The Better Half of a Century
Bev and Sam Hauser have perfected their pillow arrangements, dog walks through Chelsea, grooming rituals and garbage-picking strategies—the stuff of a 50-year partnership of individuals.
Bev and Sam Hauser have slept side-by-side on different mattresses for over 50 years, or more than 18,250 nights, in various houses and apartments in Brooklyn and Manhattan. During the day the two twin mattresses, one soft and one firm (for Bev’s bad back), are covered by a king size white sheet, a white blanket and about 20 yellowing throw pillows that have probably seen better days. Before each of his daytime naps Sam will push all of the pillows to his wife’s side of the bed or onto the floor. Each time he wakes up, Bev will meticulously reorganize each pillow into its particular spot. This has become a routine over the last half-century.
When Bev is not cleaning up after Sam’s naps, she gets out. In fact, she’s become a sort of local celebrity and can’t walk down the street without being noticed. She makes her rounds, saying hello to certain residents of their apartment building, grocers at the grocery store, baristas at the local coffee shops, the busboys and maître d’s of her favorite restaurants, and the volunteers at the senior center over on Ninth Avenue. Even complete strangers will say “Hi, there!” or “Good morning” as if they were dear friends.
This is because she stands out.
Bev’s coiffure is large and white. She spends hours each week in a hair salon to keep her voluptuous curls intact. “I want it big!” she demands to her stylist in a nasal Brooklyn accent. Throughout the day she’ll look in the mirror disapprovingly, her hair flattened by gravity, and she’ll retreat to the bathroom to spray some noxious congealment to defy Newton’s famous observation, and maybe add a dab of her patent fuchsia lipstick to her lips. Her outfits are meticulously chosen, and she has a flair for color. Her favorite shirt is covered in an orange leopard print. She’s stylish. Even those with eye-problems can see her from blocks away because of the reflection of light from her gold and diamond pieces of jewelry. On any given day she wears at least a total of 6 rings on 10 fingers, a few necklaces and on occasion a broach or two pinned to her lapel. If you ask her, there is a story behind each piece, and a reason she wears each one. But to most people who do not know her, she is just that old lady who looks like an Elizabethan Don King.
Sam has his share of pals, but he has trouble remembering their names. He’s almost ten years older than his wife. When it’s nice out, he likes to sit on a park bench with their dog Buddy and blow kisses to the cherubic aides assisting the elderly in wheelchairs. Bev says she doesn’t mind his flirting, but one gets the sense she disapproves. It’s not so much jealousy at this point; it seems more like an annoyance.
“Oh, that Sammy,” she says throwing up her hands, “he’s such a ladies’ man.”
Their apartment is on the fourth floor of a 22-story red brick apartment building set back from Eighth Avenue by a sprawling, perfectly manicured green lawn littered with “Keep Off The Grass” signs. Their building was constructed with the city’s money in the late 1950s to house industrious middle-income workers looking for an affordable place to live. But now those residents are old and well into retirement, their pensions gradually siphoning off to medical bills and grandkid’s birthday envelopes. Automatic handicapped doors were installed throughout the building in the last ten years, and bright orange flyers are posted on a bulletin board that hangs outside the elevators -offering in-house health care services and bus trips to Atlantic City. Most days it is much too warm in the building for an average human being. Some residents sit idly on benches in the lobby for hours, some in wheelchairs, some with aides, and a visitor gets the eerily distinct impression that they are waiting for someone or something that will probably never come.
