red spots atop Jeff\u2019s bald head seemed to circulate. Richard called for a break.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t pay anything!\u201d he said as we stepped into the hallway. But I\u2019d reached my limit. I resigned to draw up a settlement. When we returned, Jeff and the mediators were sharing snacks from the vending machine. A temporary praecipe was drawn up: I signed in agreement to pay a thousand dollars. Far worse than the monetary fine, though, was when Jeff extended a clammy hand my way. \u201cHappy we can move on,\u201d he croaked. Everyone huddled around as I put my hand into the grip.<\/p>\n

I went straight to H\u2014\u2019s place, where we argued about fines and responsibility. We compared the artistic labor of party hats against cowboy hats. We cooled off, fought more, and then calmed down with a whiskey. The case had, I thought, instilled in me a more careful consideration of the objects in my environment. I would no longer make assumptions about property, even if it appeared abandoned. While settling into the Mitten, I took every opportunity to be conscientious.<\/p>\n

But had I learned anything? Not long afterward, I was working with two of my most industrious housemates in the garden, painting the chicken coop, a task for which one of them loaned me a pair of boots. I caught the boot on an exposed nail, pulling the sole away from the base, and decided to fix it later and return it as though nothing had happened. It must have slipped my mind. I left the damaged boots in a shared closet for days until, one morning, I received a reminder on\u00a0my door: a tube of shoe goo had been jammed through the small hole left by a missing doorknob. Just outside my room was the damaged boot, looking as though it had been flung angrily to the ground.<\/p>\n

Timothy Leonido is a writer based in Philadelphia. Other work can be found in<\/em> Gauss PDF, and is forthcoming in <\/em>Triple Canopy and <\/em>Lateral Addition.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A panda painting, small-claims court, and the perils of communal living. Of the many collectives in West Philadelphia, the Mitten was widely held to be the ideal model. Founded by six young progressives from the Inter-cooperative Council in Michigan, it hosted workshops on social justice and fundraised for local nonprofits. And it was a staple […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":693,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[14856,35,14860,14489,14857,8558,14858,4154,14859,14862,694,14863,14861],"class_list":["post-74938","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-altercations","tag-art","tag-communal-living","tag-communes","tag-court","tag-ethics","tag-lawsuits","tag-paintings","tag-pandas","tag-personal-property","tag-philadelphia","tag-the-mitten","tag-vandalism"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nMad, Etc.<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Timothy Leonido on a panda painting, small-claims court, and the perils of communal living.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/08\/05\/mad-etc\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Mad, Etc. by Timothy Leonido\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"August 5, 2014 \u2013 A panda painting, small-claims court, and the perils of communal living. 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