Sputterpub's Blog

We had two power outages last week. That’s always inconvenient: like jury duty or a head cold. Even though it was still light out, I was impressed by how dependent I am on electricity. Especially when playoffs are being televised…

The first occasion was on Tuesday. Suddenly the TV went dark and the microwave lost its time display. It took little time to ascertain that it wasn’t just my place. Power flickered back on, off, and then on again, long enough that I reset the microwave clock and rebooted the computer. Then we went dark once more. I put in the call to PG&E, heard the computer-voice drone one syllable at a time: “All available repair persons are on site and we expect power to be restored by 8:45 PM.”

It didn’t take that long. The TV came to life in half the estimated time. My internet search didn’t yield a report, let alone a cause.

It happened again two days later, twenty minutes before the game started. No game AND no dinner? I wasn’t happy when I called the PG&E line and got a three hour repair estimate.

I told myself I’m resilient. My phone was charged and my Kindle has its own light. As for hunger, I could walk fifteen minutes and acquire a burrito. Heck, maybe I’d even stop in a bar/restaurant, have a glass, watch their TV.

That’s when I found out how extensive the outage was. No traffic lights in our little shopping zone. Temporarily closed shops or open doors to dark stores. No burrito available.

Ten thousand customers were affected, I learned later. Most likely a problem with an underground cable. Another symptom of what happens when a society neglects its infrastructure for half a century.

I’m resilient. I plopped into my big chair and started reading. I nodded out and enjoyed a couple of semi-dreams. When the TV indicated an end to the outage, the first half of the game was almost over, but it turned out that the second half was the part to watch anyway.

Two minutes before the game ended, there was a knock at my door. I could see through the window that it was my crazy neighbor Bertilda. I would have ignored her but she could see me too. Maybe I should have ignored her because her words revealed she wasn’t noticing much.

“Do you have lights?” It was more of a snarl than a question. My lamps were on and the TV was loud, visible and audible from the doorway.

“Yes.”

“You have lights? They came back on? Mine didn’t come back on.”

“Yeah. I have lights. Bertilda, I want to watch the game.” I turned away from her as I shut the door. That sounds rude but she didn’t mind. That’s a thing I’ve noticed about people with cognitive/psychological issues. You can interrupt an ADD (ADHD) person with impunity. You can be quietly rude to a boor and have her not notice.

Bertilda is the crazy neighbor no one wants. She’s 84 but that’s no excuse. I’ve talked to folks who have lived around here as long as she has (over 25 years) and they say she’s always been a bitch. At her best, she acts sweet in an insincere fashion that attracts nobody. At medium level she pontificates against any rule-breaking she witnesses, lecturing residents about recycling, parking locations, and pet care. At her worst she screams obscenities and slaps people. She’s short and thin and no physical threat to anyone, but her persona is toxic and disturbing. In the last few years she has begun to lose her memory while insisting that everyone else is misremembering. There’s some dementia, obviously.

She’s not my problem. She’s everyone’s problem. She has no friends, no spouse, no children. She’s from Germany and, as far as we can tell, her siblings were relieved to see the last of her. They never visit and haven’t responded to our (emailed) calls for help. She’s burned every bridge she ever crossed.

And now she’s losing whatever function she used to have. She has stopped bathing, laundering, cooking. She doesn’t comb her hair or wear a bra. The few times any of us have been able to experience the interior of her condo/apartment, we’ve seen a hoard of junk mail and condiments, and breathed musty staleness.

Every two months or so, PG&E shuts off her power. In the past, neighbor Jerry has been the one to brave her verbal abuse, call the utility and protect their employee from her background curses while arranging payment, and then acquire reimbursement from her. Bertilda fell for a financial scam a year ago, and lost about $150,000. Since then she doesn’t trust her bank. She keeps a wad of hundred dollar bills in her apartment.

