400ish Selden

I live on the first floor of a building that is almost 100 years old. There's a well-worn staircase with modern-day non-slip adhesive that hides most of the white and gray lackluster marble. The lobby looks worn and dingy with dirty green indoor-outdoor carpet and outcast furniture from at least a decade before I was born. The ceiling, however, has hand-crafted wood scrolling around the since-replaced light fixture that remains as a reminder of the heyday of Detroit. There's an old elevator too, the kind that most people only see in movies--usually horror--that requires passengers to slide open and closed both a door and a metal gate, which at any time during occupancy you are able to reach through and touch the elevator shaft walls. As the elevator hauls it load between floors, it sounds like an overworked man of the same age: creaking and moaning from years of service. It also tends to be temperamental, or so I observe, from the smattering of hand-written notes that frequent the outer door: "Dear Repair Man, The elevator doesn't open on the second floor" or, "Dear City Inspector, The elevator is not going to the ground floor anymore." I suppose that had I put in multiple decades of work, I too would be fickle in my daily activity. Moving past the elevator on any floor, you move into the long and drab hallway, not far removed from cheap motels or ancient dorms. The highly trafficked green carpet shows without guilt the areas most frequently traveled. On the walls, near the darkly stained doors, are smaller doors, floating at waist level, and look like doors for children. When I more closely looked at my kitchen, I realized that they were the doors that the milkman used for deliveries years ago. They have since been sealed with thick caulk. Moving into the galley-style kitchen, there are many reminders that the building is from another era. The kitchen sink is a single porcelain unit, suspended on the wall with exposed piping below, and in the corner, touching the hallway wall, is an old icebox built into the wall that has been painted over and disconnected. It holds my cereal and granola bars, but every time I open it, I think about how neat it is, with it's latching handle and ultra thick door. The floors throughout my apartment, although re-carpeted within the last 10 years, sound as though you may fall through at any second. Stealthily moving through this apartment is absolutely impossible. Amazingly, those in the apartments above me don't sound like large ruminants being herded. I attribute this to the 12-foot ceilings, which incidentally are studded with screws and washers that have hurried stucco over them. Oddly enough, should anyone walk through the hallways, on any floor, it's sounds as loud as someone in the living room--quite the phenomenon to overcome the first week of residency. Lastly, the old brass door handles on every door also make the comings and goings of everyone a public affair, be it to and from your apartment or in and out of your own bathroom.
Despite the many nuances of the building, I adore it. Knowing that I am living somewhere that many hundreds have lived before is exciting. Trying to imagine what it might have been like when the city was alive and thriving, the automotive capital of the nation and proudly referred to as Motown makes me realize that while I may be warned about the city's present condition, I am still living in a little piece of history.
It makes me sick to see the multiple abandoned, dilapidated and forgotten buildings, not unlike mine, that surround me. Why have they gone uncared for? I would love to own one. To restore it. Make it's longevity worth something and bring life back to it.
So here's to life on the Cass Corridor and all of it's glory.