Jerry is a close neighbor but he’s not responsible for Bertilda. He and my friend Anne occupy the other two units in Bertilda’s three-owner condominium arrangement. They are my next door neighbors. We and the folks on the other side and two households across the street have all talked to Adult Protective Services about Bertilda this year. We’ve learned that’s our only recourse. We’ve weathered the bureaucratic delays. At this point, Bertilda has been served a summons to appear in Superior Court, soon. The expected outcome is a court-ordered conservatorship, followed by extraction from her condo and the ultimate sale of her real estate to generate funds for her future support.

Through our interactions with APS, we’ve learned that utilities aren’t Bertilda’s only problem. Her car isn’t registered (the sticker on her plate reads 2013). Her license isn’t valid. We have no reason to believe that she pays taxes or has insurance. She does no maintenance on her place and sabotages any attempt Anne and Jerry make to take care of the common areas of their property.

But I digress. Back to the other night…

After the game ended, I called Anne. Sure enough, Bertilda had knocked on her door and on Jerry’s before she wandered over to mine. Both of them also had lights blazing and TV on when she asked if they had power. This time Jerry followed the APS caseworker’s advice and didn’t call PG&E.

We called the caseworker instead. We’re sharing this project and it was my turn. I left an explicit voicemail message. It was a mild night and we all figured Bertilda could go one evening without electricity.

Ms Gonzalez returned the call the next morning. Her first suggestion was for one of us to advance the money and get the power back on. “But you recommended that we refrain from helping her,” I said. She replied, “But that was before. Now that we’re so close to the court date, we’ll soon have the matter in hand and be able to reimburse you.”

It was hard for me to refuse, but I did so. Quietly and feeling some guilt, I told Ms Gonzalez that I just couldn’t interact with Bertilda that way. “What about another neighbor?” she said. “APS really doesn’t have the authority right now.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “but she injured Anne the last time Anne tried to help” (the occasion was when Anne was shooing Bertilda out of her garden and Bertilda fell into a drought-resistant puff of clump grass. Anne sprained a finger trying to get flailing Bertilda upright, and she still can’t make a proper fist). “Even Jerry says Bertilda has now exhausted her emotional credit with him.” (In addition to being one of the nicest guys on the planet, Jerry had a half-baked notion that Bertilda might bequeath her condo to him, but lately Bertilda tends to forget who Jerry is. And what are the odds that she has written a will?)

Ms Gonzalez was at a loss for what to do. She said she couldn’t leave the office but she’d try to get someone out to help. I told her if anyone could go a few days without power, it was Bertilda.

“But I hate to see that,” she commented. “I mean, think of the food in her fridge.”

“She probably doesn’t use her fridge.”

“Or what about TV?”

“She doesn’t have a TV.”

“Still,” she said. “I’ll make some calls.”

I left the house a few hours later. As I traversed my brick path to the sidewalk, I noticed a clean-cut youngish man standing at the bottom of the entry stairs next door. He carried a small laptop and exuded an aura of social work. Then I caught the sound of Bertilda’s voice.

She was leaning out of her window (her unit is upstairs). I heard her querulous tone but didn’t catch the first words.

“Do you have lights?” asked the man.

“No. I don’t have lights,” Bertilda replied in a combination of whine and snarl.

As I walked away, he said “Would you like me to help you get lights?”

Okay, I thought then. That matter is settled for now. The Superior Court will intervene before the next billing cycle ends. But I was wrong.

For the next day I encountered Anne in her yard. Our gardens abut and we often have morning chats while hosing plants or adjusting sprinklers. She told me that Bertilda knocked on her door the night before. She asked if Anne had lights. When Anne mentioned the young man who offered help, Bertilda insisted that no such person had been by. She yelled at Anne for making the suggestion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she accused. “You’re so full of shit.” And then, “So why do you have lights when I don’t?”

Anne said each of the condo owners was responsible for paying for their own interior power. She advised Bertilda to call PG&E.

Bertilda said, “Do you have the number?”

Anne said, “No.”

Bertilda blurted, “Bullshit!” and stalked away.